Seven Days of Halloween - Final Chapter

[ssclassof56.livejournal.com]

So November was a busy, crazy month, but I finally managed to work in one last picture and complete the story. I will post the whole thing to AO3 later today.



Napoleon lay on his back, softness beneath him. He was still in the Infirmary. It had been a dream after all.

A hand shook his shoulder. “Would that be John, Paul, George, or Ringo?”

His cheek received a stinging blow. “Neither. Wake up,” snapped a familiar voice.

Napoleon opened his eyes. His frowning partner leaned over him. “Sorry,” Napoleon said, massaging his abused face. “It’s the hair.”

He sat up and immediately regretted it. He felt as if he had been ten rounds in the ring with Sister John. He was soaked to the skin. He licked his lips. Sea water.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I just thought I’d drop in.” Napoleon swung his legs gingerly over the side of the berth. “I figured you could use a deus ex machina.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “More like Icarus. A few more feet and you would have landed on the deck. A poor way to go.”

Napoleon looked around the cramped compartment. A lantern flickered on the table. The engines were silent, the deck steady beneath his feet. “Did we reach Newark?”

“Does that look like Newark?”

Napoleon crossed to the porthole. Beyond the glass, a thick wall of fog glowed with a ghostly gray light. “Well, there’s a lot of delays on the Turnpike, if it does.” Turning back, he saw the silver case atop the dresser and frowned. “That thing is like a bad penny.”

“That thing kept you from going under.”

“George will be happy to hear it. He was waxing eloquent about the new features on the C25 model. Also serves as a flotation device.”

Illya tossed a towel at him. “I have been attempting to call headquarters for two days. I presume Section IV was able to triangulate our position, even if they could not respond.”

“Ah, yes, they were,” Napoleon said, rubbing his hair. “But it only proved useful in a roundabout way.”

“How did you find us, then?”

“With a little help from my friend.”

“A woman, undoubtedly.”

“Not just any woman.” He draped the towel over his head. “A nun.”

“You’re joking.”

“Scout’s honor.” Napoleon held up three fingers. “Pushed me right off a cliff.”

“I see. I will not ask you to explain that idiom, as I am sure I would regret it.”

“No idiom. One minute a pretty novice was leading me to what I hoped was the answer to your disappearance, the next minute, Geronimo.” He swung his hand downward, then twisted his torso with a grimace. “At least I think it was a nun. Whoever it was packed quite a wallop.”

“Well, you are consistent, if nothing else.”

“How about you? Been enjoying your sea cruise?”

“We’ve had a little trouble with a stowaway.”

Before Napoleon could ask him to elaborate, the silver case flew off the dresser, narrowly missing his head. Illya grabbed the lantern as the small table beneath it reared and toppled. The once silent ship creaked and groaned like a submarine exceeding its test depth.

“Vandermeer,” Illya exclaimed. He raced out of the compartment.

Sounds of upheaval came from behind every door in the passage. Only the companionway, shining with warm, tranquil light, offered safe haven. “Illya, this way,” Napoleon called.

“No, Napoleon, that’s just what he wants.”

With reluctance, Napoleon followed him through the door marked Crew’s Mess. The lantern that hung from the overhead swayed crazily, throwing menacing shadows around the compartment. A man sat slumped over a table, his head on an open book.

“Vandermeer, wake up.” Illya pulled the man up by his hair and smacked his face. “Coffee, quickly,” he barked.

Napoleon grabbed a tall thermos, wincing as a phalanx of chairs slammed into his legs. He kicked one away to reach the fallen mug, then filled it with coffee and handed it to Illya.

Vandermeer looked around blearily. Illya thrust the mug into his hands. “Drink.”

The man took several gulps, then shook his head. “Dank je. I am better.” He threw back the rest of the coffee and, leaning heavily over the book, began to read aloud. His voice was quiet but fervent. The lantern overhead steadied. The agonized groaning of metal abated.

“What’s he doing?” Napoleon whispered.

“He’s praying.” Illya took the empty mug from Vandermeer’s hand and held it out to be refilled. Napoleon watched the last drops leave the thermos with the same sinking feeling as he would a canteen in the desert. Illya clapped Vandermeer on the shoulder, then, leaving the mug on the table, went out into the passageway.

“Praying, huh? That’s an unusual tactic for you,” Napoleon said as he joined him.

“I’m a pragmatist. So far, it’s the only thing that’s kept our stowaway at bay.”

