The Tower of the Forgotten (4 page)

He
leaned against the bars. "Since you seem eager to
prove your obedience, I shall ask you to not pester the men who will come for
you soon to move you to the new location. I trust that you can do that for me?
In honor of your beloved Hester?"

"I
would be a great deal happier if I knew what this was all about. You want to
use me as a pawn, but I don’t even know the game."

He
laughed, and it had a mean edge to it. "Of course not, you
stupid child. I am Regalii, of the blood of kings of our kind, the ones that
claim submission from the kings of mankind. And what’s more, I am Primacy, one of the seven great Nephilim
blessed to stand in the presence of God and given the charge of all Nephilim
below me—both those who serve the order of the
Grigori and those who do not. It is not for me to explain anything to you, not
my actions nor my motivations. You must trust in me, I have your best interests
at heart." He touched his fingertips to the lapel
of his coat.

"You’ve said as much already, and yet here I still sit. I must be
of better use to you outside of this forsaken little freak show."

He
smiled with an oily grace. "Oh, Portia, you chafe at
this role, but, darling, you were born for naught but this. This is exactly
where you need to be. And, oh, what a role you shall play. In the age that is
coming, you will be hailed as the mother of a new breed. There will be nothing
on this earth that will not be touched by your essence. And I tremble with the
thought of how beautiful it is all going to be."
He reverently kissed his palm and blew it toward her.

Portia
let it flow past her like an errant breeze. She sat, impassive, staring hard at
him as the sun rose, casting soft shadows across the tent. Unmoved, he bowed
and left her alone with her frustrated fury.

There
was no use waiting. Alaric was neck-deep in this scheme and had been for years,
longer than she had even been alive. She had to get to Captain Cadmus and…then, what? Was he alone in his machinations or had the
entire Primacy been corrupted with his twisted ambitions?

Portia
began to wonder if perhaps she had been the object of secret scrutiny for a
long while. After all, Analise had sent Imogen into Penemue for the sole
purpose of befriending her and keeping watch on her. Perhaps it was because
Imogen had failed in her purpose that she had died. Perhaps Alaric had been
pulling a thousand invisible strings the entire time. The thought chilled her
and turned her stomach.

Imogen
.

Portia did not doubt her, could not doubt
her. Somewhere in the echoes of their souls, twined so close together, she felt
a strength of affirmation rise. And she hoped it was truth.

* * * *

The
difference between the shoddy, ill-constructed tent and the pavilion was the
use of scrap wood and plaster instead of faded burlap and sailcloth. The
roustabouts had the gaudy pavilion up and functioning within days. And it
showed.

When
they came for her, Portia went quietly. She submitted to her captivity and
cooperated as the roustabouts moved her to a cart bound for the rocky seashore.
As if disappointed that she did not put up more of a fight, one of the men
struck her across the backs of her thighs with his whip.

She
spun to face him, snatching the lash from his hands roughly. The other men
tensed and stepped away from the furious glow that surrounded her. Portia
cracked the man across the torso, rending his shirt and bringing up an
immediate and bloody bruise across his chest. She then snapped the braided
leather into several pieces and dropped them onto the dusty road. She stared
hard at the man until he looked away, and only then did she deign to step into
the cart.

They
gave her a wide berth as two of the men climbed onto the driving bench and the
remaining two hung onto the sides, swaying as the draft horses pulled forward
and sent the cart rolling down the rutted road.

Portia
ignored them and watched the tower as they approached. It shimmered in the
morning light like a sacred promise, but Portia knew it was a threat.

"Some
things forgotten are best left unremembered," she murmured beneath
the rattle and creak of the old cart.

They
jounced over the hastily-laid paving stones that formed the promenade that ran
before the pavilion, taking her past the semi-circle of freak show tents and
carts and through the alley formed by the concession and midway stands. Across
the sloping meads, a new circus was being built with stretches of semi-paved
paths between leveled plots. As they groaned to a stop, the two men perched on
the cart’s runners came around the back to help
Portia down and flank her as she walked toward the structure.

