Page 43 of An Immaculate Deception

I blink. The name is written in indented, solemn letters. The gravestone is partly covered in moss. Leandro’s father, Comendador Ernesto Neves, is alive, so this must be his grandfather, or another descendant even older. Yet underneath, the dates read: February 8, 1854–June 23, 1877.

I stare at the dates, gears turning in my mind. June 23 is the eve of São João.

The night of the carriage accident.

25

I’m in a dark place.

I’m submerged in a deep abyss that stretches back for eternity. A man who is all shadow and no flesh burns a charcoal incense. His voice pulses through my bloodstream. He smells like bay leaves and cloves and he caresses my bare skin.

A single claw runs down the length of my body, from my neck and breasts to my belly button. His touch is so light that it makes my whole body tingle and shiver. It is barely a graze, yet it resonates in every particle of my being. And if his claw is so close, the rest of him must be close as well. Looming over me. Watching me. Breathing close to me.

A demon from the underworld. Cerberus with bat wings, three muzzles, and ravenous growling. The ferocious Malebranche in the boiling black gunge. I gave myself to him before, now his mark is seared under my skin. Hovering between wakefulness and eternal rest, I feel the bond that has been created between me and him—the one made of shadows, who pulses in my depths and promises to fulfill my yearning. He kisses my knuckles. Covers my skin with his wet, quivering lips. A fire burns where he touches me and I moan.

A creaking, like an old ladder bending under someone’s weight. The claw stills. Footsteps, then another presence—familiar, yet distant.

A charged stillness. I am left with only my yearning. The heavy air presses on my skin.

Then thunder cascades all around. The earth shakes low and high, like an earthquake bent to destroy all. The walls shriek and roar and split my skull.

Howls of rage, eruptions of madness, the rip of tearing flesh, the gurgle of choking, the pang of clashing bones.

Blood rains from a fiery sky, pungent and metallic. Wet drops and splatters touch my belly, cheeks, eyelids, brows, arms.

Then silence.

My belly is hollow.

I know this—deep in my bones—before I even open my eyes.

I sit upright in bed. I am in a dim room, and the first thing I notice is a pungent smell. There are no candles nor lamps, and the window is open only a sliver, letting in a faint wisp of cold gray dawn. My hand goes to my belly and my heart is seized by terror. It’s a feeling, not a thought, but it’s a feeling I cannot shake: There is no baby inside me.

Not anymore.

A sob catches in the back of my throat.

I attempt to stir out of bed, but I am so groggy, so heavy. He drugged me. It is as hard to think as it is to move. As if I am still inside the nightmares of my troubled dreams.

I remember the man tackling me to the ground from behind. My elbows barely breaking the fall. My forehead pushed against the dirt. I can still taste the soil on my tongue, can still feel the sharp edge of my chipped tooth.

I recall Leandro telling my assailant to get off me. Doctor Lobo telling me to calm down. The syringe.

The fact that I am awake at all is a miracle.

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see a shift in the shadows. I am not alone. A figure sits in a chair by the far wall. It is too dark for me to make out his face, yet I can tell that he is watching me.

“Where…” It is difficult to speak. The drugs Doctor Lobo injected me with make every movement, every thought an effort. I must clear my head.

“Where…is…my…baby?”

He stands and starts in my direction. In his hand he holds a weapon. I see the sharp glint of the blade.

I muster all my strength to sit up, despite my body feeling like a bag of stones. That is when I feel the rope around my wrists. I yank my arm, then feel the resistance. My arms and legs are tied to the bed.

Panic bubbles up in my chest.

“No…No…Please…”