Pryor, Mark - Hugo Marston 02 - The Crypt Thief by Pryor Mark

Author:Pryor, Mark [Pryor, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9781616147853
Google: Ss-9NAEACAAJ
Amazon: 1616147857
Publisher: Seventh Street Books
Published: 2013-05-07T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-three

The Scarab raged.

Fists clenched, he stalked the inside of his small apartment, shins banging into furniture as he muttered under his breath. He pressed his fists to his forehead as he moved, anguish slipping its claws through his skull and into his brain. That anguish was starting to take shape, too, dark shadows melting in from the walls of his mind to take the form of the silhouette of a man, a man tall and broad-shouldered.

He was sure it was the same man he’d seen at Père Lachaise, it must have been: not only was he the same size, but moved the same way. And he had almost ended things, cut off the only line he had left from this world to the next, to the woman on the other side.

Nothing, nothing, could be worse than that.

But he’d made it out. He had fought the man off and escaped with enough of the beautiful, lovely, wonderful La Goulue.

He concentrated his thoughts on the woman wrapped carefully in gauze and felt the anguish subside, taken over by a growing wash of pride that swept over him. Despite all the work, all the danger, he was getting close and after tonight, after a few hours in his sanctuary with Jane Avril and La Goulue, he would be so much closer still.

Three deep thumps came from the floor above, the old bitch with the broom handle. He must have been crying out again. She didn’t like it when he did that.

She wouldn’t have to put up with it for long.

He showered, washing himself slowly and carefully, still fascinated by the muscular body that was his, pleased by the lines of strength across his stomach, the steel of his thighs, self-indulgence made possible by the steam from the water that distorted perception and hid the shortness that tempered his pride, and that blurred the mirror across from him, obscuring the brutal face that was all anyone else ever saw of him.

When he had dressed, he walked to the door of his sanctuary, paused as he always did, and entered slowly, switching on the red bulb that hung from the middle of the ceiling. Its light was perfect for his task, sunrise and sunset, muted energy, turning the corners of the room into shadows and putting all the light’s focus on what lay below it.

He worked for two hours in his sanctuary, unwrapping La Goulue with a tenderness he felt sure she’d never enjoyed while alive, placing her piece by piece in the casket, her light and brittle bones barely creasing the silk that lined the box. Every touch was electric, he could feel the life flowing into the box as each bone took its rightful place, like branches added to a bonfire—except he was reversing the process, turning bones into life, not sticks into ashes.

When he was done, when she was done, he stayed on his knees just staring. She was there, the women that had once been La Goulue and Jane Avril, together as only he could make them, and almost as together as they would ever be.

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