Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [53]
“Welcome home,” Calesta greeted him.
His fragile hopes expired in an instant, smothered by the power of the demon’s presence; a cold and hungry hate took its place. The transition was so swift that it was physically stunning, and it was a long moment before Andrys could pull himself together enough to close the suite’s door, so that none might hear them. And an even longer moment before he could find his voice.
“What do you want?”
The demon chuckled coldly. “Hardly a suitable welcome for your ally.”
He drew in a deep breath, struggling for control. Trying to recover his image of the girl, his fragile hopes, anything of the last half hour ... but his effort was in vain. Such gentle emotions had no place in Calesta’s presence.
At last he stammered, “Why are you here?”
“You wanted instructions. I came to supply them.”
He dared to look up at the demon, to meet those inhuman eyes head-on. “Why now?” he challenged him. “I’ve called to you often enough. I’ve begged for instruction! Why come to me now, the one night I don’t need you?”
The demon hissed softly; the sound reminded Andrys of a snake about to strike. “You don’t need me?”
The threat behind Calesta’s words chilled him to the core. I could leave you alone forever. Then what would you have? Hurriedly he struggled to explain himself. “I didn’t mean ... it’s just ... tonight....”
The demon laughed; the harsh, grating sound made Andrys quail. “You poor fool! Is it the girl who inspires such courage? You found yourself a single night’s comfort and now the battle is over?” His voice was a jagged thing, that scraped Andrys’ skin like shards of glass. “And what do you think the Hunter will do when he finds out that his mortal enemy has fallen for a woman? Do you think really think he’ll allow you that comfort, once our battle is fully joined? Or any other? You’re a walking death sentence, Andrys Tarrant, and anyone you touch—anyone who touches you—will be felled by it. Or did you think that you could make war on the Hunter without him striking back?”
The room seemed to swirl about him. He reached for a chair and somehow managed to fall into it, heavily. His hands seemed numb; his heart was ice.
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten what manner of creature you’ve sworn to fight.” The demon paused. “Perhaps I should remind you.”
“No—”
Memories swirled about him, horrific images all too familiar. A hundred times more intense than what he had recalled in the restaurant, a thousand times more horrible. The dismembered head of Samiel Tarrant gazed down at him from its grisly throne, a sardonic smile twisting its lips. Dared to dream of love, did you? The bloodsoaked eyes narrowed in amusement. What makes think you’re worthy of loving anyone?
“Make it stop,” he begged. Shutting his eyes, trying to shut out the visions. Samiel staring at him. Betrise. All of them. “Please. Make it stop!”
The visions faded. His hands, white-knuckled, gripped the chair with painful pressure.
“I think we understand each other,” the demon assessed.
Shaken, he whispered hoarsely, “What do you want me to do?”
“You will go to the cathedral in the great square of Jaggonath. You will attend the services of your God. Pray with your fellows as Gerald Tarrant instructed, as if you intended to fulfill his misplaced vision.”
It seemed to Andrys that there must surely be more instructions, but the demon said no more. After a long moment of silence Andrys dared, “And then what?”
“That’s all. For now.”
“I don’t understand,” he protested weakly. “How will that hurt him?”
The demon hissed sharply. “Do you question me now? Or doubt my plans? A thousand elements must all be orchestrated to perfection in order to bring the Hunter down, and you’re just one of them! Go where I tell you. Do what I say. Your own hand will bring about Gerald Tarrant’s downfall, I promise you.” He paused. “Or isn’t that enough for you?”
He lowered his head, lacking the strength—or was