Silver Nitrate(105)

Montserrat was breathing fast, and there was a thundering pain in her head. Tristán looked worse than her. She thought he would vomit, but he shivered and grabbed her hand, and they stumbled through the messy lobby and then outside.

The night air was good against her face, and Montserrat thought in a few minutes more she’d be able to get into the car and attempt the drive back. But then the men came out from the shadows, with their dogs at their sides, and although Montserrat held up a feeble hand with a smudged rune, she knew they could do nothing except stand still as the dogs circled them, black bile dripping down their open mouths.





26


On one occasion, when she’d ventured to a nightclub with Tristán, Montserrat had been served an adulterated drink. This was not uncommon. Many bars cheated their customers, selling shoddy products to increase their profits. It was the only time this had happened to her, thankfully, because it had been one of the most horrible experiences of her life. Until now.

As the men with dogs shoved them into the back of the car, Montserrat felt as if she was going to pass out. Her head throbbed. When they arrived at the building downtown that used to house the offices of Clarimonde’s publishing house, as she was forced out of the car and stumbled through the sturdy front doors, she felt something different. It was a jolt, as if a liquid river of gold had suddenly been injected into her veins.

As she walked into the old ballroom, she tasted not the fog of intoxication, but a clarity of thought that seemed to render everything brighter.

The room, which during her first visit had lain empty and in shadows, was now lit by massive chandeliers, the glass in them glittering. More than three dozen people clustered at one end of the ballroom. Their clothes seemed formal but not extravagant, with suits and ties and nice dresses; the kind of attire suitable for a cocktail party. A mixture of ages were represented among the crowd. Some older guests, their hair white and gray, whispered next to yuppies who looked fresh-faced. Montserrat wondered about the provenance of these younger recruits. Were they the children of the older ones? Had they heard about Ewers and his marvels at bedtime? Or perhaps Clarimonde’s copies of The House of Infinite Wisdom had found success among a new niche group of people.

The room remained mostly barren, though toward the middle of the vast space they had set up two portable projectors and a portable screen against a wall. They probably intended to run the nitrate print she carried in her purse, even though no one should do this without a fireproof, well-ventilated booth. Then again, Montserrat did not suppose it was the time to do a quick safety demonstration and ask if there was a working sprinkler system.

Next to each of the projectors someone had set a large porcelain bowl. One was filled with water, the other was empty. In addition, to the left of the bowl with the water there was a low table, covered with a yellow cloth.

She counted two doors, one on each end of the ballroom, and neither one reachable with the men and the dogs at their side. Montserrat and Tristán were ushered into the back of the room, any escape route further barred by the multitude of guests. After a few minutes, Clarimonde Bauer walked in with two women behind her. Clarimonde’s attire was more flamboyant than that of her associates. She had traded her linen blouse and skirt for a flowing dress that was a dark, mustardy yellow. Around her neck she wore a silver pendant in the shape of Ewers’s vegvísir and silver bracelets around her wrists. She stood in front of the projectors and held up her arms in a dramatic pose. People clapped. When the applause died, Clarimonde spoke.

“My brothers and sisters, we gather tonight to welcome back our great father into our fold. Our lord has been absent for too many years, but his power is with us, bathing us in his glory.”

“We follow him into the night,” the cultists said.

Ewers had written this script a long time ago: the setup, the attendants, the instruments, they resembled the ones that showed up in the scene they dubbed. Movie magic, Montserrat thought. Ewers had loved movies and wanted everything to play like one; he wanted the thrill of the spectacle. He was going to give them a show, all right. Behind her she could hear soft whispers, the excitement of the crowd, an invisible wave, lapping at their feet. It would rise and crest higher. This was but the beginning. She understood as much.

Two men made their entrance. They dragged someone with them. The man’s arms were bound behind his back and his face was covered with a cloth so she could not make out his features, but she could see the slow rise and fall of his chest.

She thought perhaps the man was unconscious, but no. Although he had been effortlessly brought into the room, now he attempted to struggle, his entire body shivering. It was no use. He was brutally shoved down. They held him in place, making him kneel next to the porcelain bowl, and he bowed his head, whimpering.

“What are they doing?” Tristán asked softly.

She knew, of course. She remembered what José had said about the runes, the chickens sacrificed, the natural next step after that: the blood of a man.

“Don’t look now,” she said, like she did when they went to the movies and she warned Tristán about certain scenes. Don’t look now, like when they had been small and Tristán grabbed her hand, except it was not the movies and she could not look away after all.

Slowly, almost gently, Clarimonde took out a dagger from between the folds of her clothes and sliced the man’s neck with an expert hand. The sight of the spray of blood sent Montserrat reeling against Tristán’s chest, clutching his shirt.