Napoleon pointed at the Special holstered under Illya’s arm. “Run out of bullets?”

“Hardly.” In the blink of an eye, Illya had the muzzle pressed to Napoleon’s forehead. He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

Napoleon twisted his lips and pushed the pistol away. “Was that really necessary?”

Illya holstered his weapon. “You usually require a demonstration. Nothing has worked since this fog engulfed us.” He led them through the outer door and leaned against the handrail. The seas beneath the dome of glowing fog were as smooth as glass.

“Dead calm. Dead lake. Dead language.” Napoleon punctuated each phrase with a thump of his hand against the rail. The muffled clangs resonated in the eery silence. “You like patterns, Illya. What does that one tell you?”

“That the fall addled your brains.”

“I think, pal o’mine, that we may finally have bought the farm.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “You, perhaps. You’re the one who was pushed off a cliff. My pulse is as strong as ever.”

Napoleon shot a wrist from his cuff and held two fingers to it. “So’s mine. Well, maybe this is all a Thrush plot, and we’re the guinea pigs for their newest antigravity ray.”

“An ultrasonic traction beam would be more likely.”

“What about the captain and crew? Did you get anything out of them?”

“Not much.”

“Well, let’s get on that. Where are they?”

“Gone.”

“What?”

“They’re gone. Some were the victims of flying equipment. Some jumped overboard out of terror. Our stowaway got the rest.”

“Just who is this stowaway? A mad scientist? A Thrush psychopath?”

“You’ll see soon enough. I doubt Vandermeer can keep it up much longer. There were two of them before you arrived, one praying while the other slept. Janssen went under when we were hauling you into the lifeboat.”

“I’m sorry.” Napoleon kicked one foot against the toerail. “So Vandermeer, you, and I are the only ones left.”

“Not quite. The captain’s daughter is on board. Marit.”

He straightened at Illya’s tone. “Where is she?”

“In the hold.”

“Isn’t that a tad extreme, Captain Bligh?”

“She did it herself. The door’s jammed, and we can’t open it.” Illya ran his hand through his hair. “Napoleon, she claims to be responsible for all this. She says she’s…”

“Well? Out with it. She says she…”

“Raised a ghost. Ridiculous, I know.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Illya.” He straightened his damp tie. “We need to talk to her.”

“How do you propose to do that? Morse Code on the bulkhead? I’ve tried everything to get in, from incendiary tape to a good, old-fashioned crow bar. Nothing has worked.”

Napoleon snapped his fingers. “For the quick, the means of the quick.” He headed back to the compartment.

“I wish you would stop talking in riddles,” Illya muttered behind him.

Napoleon retrieved the case and set it on the table Illya had righted. He found the contents intact. “Illya, do you remember the call you made, probably right as this fog rolled in?”

“Not entirely. I remember requesting Channel D, then I blacked out. Something must have hit me.”

“Something did.” He activated the tape player. “This is the last transmission we received from you.”

Illya’s lips thinned as the growling exhalations resolved into speech. This time the horrible gnarring was a living language. Napoleon recognized various cognates, though he could not understand the words.

“That is not me,” Illya hissed.

“I know. Something was using you to send a message. Do you know the language?

“I think it’s Hungarian.” The hand that stopped the tape trembled. His face was pale.

“What did it say?”

“I could translate only a few words. Blood. Feast. Return.” Illya slammed his fist on the table. “We need to get to Marit.”

“You think she’s in danger?”

“I think she is the danger. When I last saw her, there was blood on her mouth. She said she’d been struck by a flying hairbrush. Now I am not so sure.”

Napoleon grabbed the ornate box. “Let’s go.”

The companionway was dark, its silence unwelcoming. Illya led him below into the bowels of the ship until they reached the bulkhead door of the hold.

Napoleon squatted down and opened the box. “Wait til you see what I brought.”

Illya looked over his shoulder. “Anyone we know?”

“That’s all? Don’t you want to know what it is?”

“It’s a hand of glory. A pub in Cambridge had one.”

“Whatever happened to dart boards and Guinness posters?” He rubbed his knuckles. “Would you, ah, care to do the honors?”

“Squeamish.” Illya knelt beside him. Napoleon watched with a disgusted moue as Illya took up the desiccated hand and placed the candle in its grip. “Light.”

Napoleon fished his lighter from his pocket and lit the taper. “Now what?”

“Don’t you know?”