The
pavilion looked like a cross between a classical temple and a bordello, with
silk vines climbing gilded pillars and bright murals on the walls depicting
harp-playing angels hovering around the tower while pilgrims flocked below.
Portia tasted bile in her throat and knew her patience could not outlast the
Primacy’s machinations.

The
two men gave her a gentle shove that got her moving again. The pavilion was
alone on the promenade, surrounded by empty planters and cleared spaces for
other buildings. Besides the tower, it was the only structure for a mile in any
direction. There was a peculiar connection between the two that at first she
could not quite figure out. As the roustabouts led her between the pillars into
the covered arcade, she looked back. And then she saw it, a ring of what looked
like small, shining stones that encircled the pavilion and made a straight line
to a large statue in the shape of Nigel’s tower. The stones
wound around the statue in a spiral before unwinding again and leading off
toward the tower itself. The line of stones disappeared beneath the surf, only
to reemerge like a slim necklace around the tower’s
base. The men shoved her from behind, pushing her through one of the three
curved entryways that opened onto an interior viewing area. Three steps led
down into the room, which surrounded a central chamber recessed into the floor
and enclosed in thick glass from top to bottom.

The
small chamber was outfitted with a cot, a table, and a large, dusty pillow on
the floor. It was situated, Portia realized, so that the tower was in easy view
though the arched doorways and between the columns. The view out the other side
of the building, facing north, was of the rocky hills that protected the town
of Capitola-by-the-Sea from the worst of the coastal storms. Those craggy peaks
were bathed in sunlight from overhead, as well as the eerie glow of the tower.
The strange illumination also filtered into the pavilion through a skylight set
into the roof. It looked impressive, but as it moaned in the bracing wind,
Portia doubted the safety of its construction.

The
man who had wielded the whip took out a large knife. He brandished it at Portia
for an instant before bending to stab it between two floorboards and jimmy it
upward. With a fair amount of grunting and cussing, he pulled up a trapdoor and
braced it open before disappearing into the dark passage below. He emerged
inside the central chamber via another small door hidden in the paneling.

"Bring
her in," he gruffed, and the others pushed Portia
through the hole in the floor. It was not a long drop, but it was a painful
landing as she came down onto her shoulder. The man within dragged her toward
him with one grubby hand on her arm and another on her wing, scattering her
feathers in a painful wake behind her. He rolled her into the center of the
room and disappeared through the panel door, but not before delivering a sharp
kick to her hip. The hasp slid into place and was latched with an additional
lock, and so went the closing of the trapdoor, as well.

The
glass muffled the sound of the cart rolling away. Portia did not move a muscle.
Waiting, listening, she could hear them not far off, drinking. They were as
good as miles away. She lifted herself onto the cot and closed her eyes,
breathing a deep sigh.

Her
presence at the seashore did not go unnoticed. Within moments, she sensed
activity at the tower: movements, fluctuations in the hum and glow, and a
general and unshakable feeling of being watched. She sat up and stepped out of
the chamber, slipping between the worlds as easily as falling asleep. The tower
flickered within a shroud of lightning, all the small stones glinting in
unison. It stung as she crossed over them.

She
followed the single line of them across the empty central court that, she
supposed, would soon hold the concessions and midway, until she came upon the
replica of the tower at its center. The ring around it glowed as well, and a
small wisp of shimmering fog mimicked the lightning at the tower. Portia
touched it and felt the faint bass vibrations deep within, like the rhythmic
drawing of breath.

"Do
you know what this is all about?" Aseneth breathed
heavily; she had come a long way from her little shanty.

"Unfortunately,
I do. And I can only advise you to stay as far away from all of this as
possible."

Aseneth
grunted and scratched at the patch of whiskers on her chin. She rummaged in the
small pouch on her belt and pulled out a mottled egg. She bent down and
scratched a circle in the dirt, cracked the egg’s
shell, and dumped its contents onto the ground, then spat. Crouching down, she
looked at the saliva and half-formed chicken embryo. Her eyebrows drew together
sharply. Her joints creaked loudly as she straightened and focused her
mismatched eyes sharply on Portia.

