CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
In the end, Hero didn’t go straight to Hell.
First, she returned to her rental flat for a quick bath and a change of clothes.
Once the stink of blood and ash and terror was washed from her skin, she felt more grounded, more able to look at the world again with some objectivity.
She was a renowned death speaker, after all, an inspector peacekeeper in service to the Realm.
A consummate professional in a fresh cobalt scapular, glittering emerald pants and fitted cream shirt – her chosen uniform, her shield against the world as much as her green-tinted glasses.
Dressed, clean and put together, she went to Jerry Braun’s apartment.
It wasn’t easy; she feared what echoes would remain from Catarine’s imprisonment.
Ever since she’d communed with Jerry’s shade, she’d been reeling.
Rarely had a session with the dead left her so off kilter.
It was baffling. She’d seen the truth, watched it play out against the flaming backdrop of the Underworld: in the woods where Braun played on her worry and compassion for the missing children; him luring Catarine back to his apartment after he’d kept her far too late for her to return to the convent; Catarine being distraught enough to agree to spend the night on his couch.
Despite seeing the scene play out from Braun’s perspective, Hero had felt Catarine’s distress, her fear and worry – and yet she’d also sensed her profound trust in Jerry Braun, her absolute certainty that he was a good and decent man.
That trust, of course, had been her downfall.
Experiencing rape and murder from the attacker’s per-spective was unusual for Hero.
Normally, the victim Spoke to her. Bad enough to feel the pain and horror of the murdered; absolutely intolerable to feel the lust and excitement of the murderer.
She’d fled the halls of Hell feeling tainted with a foul stink on her skin, an oiliness she’d never experienced before and feared she would carry with her always.
The worst thing about all of it, besides the details of the actual murder, was that she’d liked Jerry Braun and had thought he was an innocent man being framed. How could she have been so wrong? All her experience, her instincts, her professionalism had utterly failed her.
I didn’t see Kellan’s potential for violence, either. I saw only a broken man.
In the holding pens, the assault on Jerry Braun had been the first thing she’d seen once she’d opened the Gate.
An ambush. A crime of opportunity and passion.
The weapon had been in Kellan’s cell already, tucked between the springs of his cot – some previous occupant’s unfinished project.
The priest had made the handle with part of his cassock just in case. Then along came Jerry.
It had taken a deeper dive to discover the truth about Catarine, and Hero almost wished she’d let it lie, had let the shade and its memories be lost in Hell forever. But that wasn’t how she operated. Once she caught the whiff of truth, she had to follow it.
But was it the truth? Could Keen be right? Was her ability compromised?
“I would know,” she muttered to herself as she climbed the stairs to Jerry’s apartment. “I would know!”
And yet here she was. Jerry’s place above the Jenny Wren was small and sparsely furnished, a bachelor’s flat.
He had a small collection of books on a set of pine shelves, but she didn’t bother examining the titles.
She wasn’t here to get to know Jerry Braun; she was here for the truth.
She had to know if the crime she’d witnessed had actually happened.
Of course it did. The dead can’t lie.
They can’t be eaten, either.
Keen’s comment echoed in her head. He was right, damn him. Something very powerful had embedded itself in Havenside; she couldn’t be sure of anything, even her own vaunted skills.
Doubt. It tasted like ashes, and she fucking hated it.
Hero left her ebony cane propped beside the door and stepped into the center of the apartment.
A rag rug, rustic and homey, cushioned her booted feet.
Two windows looked out on the street and light filtered through them, slanting low from the west. It would be dark soon.
The report had mentioned some blood spatter, and she wanted to see it for herself.
Ripping out someone’s tongue would be a messy business.
With a deep breath, she removed her glasses, tucking them into her pants pocket.
From the other, she pulled out a long, braided belt of golden silk: Catarine’s cincture, the murder weapon, the device by which Jerry had allegedly held her and drained her of her essence.
Despite what she’d seen in the Communion, Hero felt nothing from the simple belt, yet it was a link to Catarine – the only one she had.
The world sharpened in her unfettered vision and she Saw beneath the layers. Flames licked at the corners of the room. Hell beckoned. She opened the Gate, the barest crack. Holding tight to the cincture, she whispered, “Catarine Cisco. I’m here for you.”
Visions flashed through her mind. Once again, she was caught in the crime, and once again, she witnessed it from Jerry’s perspective.
Her skin crawled, but she refused to shy away from the horrific details.
The memory of it – as seen through his eyes – was crystal clear.
In the woods behind the Jenny Wren, she watched him plead with Catarine, the sister wrapped in a cloak, her habit concealed.
She wasn’t wearing a veil, either. Her blond hair gleamed even in the darkness.
There was no fear on her face, only concern, along with a touch of righteous anger revealed in the spots of color high on her cheeks.
Hero blinked and suddenly the two were climbing the stairs to Jerry’s apartment, just as she had done a moment ago.
He ambushed her the moment they entered his flat.
A flash of struggling figures, the pale length of a knotted cincture.
Her heart thudded. Catarine went down hard, and then he was on her, one hand going for her throat, the other covering her mouth, smothering her screams. His body pinning hers to the floor, knees knocking her thighs apart effortlessly.
Each move meant to control her, to dominate her.
Like he raped and murdered women all the time.
A shudder racked Hero and bile rose in her throat, but she didn’t turn away from the memories. She had to See everything.
After he’d sated his lust, he’d bound her using her own cincture, imbued with demonic power from the Aerial demon he’d supposedly worshipped. It had left marks around Sister Catarine’s neck like the links of a chain.