“It didn’t come with a manual.” Napoleon gestured for him to hold it closer to the door. “Ah, Open Sesame.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “That’s Arabian Nights, you—”

With a prolonged creak, the handwheel slowly turned, and the dogs clanked. The two agents looked at each other. Napoleon pulled the door open a few inches. They heard movement within.

Illya began to sing in hushed tones. “Bayu bayushki bayu ne lozhisya na krayu…”

As the haunting lullaby faded away, they listened for more sounds. All was quiet. Napoleon pulled the door wide and stepped into the hold. Soft light flickered behind a stack of crates.

“A gray wolf will bite you?” he said. “You must be a charming babysitter.”

“Next time I’ll sing Rock-a-bye Baby.”

They followed the light to a small nook. A cluster of guttering candles surrounded a small, iron-bound chest like an alter. Recent cuts in the deck marked a trail to a nearby crate, the stenciled word GALLERY still visible on its splintered side.

A woman in a long, white gown lay on a blanket in front of the chest. Napoleon knelt at her side and gently turned her over. Her teeth and lips were drenched in scarlet. Napoleon pried a gilded chalice from her fingers. He looked inside the cup, and his lips twisted in disgust.

Illya returned from a wider search of the hold, his face ashen. “I found the others,” he said and shook his head.

Napoleon lifted a heavy gold pendant from Marit’s chest. The portrait of a saturnine, mustachioed face leered out from its center, framed by tiny braids of human hair. “Who is this?”

“Our stowaway.”

“His ancestor, maybe. This is a museum piece.”

“No. We saw that man. Each time we gave chase. Each time someone did not return.” He crouched by the chest and lifted a jewel-encrusted dagger, the blade stained with congealed blood. “Their throats are slit.”

“I think we can guess what ‘feast’ and ‘blood’ referred to. Now how do we stop the part about ‘return’?”

He dropped the dagger. “We start by throwing this overboard.”

Napoleon removed the pendant from Marit’s neck and placed it in the chest along with the bloody chalice. Each partner grasped an iron handle and pulled. With the heavy coffer suspended between them, they made the slow climb to the main deck.

They were in sight of the railing and the wall of fog beyond when the ship shuddered and groaned. A light fixture behind them exploded, showering them with shards of glass. A fire extinguisher hurled from its bracket and cannoned into Illya. He slammed against a stanchion. The hand of glory disappeared over the side.

Napoleon staggered as the heavy chest, freed from Illya’s grasp, crashed to the deck. “Vandermeer,” he cried, regaining his footing and turning toward the Mess.

“No time,” Illya gasped. “Get rid of it.”

A cold, foul wind whipped through Napoleon, penetrating down to his bones. He clutched at the pendant beneath his dress shirt.

Illya dropped to his knees. His face contorted. He growled malevolently in a voice not his own. Napoleon did not need to speak Hungarian to know his life was being threatened.

Illya lifted an arm, and the chest scraped across the deck toward him. Napoleon tore at his necktie, and buttons popped from his shirt as he wrenched out an abstract figure of gold and onyx.

“Leave him alone,” Napoleon bellowed as he held out the crucifix.

Illya fell to his side, writhing. His face shone with sweat. “Get out of my head,” he yelled. “I am no man’s puppet.”

Napoleon heaved the chest off the deck. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis,” he grunted, as he lurched toward the railing.

A banshee wail sounded in a horrible descant above the uproar. Something leapt onto his back. Nails raked his face, and teeth sank into his ear. Muscles straining, heart bursting, Napoleon hauled the chest onto the top rail with an agonized yowl and pushed it over.

The thunderous boom of a depth charge drove out all other sound. The ship rocked violently. A burst of water exploded alongside the hull. The force knocked Napoleon and his assailant onto the deck.

Napoleon was uncertain how many minutes had passed until he could move again. He rolled to his side. Marit lay next to him, eyes open and glassy. He reached for her neck and felt for a pulse. She had none. He gently closed her lids.

“Napoleon.”

Illya crawled nearer. They looked up at the dome of glowing fog.

“I’ll admit, I had hoped that would be more effective,” Napoleon said.

Several hours later the exhausting, gruesome work of retrieving bodies was complete. All had been given a sea burial, improvised but earnest. Vandermeer had since collapsed into a berth to sleep.

Illya took a pull from a bottle of jenever. Sitting next to him on the cargo hatch, Napoleon twisted the crucifix on its chain.

“I’ve never seen that before.”

“I’ve never worn it before this. It’s a gift from Aunt Amy.” He smiled fondly. “Ever hopeful but never subtle.”

