A Lower Deep - A Self Novel About 3300 wds by Tom Piccirilli Page B
Authors: Tom Piccirilli
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substantially more talented."
"I can hardly wait to meet her," I said.
"You will on Oimelc, the Feast of Lights. Well have the glory we once did. Danielle will live again on Oimelc. Whole, as she was. As you and all of us loved her."
"That's impossible."
"I've tracked and collected each portion of her soul. She can be yours, alive, the way she was meant to be, if only you'll rejoin me. Think of it. Your love in your arms, with the chance for true happiness, even a family. That's all you've been dreaming of these last ten years."
"You maniac, you've no shame at all."
He pulled back his arm and slapped me with a palm covered with Bridgett's blood, then backhanded me, and did it again. "Now summon them, damn you! That's all you've ever been good for! Call them! Do what you must!"
I did.
I summoned myself.
With my arms outstretched and hands flat against the icy tombs, the waves of energy pounded and revolved about me. My words were clear in an amalgam of antediluvian languages, both human and non-human. Self fell over quivering, caught up in the maelstrom. Thummim rocked him, squealing. I wondered what Christ might actually say to us face-to-face, and how jealous God would become, and whether we'd ever be forgiven.
So close, my love. Our forgotten youth, the feel of your thigh on my cheek, the way I dragged you into an abyss of my own making. If only my father had possessed a bit more foresight, or been a little stronger, maybe we all would have survived our pursuits.
I called forth friends and enemies alike. Elijah's ghost had its hands in front of my face trying to show me something that swayed before my eyes. Maybe it was his heart, maybe someone else's. His mammoth rage was red.
Jebediah had shrouded his soul within the heart of the dead coven, hiding among those he'd destroyed. I shouted, "You goddamned coward!" and snagged a silver cord in my psychic teeth. Janus and his children from Fuceas urged me on. Snapping first one, then another and another, I watched the ghosts kicking and stirring. All the while I made entreaties to Azreal to release their spirits. Jebediah hadn't expected anyone to toy with his own incantations, and he looked startled seeing me snarling in the crypts. Self realized my intent and worked at the tangled spells . Relax, relax, I'm here, he said. Leave this to me. Continue, get on with it.
I did. Griffin, Keeper of the Salamanders, had forgiven me, and helped unsnarl the souls. I cut the other lines but my coven didn't stray far, no matter how hard I shoved them off toward the afterlife. This wasn't going to work. What a waste. I locked gazes with my father and reached for him, praying that he was still in there and would remember, for a minute, our lives before the madness brought him here to his own murder.
I held out my hand and said, "Dad?" My father bit me.
My blood dripped into the pool of Bridgett's blood on the ground. It was my will that coursed here, my resolution and no one else's. Nice thinking , Self said, but are you sure you know what you're doing?
Let's hope so.
I am. I do.
I called forward what I needed. My father guffawed and capered around the tombs. Thummim sat on his head and spun around with him. The sweet scent of maleficia and rage filled the crypt, and in the House of DeLancre I could hear the walking corpses shrieking in fear.
Far too late Jebediah cried, "Wait . . . !"
The doorway to the altar filled with shadow.
And standing before us, smiling in all his sadistic eminence once again, strumming his lute and covered in snow, and with his hatred for witches and family as tangible as the six hundred people he'd once sent to the stake, stood the perverted witch killer Pierre DeLancre.
Chapter Five
S elf said, Pierre, my man, lookin' dapper. Play us a new tune. Something with a backbeat.
The witch-hunter had learned from the progeny that had enslaved him all these centuries. He played his lute and all the raped and slain women from the Basque danced to
"I can hardly wait to meet her," I said.
"You will on Oimelc, the Feast of Lights. Well have the glory we once did. Danielle will live again on Oimelc. Whole, as she was. As you and all of us loved her."
"That's impossible."
"I've tracked and collected each portion of her soul. She can be yours, alive, the way she was meant to be, if only you'll rejoin me. Think of it. Your love in your arms, with the chance for true happiness, even a family. That's all you've been dreaming of these last ten years."
"You maniac, you've no shame at all."
He pulled back his arm and slapped me with a palm covered with Bridgett's blood, then backhanded me, and did it again. "Now summon them, damn you! That's all you've ever been good for! Call them! Do what you must!"
I did.
I summoned myself.
With my arms outstretched and hands flat against the icy tombs, the waves of energy pounded and revolved about me. My words were clear in an amalgam of antediluvian languages, both human and non-human. Self fell over quivering, caught up in the maelstrom. Thummim rocked him, squealing. I wondered what Christ might actually say to us face-to-face, and how jealous God would become, and whether we'd ever be forgiven.
So close, my love. Our forgotten youth, the feel of your thigh on my cheek, the way I dragged you into an abyss of my own making. If only my father had possessed a bit more foresight, or been a little stronger, maybe we all would have survived our pursuits.
I called forth friends and enemies alike. Elijah's ghost had its hands in front of my face trying to show me something that swayed before my eyes. Maybe it was his heart, maybe someone else's. His mammoth rage was red.
Jebediah had shrouded his soul within the heart of the dead coven, hiding among those he'd destroyed. I shouted, "You goddamned coward!" and snagged a silver cord in my psychic teeth. Janus and his children from Fuceas urged me on. Snapping first one, then another and another, I watched the ghosts kicking and stirring. All the while I made entreaties to Azreal to release their spirits. Jebediah hadn't expected anyone to toy with his own incantations, and he looked startled seeing me snarling in the crypts. Self realized my intent and worked at the tangled spells . Relax, relax, I'm here, he said. Leave this to me. Continue, get on with it.
I did. Griffin, Keeper of the Salamanders, had forgiven me, and helped unsnarl the souls. I cut the other lines but my coven didn't stray far, no matter how hard I shoved them off toward the afterlife. This wasn't going to work. What a waste. I locked gazes with my father and reached for him, praying that he was still in there and would remember, for a minute, our lives before the madness brought him here to his own murder.
I held out my hand and said, "Dad?" My father bit me.
My blood dripped into the pool of Bridgett's blood on the ground. It was my will that coursed here, my resolution and no one else's. Nice thinking , Self said, but are you sure you know what you're doing?
Let's hope so.
I am. I do.
I called forward what I needed. My father guffawed and capered around the tombs. Thummim sat on his head and spun around with him. The sweet scent of maleficia and rage filled the crypt, and in the House of DeLancre I could hear the walking corpses shrieking in fear.
Far too late Jebediah cried, "Wait . . . !"
The doorway to the altar filled with shadow.
And standing before us, smiling in all his sadistic eminence once again, strumming his lute and covered in snow, and with his hatred for witches and family as tangible as the six hundred people he'd once sent to the stake, stood the perverted witch killer Pierre DeLancre.
Chapter Five
S elf said, Pierre, my man, lookin' dapper. Play us a new tune. Something with a backbeat.
The witch-hunter had learned from the progeny that had enslaved him all these centuries. He played his lute and all the raped and slain women from the Basque danced to
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