The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [251]
Grace halted before the door. The humming filled her now, trying to shatter her body like glass. She almost thought she could make out words in the chanting—words that danced just on the edge of understanding, as if she had heard them long ago. In a story, perhaps. Or a song.
Grace cocked her head, listening. Then the sound of the voices ceased, and a new sound came from behind the door: a wet moan of pain, swiftly muffled. A moment later came a cracking sound, as of something hard being broken.
Open the door, Grace.
She hesitated, then reached out a hand and clutched the knob.
Do it now!
The door was locked, but somehow that seemed not to matter. Metal flowed and rearranged itself beneath her fingers. The door flew open. Silver light gushed out, and in an instant Grace saw everything.
They stood in a semicircle in the cluttered room, seven grown-ups—the whole staff of the orphanage, except for one. They wore black masks like they did when they came to take one of the children away, but it was as if their faces were outlined with shining green threads. If Grace squinted, she could see right through the disguises.
There was Mr. Murtaugh the groundsman, staring at her in fury, and Mrs. Murtaugh next to him, the look of lust on her face twisting into an expression of dread. Broud and all the wardens were there, and in the midst of them all stood Mr. Holiday, his face handsome even in astonishment.
Hanging on the wall behind the grown-ups was a black cloth covered with silver drawings. The drawings seemed almost familiar, although she didn’t know when she had seen them before. Most prominent among them was a single, staring eye. The eye was set in the middle of a vaguely human face that bared sharp teeth in a terrible smile. Whoever the being in the drawing was, it was a thing of hate and hunger.
Her gaze returned to the adults. In front of them, sprawled on a battered chaise lounge, was Mrs. Fulch.
The cook was motionless, her eyes staring upward without seeing. They had torn open her dowdy gray blouse, and her huge, pendulous breasts sagged to either side, away from the ragged hole in the middle of her chest. Blood smeared her skin, her clothes. Even as Grace wondered what they had done to her she saw the fist-sized lump of flesh in Mr. Murtaugh’s hand, still dripping red liquid, and she knew it was Mrs. Fulch’s heart. Mr. Holiday held another lump of similar size, but this one was a dark, metallic gray.
Mr. Murtaugh was the first to speak, shouting a string of expletives, none of which Grace recognized.
“What do we do?” Mrs. Murtaugh shrieked. “She’s seen us. What do we do?”
Broud glared at the frantic woman. “By His Perfect Dark, shut up or it’s your heart next.” Now she turned her urgent gaze to Mr. Holiday. “Hurry, Damon—finish the act of creation before it is too late.”
Mr. Holiday gripped the dark lump—
It’s iron, Grace. A lump of iron.
—then roughly shoved it into the gaping hole in Fulch’s chest.
Mrs. Fulch sat up.
Her flabby limbs flopped about as she drew in a wet, shuddering breath. Then she looked up and smiled—a hungry, hateful expression. She spread her sagging arms.
“I am ready, master!” she cried in a shrill, bubbling voice, her eyes mad, her lips flecked with blood. “By our hands shall you return to your rightful world, and the Lord of Nightfall shall rule all!”
Grace took a step back. Despite Mrs. Fulch’s movements and speech, Grace was quite certain the cook was not alive. She looked at the others, looked deep, down to the shimmering green threads beneath their skin. Not Mr. and Mrs. Murtaugh, nor most of the wardens. But there—in Mrs. Broud’s chest, and in Mr. Holiday’s—dark, lifeless blots that the green threads could not touch.
Ironhearts, Grace. The eye on the black cloth—it’s the symbol of the Raven Cult. Broud and Holiday were ironhearts, and they made Fulch into one. That’s what you saw that night, that