Time sped up and days passed, Catarine growing weaker and weaker, slumped over her knees on the dirty floor. Jerry tormented her, taking delight in her suffering. He’d ripped out her tongue in an orgiastic moment of pure evil. Blood fanned down her bare breasts, splattered on the floor.
Hero stared at the spot on the floor, Seeing the blood spray in her memory. She stared until her eyes ached, calling as much of Hell to her aid as she dared.
No blood marked the varnished floorboards.
Not a shadow or a trace was embedded in the wood.
She felt a surge of emotion. The Goddess Herself couldn’t hide blood spatter from Hero Viridian.
The knowledge erupted in her head, drawing her sharply back to reality.
A gasp broke from her lips. How could she have been so stupid?
Even after Speaking with the dead, the evidence had to match. It always matched.
Except this time.
“Fuck me,” she muttered, drawing up those visions again but this time with a more calculating eye.
She forced herself to replay the events, watching every excruciating moment, registering every hideous detail.
It made her skin crawl, made her want to vomit, but she forced herself to focus, to be detached as Jerry Braun raped the helpless sister, collared her with her own cincture, tortured and drained her, ripped out her tongue. Again and again and again.
The visions began to shimmer, to grow frayed at the edges.
She clutched the cincture to ground herself in reality.
The feel of it, the silken softness, belied what evil it had wrought.
She could see it digging into Catarine’s neck.
It was knotted in places; it could have left marks like chain links…
No. The word growled through her head and she stumbled back to reality. Her gaze swept the room. She Saw traces of Jerry, going about his life, eating and sleeping and entertaining friends. He’d had a lot of friends.
None of them had noticed a kidnapped nun in the corner of his living room?
She saw nothing of Catarine but the barest echo of her sleeping on his couch. That was real. All the other memories – the visions of Jerry’s terrible crime – were as fake as a smile on a Celestial nun.
Outrage made her breathless. Keen had been right.
Something had muddled her mind, blocked her abilities, planted a lie!
Her rage rivaled the fires of Hell and flames erupted around her, silent and heatless.
If there was anything of the truth left behind here, she would find it. A feeling, a vibe, a–
A glimmer.
A thread of gold in the corner of her eye.
Hero didn’t move, yet she focused all her senses on that glimmer. Her heart leapt. Could it be a shade, still lingering between the Spheres?
No. It was more like the shade of a shade. A residue left behind. Vaguely human-shaped. Woman-shaped.
Hero held her breath, not wanting to disrupt any potential Communion.
The golden thread solidified, became real for a breath, became Sister Catarine tiptoeing through Jerry’s apartment in the dark, the windows starting to gray with dawn, gathering her slippers and cloak before slipping out the door.
“ She left sometime before dawn.”
Jerry had been telling the truth. Relief washed through Hero.
She kept the cincture tight in one hand, her feet grounded on that homey rag rug, and pursued the elusive glimmer through the paths of the Underworld, traveling the realm between the living and the dead.
This was her domain and she trod it easily.
The sky grew lighter, heading toward morning, yet the sun also rolled toward the horizon, a fat, bright ball mellowing into late afternoon.
She kept an awareness of the true time; she didn’t know what Keen was up to, but she feared he might go to Bright Renewal without her.
She pushed those worries aside. She couldn’t lose this pale shadow of their victim.
Obviously, Sister Catarine had not been kept or killed in Jerry Braun’s apartment.
Then where? And who had done the killing?
The shade slipped through the woods behind the Jenny Wren, flickering in and out of the trees.
Catarine had known the way. Soon, the trees thinned and Hero found herself on the outskirts of a vast green expanse which she recognized as Our Lady of the Meadows Cemetery, where her “father” had been buried, along with all her human ancestors.
Beyond the carefully manicured grass dotted with shining white tombstones shaded by majestic oaks stood the walls of Clementine Preparatory.
As the sun broke the horizon – and also shone brightly from the west – Hero spotted the glimmer of Catarine slip through a small gate set in the tall brick wall: a secret entrance.
Hero cursed herself; she should have guessed.
She’d lived in an abbey for several years and knew that the novices always found a way to sneak in and out unnoticed.
With a careful shifting of her steps and a deeper dip into the Underworld, she found herself within the walls of the cloisters.
Catarine was on the back steps leading up to her apartment on the second floor.
It made no sense; she’d come back to her apartment that last night? Her roommate had to have seen her!
But no. Catarine paused on the bottom step. Her head turned to look over her shoulder, then the shade of a shade hurried across the grounds, through the small cemetery attached to the cloister’s chapel. She went straight to the mausoleum where Hero and Keen had entered the catacombs a lifetime ago.
And all at once, Hero knew. She remembered that stench of demons and evil permeating those tunnels. This was where Catarine had been lured: the catacombs.
She raced toward the mausoleum. This was the scene of the crime. She was sure of it! This time, she would plumb the catacombs at full power and crack that damnable shield if it killed her.
Hero jerked and the world snapped back in place around her, and she found herself swaying on Jerry’s rug, the windows blazing with afternoon sun.
The Gate to the Underworld had slammed shut abruptly – not by accident; someone had broken her hold on it.
Something brushed her neck with a silky caress that sent a shiver down to her toes and back again.
Leave, sweet child…
She spun round. There was no one behind her. Certainly not Silvanus, her wayward father. Still, she had recognized his voice. Another warning.
“Not yet, Father,” she murmured, her lips lifting from her teeth. “I still have a job to do.”
For the first time in days, she felt a savage hope. She knew where to hunt now. And her powers hadn’t failed her; she’d found a way to see through the planted Communion. Whatever eldritch power lurked beneath Havenside, it would have to do better than that to stop her.
Hero grabbed up her cane, tapped the brim of her cap with it and set off to find her partner.