Crucible Read online

  She pictured a defibrillator shocking a heart back to life.

  “System’s fully energized,” Susan said.

  On the biologist’s screen, the crimson motes now all glowed green.

  Julian nodded to the bed. “Give it a try, Lisa.”

  She bent down to the bed. “Kat, it’s now or never! Harriet is in trouble! Help us!”

  She glanced over to Julian.

  Anything?

  He shook his head, but movement drew Lisa’s eye.

  On the EEG, those flat lines began to wiggle.

  Julian saw it, too, sitting straighter. “Keep going! Think of something to jar her. Something to direct her to the right buried memory.”

  Lisa turned back to Kat.

  But what could that be?

  2:36 P.M.

  Kat woke again into smothering darkness.

  She vaguely remembered a warm light, of drawing toward it—then she was back here, trapped in a cold dark tar pit.

  Let me go.

  She did not even fight the heavy darkness. She was already sinking back down, searching for that warm light again. Until a shout boomed into her.

  HARRIET! —IN TROUBLE!

  Her daughter’s name, the distress behind those words, focused her. She clawed briefly, but she was too tired. She sank again, not because she didn’t care about her daughter, but simply because she didn’t know anything that would help. She wondered if this was hell, revived over and over again, reminded of her failure to protect her daughters, forced to remember that night: the fight, the crushing blow, two limp forms carried past her into the night.

  I can’t help.

  Still, she tried, willing to play with the devil if it meant any hope for her daughters. She ran that night again through her head. It was hard—impossible—to focus. Details appeared, but she could not grasp them before they faded into obscurity.

  REMEMBER! DAGGER! VALYA! MALLET!

  She wished the voice would quiet, so she could drift back into the darkness.

  I don’t know anything.

  The voice persisted, not letting her rest.

  SEICHAN! CHRISTMAS! PENNY! VIRGINIA!

  Kat wished she could free her arms to cover her ears. This had to be hell. Here was the worst torture imaginable. To want to save your daughter, but not be able to—

  Then she froze in the black tar.

  That horrible night played again through her mind’s eye, crisper now, each moment fluttering, flipping past, like the ruffle of a deck of cards.

  But why?

  Virginia!

  This time it wasn’t a shout, but her own thought. The fluttering of images slowed. She lay again on the cold tiles of the floor, warmed only by her own blood pooled under her. Masked men carried her girls out the kitchen door, into the backyard, to a van parked behind the garage out back.

  She fought to focus, to pull and hold that one card of memory before her mind’s eye, long enough to read what was written there.

  Not Virginia . . . West Virginia.

  She concentrated on the series of letters and numbers. She put every last iota of energy into picturing it. She squeezed everything into that one memory, trying to cast it out of her skull and into the world.

  But the darkness smothered.

  Focus waned.

  Warmth and light beckoned.

  No, not yet.

  She pushed back against both the darkness and the light. She braced herself there, draining every last bit of herself, straining her very soul.

  Hear me, hear me, hear me . . .

  2:38 P.M.

  “Lisa! Look!”

  Growing hoarse from yelling into Kat’s helmet, Lisa turned to Julian’s station. She had been staring at the EEG, watching the jumping lines fade back to a flatness again.

  She’s gone.

  Lisa sat back and stared at Julian’s screen—then bolted upright.

  Glowing vaguely on the screen, already beginning to dissolve, were a series of numbers and letters.

  Designed by the author

  “What are they?” Susan asked, standing, too.

  Lisa knew. She had been yelling West Virginia into Kat’s helmet, over and over again. Each shout of the state’s name seemed to jolt something inside her friend, jarring the EEG with every mention.

  Lisa grabbed her phone and speed-dialed Painter.

  As she waited, she stared at her friend, at the flatlined EEG above the bed.

  “You did it, Kat,” she whispered. “You go rest.”

  Rest in peace.

  3:01 P.M.

  The snow fell thicker now.

