Silver Nitrate(106)
Her fingers felt unnaturally warm, blistering almost, and in her mouth there was a sour taste.
The blood dripped into the bowl, turning it crimson. Clarimonde Bauer motioned to her assistants, signaling for them to come closer. Tristán and Montserrat were pushed forward. She moved mechanically, one foot in front of the other, heart thumping, until Clarimonde stepped behind the projectors and greeted them with a half smile.
The woman extended her hands, and one of the men gave her the can of film and the book Montserrat had been carrying in her purse. Clarimonde looked at the objects reverently.
“I’m so pleased you could come,” Clarimonde said, carefully handing back the film and the book to one of her men. “Wilhelm has given me exact instructions as to how we should proceed.”
Now that they had approached the projectors, Montserrat could smell the blood that was dripping into the bowl, as well as another sickly, pungent, almost sickeningly sweet scent. The aroma of rotting meat.
“The three of you must be present to cast the spell,” Clarimonde said. “All six runes must be drawn using fresh blood, while the nitrate print plays. The dubbed copy you made will play at the same time, mixing sound and image. There are a few words to be said: we shall speak them. Then we will coax Wilhelm back from the dead.”
Clarimonde motioned to one of the women who had walked with her into the room, and who now drifted toward the low table with the yellow cloth. The woman slipped the cloth aside, revealing the corpse of Abel Urueta. This was the source of the stench in the room.
“That…my god, you are all insane,” Tristán said, shaking his head. He turned, looking at Ewers’s congregation. “All of you! Bunch of crazies!”
As Tristán spoke, Montserrat tilted her head and looked at one of the mirrors decorating the ballroom. She’d caught sight of a blurred reflection there, a swift, subtle movement that made her swallow. Ewers. Behind the glass. Watching and listening. Her hands were trembling, but she clasped them together.
“I said all three,” Clarimonde replied, her half smile now a wide grin. “A corpse is better than an item from the deceased. You should have no trouble conjuring Abel.”
“What?” Tristán asked. “I’m not doing a single thing.”
“Yes, you will. You both have your parts to play. In return, Wilhelm has promised to be generous,” she said, looking at Tristán, then turning to Montserrat.
Clarimonde expected them to nod quickly and agree. Or else, perhaps to cower in terror. Montserrat released her hands and stared at the mirror.
“And all we have to do is summon a ghost, draw a few runes, and chant a sentence,” Montserrat said. “Well, guess what, we aren’t idiots. We bring your friend back to life, you’ll cut our throats like you did to that man. Maybe we should sit here and keep our mouths shut and our hands in our pockets.”
“What are you trying to do?” Clarimonde asked. Her voice was an icy warning.
“Nothing. That’s what we are doing. Nothing unless we hammer out the terms of this contract. You heard that, dead boy?” she asked mockingly.
Behind them, the dogs growled, and Montserrat was certain Clarimonde wanted to slap her, perhaps even stab her with that knife of hers, still stained with fresh blood, but the woman stared at Montserrat. As she’d expected, her hand was stayed.
“He wishes to speak to you. Personally,” Clarimonde said. Her eyes were hard. She yanked Montserrat forward, thrusting her in front of the beam of light traced by one of the projectors. It was so bright, she had to raise her hand up to shield her eyes. It was one blazing flash of white, engulfing her.
The ground beneath her feet was smooth black onyx. The light that had blinded her was gone, replaced by a dim glow and stark shadows. Fog enveloped her; it seemed to shiver and shimmer, flashes of silver punctuating the darkness. Wilhelm Ewers stepped out of that darkness laced with silver, hands in the pockets of his beige trench coat, head held up high. He looked not like the elusive image she’d spotted in mirrors and reflective surfaces, but a solid, tangible presence. His flaxen hair was side-parted, sleek, and his smile even sleeker, looking very much like he did in the photo album. Only the eyes were wrong. Wilhelm Ewers’s eyes had been a light blue, but now they were rendered a strange silver-gray, as if they were tinted with the same mist that surrounded him.
“I’m glad to meet you, Montserrat,” he said. Previously he’d been a paper-thin whisper, but no more. His voice was self-assured and strong.
“I thought we’d already met. You were in Abel’s apartment and then you chased me down the stairs,” she replied.
“I was curious. I wanted to take a good look at you.”
“You tried to kill us during the séance.”
“Not you, my dear. I tried to kill José. Were you frightened?”
“No. Even though you’ve been attempting to frighten me for a while now.”
“Has it worked?”
“Fear gives others power over you,” she said.
“I know. You’re a stubborn little thing, aren’t you? I like it, although you’re being too stubborn just this instant. Won’t you take my offer? It is most generous; I can assure you that.”
“Where are we?” she asked, unwilling to reply to him, hoping to buy herself time, if she could. She’d told him she wasn’t afraid, but she also was no fool and knew herself to be in danger. There had to be a way for Tristán and her to escape this situation unscathed, and for now, at least, Ewers was not trying to hurt them. The answer was to maintain her composure, to affect a calm and cool demeanor. She suspected he would use any wavering wisp of emotion against her.