He took the bottle Illya extended and drank. “Do you think much about your death?”

“I prefer to think about surviving,” Illya replied and grunted dismissively. After a moment he said, “I sometimes think about turning 40. That will be death enough.”

“Sister John believes it’s beneficial to meditate on death.”

“It is one thing to meditate on it. It is quite another to give it a helping hand.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe they knew telling me to jump off a cliff would be a hard sell.” He returned the bottle to Illya.

“Just how do nuns fit into your locating me?”

“It’s kind of a long story.”

Illya swung the jenever in front of them. “We have time.”

“It started with that recording. Back in New York, it didn’t sound like Hungarian.”

“Could the computers not translate it?”

“Our computers aren’t programmed for the language of the dead.”

Illya took a long drink and lay back on the hatch cover. “I wonder why we could understand it here.”

Napoleon felt the artery pulsing incongruently in his wrist and sighed. “That’s because, IK, only the dead can understand the dead.”

“Who told you that?”

“A strange little professor. You’d probably like him. He’s the one who gave me that hand.” Napoleon laughed. “His students must think they’re being lectured by Bela Lugosi. ‘Only the dead can hear the dead.’”

“That accent was even worse than your French.”

Napoleon had stopped listening. He murmured to himself, “The only other place he had heard the language was at the Cliff House.”

He jumped to his feet and shouted, “Sister John.”

“What makes you think they could possibly hear you?”

“Call it a hunch.”

“Even if they could, by your logic, you’d be incomprehensible.”

“Not so. ‘If you die before you die, then you won’t die when you die.’”

“When we get back, you should have Medical give you a scan. Talking like a fortune cookie must be indicative of some sort of head trauma.”

“Sister John!”

As Napoleon’s call faded away, a new sound took its place.

“Hear that?”

“Yes,” Illya said reluctantly. “Perhaps I should have my head scanned as well.”

The faint sound of singing grew louder. “You’re not going to tell me that is the Heavenly Choir, are you?” Illya said.

“No. It’s the Sisters of the Mighty Hand of God.” Napoleon cupped his hands around his mouth. “Sister John!”

A voice cried out above the singing. “Mr. Solo. You must hurry. The fog is lifting.”

He turned to Illya. “Come on.”

“Where?” He raised himself onto one elbow and pointed upwards. “Back the way you came?”

“No. Into a lifeboat. We follow the singing.”

Illya stared up at him, then took another pull from the bottle. “I assume I’ll be rowing.”

“Not alone,” Napoleon chided. “Or do you plan to leave Vandermeer here?”

Illya sighed and rose from the cargo hatch. A sweep of his arm indicated Napoleon should lead the way.

As the tiny boat approached the wall of fog, Illya and Vandermeer hesitated in their strokes.

“Keep going,” Napoleon urged from the prow.

Vandermeer’s lips moved in silent prayer as they entered the thick, glowing vapor. It enshrouded the lifeboat, until each man became a hazy ghost to the others. Even the pull of the oars was muffled to near silence.

The nuns’ singing, rising in volume with every stroke, was the only sign of their progress. The sickly gray light gradually took on a golden hue, as if the sun shone on the other side. The sacred chanting surrounded them, and the fog resonated like a great cathedral. Listening to the ancient Psalm and the transcendent beauty of the Latin, Napoleon was unsure where they would emerge or in what Year of the Lord.

Illya’s clinical tones broke into the reverent aura. “It’s burning off.”

“I know,” Napoleon whispered dampeningly.

Shafts of golden light pierced the fog and reached down to touch each man. The mist dissipated. The oars dipped into shimmering crystal waters of a brilliant lapis blue. A sheer granite cliff rose before them. Four figures, three black, one white, descended the carved steps that zig-zagged from a small boat landing up its height. More black-robed figures lined the edge of the precipice. Their singing carried across the water and reverberated off the surrounding hills.

As Illya tied up the boat, Napoleon reached for the silver case at his feet.

“Was it really necessary to bring that?” Illya asked.

“George expects it back, and I don’t want it deducted from my expenses.”

Illya rolled his eyes as he gave Vandermeer a hand out of the lifeboat. “Yes, I am sure Mr. Waverly will appreciate that effort when he considers the loss of an entire cargo ship.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

“Perhaps he will classify it as an Act of God.”

Napoleon frowned. “No, that was definitely not an act of God. This is,” he said and hopped out onto the landing.