  The forest below the hilltop had faded into obscurity. Seichan shook and trembled. Each breath exhaled more of her heat. Harriet lay slumped in her arms. Whether asleep or passed out, she could not say. More worrisome, the child no longer shivered.

  Seichan bundled the girl close, trying to offer what little warmth she had left.

  But it would not be long now.

  She heard the approach of the hunters. They climbed the hill. Shouts arose on the far side. Valya had sent part of her team around, closing down the hilltop. The Russian did not intend to lose her prey through further trickery. By now, Valya must know Seichan was trapped, a fox up a tree surrounded by hounds.

  The Russian was likely savoring this final takedown.

  Seichan lifted her pistol, intending to take away that victory.

  She had two rounds left.

  She looked down at Harriet.

  One for each of us.

  If she had a third, she might have risked waiting, taking out one of the hunters, maybe even Valya herself.

  She positioned the pistol against the back of Harriet’s head. Tears had frozen on Seichan’s cheeks minutes ago. She had refrained from shooting back then—not out of hope. She simply could not pull the trigger.

  She remembered reading a bedtime story to Harriet, the girl curled tight to her side, hugging a stuffed bunny.

  Still, she also pictured what Valya would do to the child if she were captured.

  Better to die free . . . than a tortured slave to that creature.

  She firmed her grip on the pistol, shifting her frozen finger to the trigger.

  She leaned forward and kissed the top of her head one final time. As she did so, she saw Harriet’s little pale hand wrapped around the silver dragon, her last Christmas gift.

  Seichan’s finger tightened.

  Then paused.

  It took another breath to recognize why she had stopped. She felt it in her chest before it reached her numb ears.

  A low thump-thumping.

  Then a crunch of snow only a yard away.

  A figure rose out of the pall ahead of her, parting the snow like a veil, her features as white as fresh powder, her jacket the silver of ice, her blue eyes as piercing as the coldest mountain lake in winter.

  Here came the Snow Queen.

  Seichan put her trust in that thump-thumping and flicked her pistol higher. She squeezed the trigger twice. The Magnum’s blasts were explosive enough to knock a tuft of snow from the overhang. It added to the pile already covering her and Harriet.

  It was that white blanket that had hidden them from Valya, long enough for Seichan to get off those shots.

  The Snow Queen had been betrayed by snow.

  The rounds both struck Valya—one to her chest, the other grazed her cheek, slicing across that black sun. She tumbled backward, disappearing again into the snowfall.

  Then the skies lit up brightly.

  Helicopters—flying in dark above the cloud bank—ignited brightly. Five of them, all becoming cold suns dropping through the snow. Ropes snaked down, and figures plummeted earthward, already firing at the ground.

  A line crashed only a yard away.

  Then boots.

  A figure rushed to her.

  She stared up at an impossibility.

  She shivered and quaked. “P . . . Painter . . . ?”

  “Figured if anyone was holdi
ng the high ground, it would be you.”

  More men landed behind him, rushing forward with blankets that steamed in the cold. She passed them Harriet.

  “Help her.”

  As gunfire chattered all around the hilltop, Painter hauled her up. She was too weak to stand and fell into his arms. “H . . . how?”

  “Kat,” he said, tossing a blanket over her shoulders. “She gave us a license plate to a van registered to a remote farm neighboring the Monongahela National Forest. With a team already in position, we got here immediately. Then we spotted a smoldering cabin with infrared. I knew that had to be your handiwork. After that we saw heat signatures converging on this hill.”

  “Kat . . . then she’s okay.”

  Seichan wanted to cry with relief, but Painter remained silent too long.

  She looked up and read the truth in his eyes.

  Oh, no.

  3:18 P.M.

  Lisa placed her palm on Kat’s cheek, noting her friend’s skin had already gone waxy. The helmet had been shoved back, allowing Lisa to lean forward and hug her friend one last time before they took her away.

  “You did it,” she whispered in Kat’s ear. “Both your girls are safe.”

