AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I tell him about the silver cords that wind from every person and ghost, how I brought Pax and Edward to life, and also how I was able to heal Pax after the Ripper stabbed him.
“This is interesting.” Father Maxwell stands on his long legs and crosses his cramped library, pulling a few books off the shelves seemingly at random. “It takes many Lazarii decades to discover the secrets of their resurrection powers – the use of the cords and the need to find the spark, the catalyst of the ghost’s unfinished business. You have figured things out early. And you have done something few of us have been able to do – you have sent the Ripper back to hell. At least, temporarily. Can you tell me how you did that?”
“I don’t really know.” I describe how I stabbed him with his own knife, and what we found out from our books, that with his master dead, the Ripper was temporarily mortal.
Father Maxwell sips his tea, his eyes never leaving my face. Out the window behind his head, Pax and Björn wrestle on the edge of the wooded parkland behind the church.
Father Maxwell flips the book in his lap around, showing me an image. I gasp as I realise that I’ve seen this same image once before. A cruder version was drawn on one of the pages in the box I inherited from Vera.
“This is Saint Ekaterina slaying a demon. She was a Lazarus, and she travelled the world as a healer and exorcist during the Middle Ages. She sent many a demon or revenant back to hell before she was hanged as a witch, only for her miracles to be recognised many centuries later. Very little is known about her, but I was lucky enough to inherit this book of her writings. Hers is the only written account I’ve ever read of how a Lazarus might bring a ghost back to life again. The Order has worked hard to expunge all other traces in the historical record. They don’t want Lazarii they don’t control to get their hands on this magic.”
“Okay, but that’s a picture of a revenant.” I stare down at the page as a shudder wracks my body.
“Correct, and I’m impressed that you’ve uncovered this. Revenants are the soulless bodies of people who were once alive. We can think about them a bit like the golems of Jewish myths – they are capable only of base urges, and they exist only to fulfil their purpose. That’s why the Order raises killers as their soldiers, because their revenants retain their base urges to maim, to kill. But Saint Ekaterina knew how to stop them; first, by poisoning their master so that their hold slipped, and then, when the revenant was mortal, slaying it with its own weapon to bind its evil. This is exactly what you did to Jack the Ripper. You sent him back to hell.”
I shudder at the memory of the Ripper’s smile as he plunged his knife into Pax’s chest.
“But we’re not like that, are we?” Ambrose asks, a tremor of fear creeping into his bright voice. “Pax and I aren’t revenants? We’re as full of soul as we’ve ever been.”
I glance across to my adventurer, his eyes round with fear, his fingers entwined with mine, squeezing tight. And I don’t need Father Maxwell to give me an answer. Ambrose is nothing like the Ripper.
“Only God can see the truth of your soul, but yes, as far as I know, you are whole once more,” Father Maxwell taps the book. “It will only be a matter of time before the Order raises the Ripper again, or something worse. But I think I might be able to find something in this book to protect you. I need to study the text more carefully. The Latin is very tricky, but perhaps your Roman can help me—”
CLANG.
The sound makes all of us leap from our chairs. I glance out the window and realise I can no longer see Pax or Björn. The door flies open, crashing against the wall and sending several books cascading down on Ambrose. Björn and Pax make two attempts to crowd their bulk through the tiny door before Pax relents and allows the Viking ahead of him.
“You must come quickly, Father,” Björn says, his voice grave. “We have another one.”
26
Pax
The priest is already on his feet when we enter the room. “Excuse me,” he says to Bree. He hurries after my new friend Björn. Bree’s eyes meet mine, wide and curious.
“Pax, what’s going on?”
“I do not know. Björn and I were locked in a fierce battle of wits when…” I grab her arm and pull her toward the door. “You must see for yourself.”
“And me, too.” Ambrose smooths down his coat. “I want to know, too.”
There’s no time to argue, to force them both to remain behind in the temple where they are out of danger. Bree has that look in her eyes, that one that says she’s more stubborn than a Carthaginian in the middle of a good siege. I grab Ambrose’s hand and drag them both through the church and out into the cemetery where Björn and I had been fighting.
I don’t like this place, either, with its rows of crooked grave markers like the teeth of a Gorgon. These are bodies buried within the walls of a city, which is not okay. But Björn is so comfortable here, I didn’t want to show him my weakness.
And now…
I lead Bree over to a tall grave with a stone cross, where a girl of barely fifteen summers sits with tears streaming down her cheeks. She burst through the woods and interrupted our battle right as Björn was showing me his legendary Thor’s Hammer Shuffle, causing him to lose his balance and nearly slice off his own toe.
She had a child in her arms. A boy barely five summers old, with the same fiery red hair and deep freckles across his nose. She lay his limp body at Björn’s feet and implored him, “Get Father Maxwell. He can save my brother.”
Now, the priest is bent over the boy, who is lying on the grass, the shadow of that stone cross passing over his deadly pale face. His chest does not rise. Whatever the priest hopes to do, it is too late, for the boy has travelled to Hades.
Björn gathers the girl in his arms, holding her against his chest, soothing her hair. He meets my eyes, warrior to warrior. Understanding passes between us. We have seen too much death on the battlefield, but we feel each fallen comrade as if it were our first.
This boy has died before his time.
The priest has his eyes closed. He holds his hand over a circular wound on the boy’s chest, twisting his fingers in the air. I’ve seen enough moving pictures to recognise a bullet hole. From a miniature siege weapon, which I believe is called a gun. These are appalling weapons, coward’s weapons. If you want to kill a man, you should do it face to face, with a sword, where you can see as you turn his guts into tagliatelle.