"The
good news: you have help coming, from many places in this world and the next."

"The
bad news?"

Aseneth
sighed and looked back at the mess on the ground. "I’m not sure exactly how
to tell you, but it says you aren’t going to live through
this."

Portia
laughed. "Is that all? I haven’t lived through the last couple of adventures I’ve been on."

"Well,
then, this should be nothing new."

Something
pricked Portia’s awareness from the
site of the old circus. By Portia’s reckoning, it was
early evening. She could see her real-world shadow cast long from her feet,
crossing the circle of entrails. The glow that rose up from the road shimmered
with aching familiarity, and Portia forgot all about the fortune-teller as she
ran toward it, stepping through the veil to the living world.

A
tempest raged behind Portia’s breastbone, but she
dared not believe, not yet. The young woman was hardly more than a silhouette,
a tall, corseted figure with a charming hat perched on a coif of bright red
hair. She wore pale blue in ruffled swags around her waist and striped
stockings down her legs with an emerald green corset and miniature top hat.
Portia would never have trusted her own eyes had she not recognized the
delicate aura that was Imogen’s alone. The rush of
power through her sternum was dizzying, and she could see it reverberating in
Imogen’s face. Her multi-layered irises
surrounded pupils gone wide with desire.

Caught
between the light of the tower and the glow coming off of Portia’s flesh, Imogen looked like a ghost, still.

"My
love," Portia whispered. "How?"

"I
ran away to join the circus." She put her hands on
her waist and twirled, shaking her hips playfully. "Do you like it?"

 "You did this for me?"

"Captain
Cadmus is as tired of waiting as you are. And worried the Primacy isn’t as concerned as they ought to be. The Captain and I
devised our own plan after we saw the advert that Circus Avernus put in the
papers. I am a little worried about what they are doing here. There is much we
need to discuss."

Portia
nodded. "And the costume?" She raised a pale eyebrow.

Her
beloved laughed. "Call it a perk. Besides, I knew you’d love it!"

Sighing, Portia had to nod. "I cannot tell
a lie. You look…
fantastic
." She hesitated to touch her, fearing that it
would wake her from this dream.

"You must be able to see that it is me,
truly me. No tricks, no illusions."

"I don’t dare trust my senses."

"Then
I suppose you must trust me, then." Imogen entwined her
fingers with Portia’s and lifted them to her
mouth, favoring each knuckle with a petal-soft kiss.

"I
thought you came here to talk."

Imogen paused and bit back a laugh. "You
want to
talk
, my dear?"

"Well, I…I mean, it is important."

"Not
more than this. We’ll have plenty of time
for talking later. I know I have been waiting far too long for us both to have
bodies in the same place at the same time. Haven’t
you?"

Tongue-tied,
Portia could only nod.

Turning
back toward the pavilion, she noticed Aseneth had removed herself. Dusk had
fallen, setting the sky above the sea afire and creating a halo around the
tower. But as lovely as the view was, they only had eyes for one another,
nearly stumbling in their haste to get inside.

"How
will we get in?" Imogen glanced around
the pavilion, looking for the passage into the glass chamber.

Portia
took Imogen’s hand with a sly grin. "There’s a trapdoor, but we won’t be needing it."

It
was easy to envelop Imogen with her wings and bring her along as Portia
sidestepped reality and walked between the worlds. Imogen shivered as they
walked through the glass and into the center of the pavilion.

The
cot was narrow and cramped, but long ago, Portia and Imogen had learned to be
creative in their forays, fearing Lady Hester’s
punishments if they were caught. When inevitably they were discovered, their
headmistress had been understanding and had urged them only to not let their
love affair interfere with their duties. It had been years since the night they
had gone out together on that call. Portia had borne the guilt of her beloved’s death every moment of every hour since then. Now, she held
Imogen in her arms as if death had never touched her. Portia’s body pulsed with light; her hair crackled with energy, and
it slowly filled Imogen, making her kaleidoscope eyes glimmer.