  “Is it okay to shut everything down?” Julian asked.

  She and the two researchers had been keeping vigil at Kat’s bedside, awaiting word from Painter. The good news had come a moment ago.

  She straightened, stared at the flatlined EEG, and nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  Good-bye, Kat.

  Julian turned off his monitor. Dr. Templeton started to do the same—then stopped, abruptly enough to draw Lisa’s eye. The molecular biologist stumbled back from her station.

  “L . . . look . . .” Susan stammered.

  On the monitor, the thousands of motes flickered, one after the other, each switching from dull red to a bright green, shining far brighter than ever before. As they all watched, the motes swirled and shifted on the screen, settling slowly into distinct fractalized spirals across her cerebral cortex. Some patterns seemed to impossibly fold into her brain, the shapes defying any retina to interpret, aching the eye.

  Julian gasped and pointed to the EEG.

  While mesmerized by the transformation, the EEG had awakened, all the channels dancing erratically.

  “What’s happening?” Lisa asked.

  3:20 P.M.

  The enormity of the light scattered the darkness.

  Kat gasped, overwhelmed, consumed by that brightness. The light was both energy and substance. It flooded through her, leaving nothing unlit or hidden. She had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, yet so safe.

  A voice filled her, music and language in perfect harmony. It contained no words she was capable of uttering. It was beyond anything she had ever experienced, just knowledge and certainty.

  She never wanted to stop listening.

  Then laughter at this thought, so bright and full of happiness.

  The best she could interpret of what was told to her paled to do it justice. It boiled down to: Monk sends his love. For some reason, this thought came with an image of a beautiful stallion carved of light.

  Then a command that she could never deny.

  Now wake.

  She opened her eyes, though her lids were heavy and leaden. She blinked at the glare. The light was only the tiniest fraction of what had lit her a moment ago. Still, it stung.

  Faces formed out of that glare.

  Two strangers with shocked expressions.

  And one she knew well.

  Lisa . . .

  Kat tried to speak but couldn’t. She reached an arm up to remove whatever was blocking her throat. Lisa caught her wrist and held it, bringing her palm up to her own cheek.

  Kat felt the hot tears.

  “Welcome back,” Lisa said, her expression trapped between a smile and a sob. “Welcome back from the dead.”

  38

  December 27, 10:06 A.M. CET

  Logroño, Spain

  The next day, on a bright, crisp morning, Gray followed Father Bailey into a dark church. The priest had summoned him to the small city of Logroño, eighty miles southwest of San Sebastián.

  Monk had already left for the States an hour ago after being treated the previous night for the gunshot wound to his shoulder. Kowalski went, too, accompanying him as a nurse. Doctors had wanted to do surgery in San Sebastián, but Monk opted for a patch job so he could catch the next military transport back to D.C., anxious to return to Kat and his girls.

  Gray shared that same restlessness. He only agreed to this detour after hearing that Seichan was doing well, recovering from exposure and hypothermia, with maybe frostbite to two toes. Their child was also miraculously fine after so much trouble. As Seichan had said on the phone: definitely your kid, no paternity test necessary.

  So, Gray had tolerated this summons, though Bailey still refused to say what this was all about, remaining annoyingly cryptic. He only told Gray to join him here at the Church of Santa María de Palacio in Logroño. Gray had read up on the place on his short hop to the city. The church was one of the oldest in the region, founded in the eleventh century. It was a mix of Romanesque and Gothic styles, with a prominent pyramidal tower.

  But Father Bailey had not brought Gray here to admire its architecture.

  He led Gray across a nave, past a cloister, to a small chapel sealed with a door of oak and straps of iron.

  Bailey opened the door and stepped aside. “After you.”

  “I don’t understand,” Gray said, growing exasperated. “Why did you summon me?”

  Bailey’s eyes sparkled with an amusement that still reminded him of his old friend Vigor Verona. “It wasn’t me,” he said and waved Gray inside.

  He stepped through to discover the chapel wasn’t empty.

