فصل 02

CHAPTER 2

THE SKELETON

Liege, Belgium, 1902

FOUR FIGURES SWEPT ACROSS the cobblestone plaza like wraiths, wrapped in heavy wool cloaks with pointed hoods that obscured their faces. A cold mist hung in the air, along with bitter smoke from coal fires. Of the hundred or so people crisscrossing the plaza, not one was smiling this foul day.

The figures—a man in the lead, followed by a woman, then two much larger men—approached St. Paul’s Cathedral, said to be modeled after Notre Dame. Its spires rose into the endless gray. Life-sized ornate carvings of saints, Popes, and revered patrons, stained by centuries of neglect, occupied recesses in the massive wall, judging all who entered.

The lead figure went to the cathedral’s massive door and raised his right arm, reaching toward the wrought-iron ring. The cloth of his robe slid down, revealing something barely recognizable as a hand—a mass of scar tissue, shaped like the gnarled root of a long-dead tree.

The woman reached out, restraining the leader’s arm.

“Not here,” she said.

The leader jerked his arm away.

“Do not touch me!” he spat, his heavily accented voice a dry rasp.

“But…”

“No!” said the leader. “You must never touch me!”

“I’m sorry,” said the woman. “But we don’t go in here.”

“Is this not the cathedral?”

“The old cathedral was torn down a century before this one was built. It is the museum we want, around back. That’s where we’ll find the curator.”

“And he will know where it is?” rasped the leader.

“He knows as much as anyone.”

The leader turned toward the woman. She fought the impulse to look away from his face, which was as hideously scarred as his hand, the shiny purplish skin drawn tight to the skull, hairless except for a few random tufts. A lone yellow eye glared from a deep socket; where the other eye would have been was only a hole. There was no nose; the mouth was a lipless cavern that could not fully close and thus revealed jagged teeth in a permanent mirthless grin.

He was called the Skeleton. It was said he had once been handsome.

“Take me to him,” he rasped.

The woman led the three around the cathedral. The museum entrance was a modest door at the back, with a sign displaying its hours. At the moment it was closed.

“I was afraid of this,” said the woman. “We’re quite late in the day.”

The Skeleton’s clawlike hand reappeared. He grasped the brass door-knocker and rapped it hard once, twice, thrice.

The door creaked as it opened. An elderly woman looked out, her eyes peering into the Skeleton’s hood. Seeing his face, she screamed and tried to close the door. But one of the large men had anticipated this; his hand was already on the door, pushing it open. The woman, still screaming, backed away.

The four figures, led by the Skeleton, moved quickly inside and closed the door. The elderly woman, seeing that her screams were useless, retreated into the cluttered museum.

From a back room, a frail voice called out to her, speaking in the Walloon dialect used in this part of Belgium. The curator appeared. He looked as old as time itself—hair as white as salt, and skin so wrinkled that he seemed to be wearing someone else’s body. His eyes, though, were an alert and piercing blue. The man glanced at his colleague, then studied all four hooded intruders. He showed no sign of fear.

“May I help you?” he said in accented English. “We’ve just closed for the night.”

The Skeleton turned to his companion.

“Tell him,” he rasped.

The female intruder stepped forward and pulled off her hood. She shook her hair, which fell past her shoulders in a glossy red cascade. Her jade green eyes sparkled in the candlelight.

“My name,” she said, “is Scarlet Johns. My employer”—she bowed toward the Skeleton—“has come a great distance in search of something. I believe you know where it is.”

“And what might that be?” said the old man.

“The tip of Curtana.”

The old man blinked, which was apparently as close as he came to showing surprise.

“And why do you think I might know where it is?” he said. “I am just a curator.”

Johns smiled. “You are a direct descendant of Gerard of Groesbeeck,” she said.

The old man blinked again. “I am impressed,” he said.

“You’ve spent a lifetime searching for the tip,” Johns continued. “As did your father before you.”

“And his before him,” said the old man. “And so on, back a thousand years to the day the sword was broken. In all that time, nobody has found the tip of Curtana. What makes you think I would know where it is?”

“If anyone does,” said Johns, “it is you.”

The curator studied her. His eyes flicked over the other three figures, lingering for a moment on the Skeleton, then back to Johns.

“And if I did know something,” he said, “why would I tell you?”

The Skeleton stepped forward. “Because I want you to,” he said.

For a moment the room was silent. Then the curator, his ice blue eyes on the Skeleton, said, “I don’t care who you are. I will not betray my ancestors. Do what you want; you will get nothing from me.”

Because of the severe damage to his face, the Skeleton was not physically capable of showing pleasure. But he was pleased with the curator’s answer.

“You are a brave man,” he said. With a swift motion he pulled back his hood, revealing his grotesque skull. The old woman whimpered. The curator struggled not to flinch as the Skeleton moved closer.

“But in my experience,” said the Skeleton, “bravery is no match for properly applied pain.” He leaned close, his lone yellow eye burning in his monstrous face. “And nobody,” he rasped, “has more experience with pain than I do.”