The Lamb and the Gray Battle

September 17, 1990

Mary continued her story to Knox, who was helpless to her voice. She knelt down twice a day under her grandmother's tutelage, said her rosary, learned all the saints, who she should call upon when her heart hurt. An evil voice cried out that Ren failed her. Mary slumped in the chair, her head against her fist. The claws cut into her hand, but she ignored the blood. Eventually, this child Mary returned completely to her human form, but she no longer looked like the little girl she'd been at the Fortress.

This adolescent creature clutched the body of Christ hanging from her neck, but when she and Gran would stop and rest for the night, Mary cried out to Ren, "You promised."

Mary didn't dare cry too loud or Gran would beat her.

Knox had a flash of Madame Long.

The hot summer dragged Knox under, into the dream, of Gran stewing clover. They were in Ireland, so Gran could use her fame and position in the Mhor clan to get a stein of ale. Mary's hair could be as wild and obscene as it wanted to be. No one cared about a little demon blood. Everyone in Ireland had a little, so at first glance, Mary was invisible, just another witch child with her demon slayer grandmother.

But someone always recognized that Mary was an Mhor clan. The dragon blood was strong. The fragrance was manure to the righteous clans. Oh yes, Apollo's blood flowed through her veins, but Old Red's blood perverted it, made her more like a siren than the enchantress her mother had been. It was just a matter of keeping up Mary's guise long enough to rest, maybe get something to eat. The pair were forever hiding from other witch covens and demon slayers. Mary was always hungry.

Knox felt the pangs in his stomach as if he and Mary were one. He reached for the glass of room temperature water on the table, but it did nothing to satisfy him. His head was hazy and his vision was equally fogged.

Mary was as scrawny as Mam had been. As soon as September nipped at their heels, she was cold and she stayed cold until May arrived. Gran growled that it was because she was a Hell creature that she couldn't take the cold.

"If you want to be a righteous creature, you'll shut your whining mouth and move along."

Her clothes were so worn, they fell off of her, her bony shoulder exposed. Her knees were knobs, her legs nothing but tree limbs. Gran stole into churches and begged for any clothes or food that could be spared. Gran was a paragon to the men in the cathedrals. They were always given soup and a fresh set of dresses.

The scent of potato soup was intoxicating. Mary ripped into the bread, fought the tough crust, swallowed every last bit, mopped up the liquid, licked the bowl. Gran would slap her and call her a wild child.

Mary would have stayed in the churches and parishes forever. Mary would have cooked and cleaned and been a happy little servant girl, going to Mass on Sunday, baking for the parishioners. The priests never had much demon blood and were kind to the pair, but someone always came along and ruin the comfy hiding place of the dragon whore.

Knox's head cleared for a moment. He noticed a piece of paper in front of him, his own scrawl filling the page. He had no recollection of a tape recorder, but it was to his left and the red light was lit, the tape scraping as the machine cranked along.