  Sister Beatrice rose from where she had been kneeling before a row of candles. She nodded solemnly to Gray and motioned him to take her place. Not to be rude—and still somewhat intimidated by the nun—he obeyed. He sank down atop the cushioned kneeler.

  Beyond the candles, a gold box rested atop a marble altar. The object was distinctly Gothic with much filigree. Its precise finery captured and reflected the flames of the candles, making it look as if it were on fire. It was a masterful illusion. He now understood why this chapel had been sealed so stoutly. This box had to be priceless.

  “It’s a reliquary,” Bailey explained. “A chest meant to hold the precious relic of a saint.”

  “It’s beautiful, but why—”

  “The saint revered by this reliquary is Saint Columba.”

  Gray glanced back sharply.

  The patron saint of witches.

  Sister Beatrice stepped forward, lifting her hand from the silver handle of her ebony cane. Gray remembered her felling the traitorous Zabala with that stout stick. Her swift action had saved not only Monk but likely the world.

  She held out her hand.

  A symbol had been pressed into the palm’s center. He glanced over to her cane, guessing its silver head had left that distinct impression on her skin.

  From a pocket, she pulled out an old key and placed it atop the mark on her palm; the two were a perfect match.

  A key . . . ?

  Then Gray stiffened as he understood. “Sister Beatrice . . . you’re a member of La Clave.”

  The Key.

  Beatrice bowed her head in acknowledgment, though she gave Bailey a slight roll of her eye, as if to say, Christ, this kid is slow.

  Gray frowned at the priest. “She’s been your contact all along?”

  He shrugged, his eyes still sparkling.

  Beatrice held the key out to him, plainly wanting him to take it. So he did, and to prove he wasn’t that slow, he rose and fit its end into the reliquary on the marble altar. He twisted and unlocked the box.

  Bailey spoke. “Before you open the reliquary, I should tell you about the object inside. It’s a holy relic secured by a member of the Spanish Inquisition
, Alonso de Salazar Frías, in 1611. It was given to him by a priest who was burned at the stake for possessing a nóminas de moro, an amulet with the name of a saint written on it. Such relics are said to have magical properties.”

  “In other words, the priest was practicing witchcraft.”

  “Inquisitor Frías tried to save the priest’s life, along with many others falsely accused of such crimes, so much so that he earned the nickname ‘the Witches’ Advocate.’ It was his work and arguments that eventually swayed the Inquisition to stop its persecutions.”

  “And this amulet was given to him for safekeeping?” Gray said. “If you’re telling me this story, I’m guessing the amulet is inside this box. And the name of the saint written on it?”

  “Sanctus Maleficarum,” Bailey said with a nod. “The Saint of Witches.”

  Gray glanced to Beatrice “And La Clave?”

  Bailey answered, “Founded by Frías to protect this amulet and to forever fight the Crucibulum.”

  Gray tried to imagine that centuries-long secret war.

  Beatrice leaned closer and whispered to the priest. Gray only heard the word profecía.

  “Ah, yes.” Bailey straightened. “The Crucible sought this amulet because of a prophecy tied to it. It is said that Saint Columba predicted a time when another young witch would rise and crack the Crucible, ending their dark reign.”

  The priest glanced significantly at Gray.

  He understood the implication. “You think that witch is Mara,” he said, failing to hide his disbelief. “A disciple of Bruxas.”

  Bailey shrugged, still showing that glint of amusement. “Back to the amulet. The priest who possessed it said the object was discovered at the source of the Orabidea River, a spring-fed stream that flows out of a cave known today as Cuevas de las Brujas.”

  “The Cave of Witches.”

  “And the source of the river—because of that cave’s reputation—is said to flow out of hell itself.”

  “And the amulet was discovered there? At this Hell’s Gate?”

  Bailey nodded. “Now, before you open the reliquary, we must ask you to swear on your soul that you’ll never share the Key’s secret, not about the organization and not about what you are about to discover here.”