Not Quite Human

Chapter 24

Nerezza's eyes went to the sack.
It had made a metallic sound when it hit the floor — the specific kind that came from things designed to cut and restrain. She opened it and held each item up in turn. A complete set: knives, runes, iron. Everything needed for a sacrifice, and then some. A thumbscrew. A cat-o'-nine-tails. Several things she'd never encountered before, which was saying something.
"Heading somewhere?" she asked pleasantly. The sweat on his face was already visible. Knowing what was coming was, in her experience, frequently worse than the thing itself.
"It won't help you to know where she is," the man said. His voice had a bravado to it that his face wasn't quite matching. "You're not getting it from me. And even if you did know, there's nothing you could do about it. You might as well kill me now."
Nerezza considered him for a moment.
No brains whatsoever. Did he genuinely think that was how this worked? She set down her knife and selected a heretic's fork from the collection instead — the house was practically a museum of medieval instrumentation, comprehensive enough to be impressive — and secured it between his breastbone and throat, just under the chin, fastening it with a leather strap. She left the smallest possible gap between the tines and his skin. Enough to whisper, if he was very, very careful about it.
She picked up the naval cat and let him look at it.
He could do the mathematics himself. Screaming would drive the fork home. The naval cat would make him scream. She watched him reach the conclusion in real time. The bravado left his face entirely.
He gave them the address in a whisper, keeping his body as still as he could manage. Crossuire — a part of the kingdom that people avoided on instinct, surrounded by old dark rumours, empty of birds and animals and plant life for a mile in every direction. The perfect place to hide. The perfect place for large ritual circles that required open ground and no witnesses.
After that he answered every question put to him, promptly and completely, presumably hoping that cooperation would earn him something. Nerezza didn't disabuse him of this notion. He'd find out soon enough.
She removed the heretic's fork carefully, then looked at the brazen bull standing in the corner of the room. She'd never actually used one before. The original design claimed that the screams of those inside would emerge through a system of tubes in the head, transformed into something resembling the bellowing of a bull. She had always been curious whether that was accurate.
She decided to find out.
The man begged. She didn't like beggars — it was the least interesting version of fear. She shoved him through the door and locked it, then walked calmly around the room collecting anything flammable she could find. Books, mostly. She piled them under the bronze belly, added wood, and lit it.
Damien and Abbadon watched her in silence.
It took almost a minute. Then the sound started — and it was, she noted with satisfaction, remarkably accurate to the historical description.
Damien looked away. He stared at the door, jaw tight, flinching at intervals. The smell of the fire and what it was doing made him nauseous. He didn't stop her. This was Nerezza's version of justice, and it worked — the man had told them everything. And Nerezza didn't accept conditions. She helped on her own terms or she didn't help at all. Given the alternative, having her on their side was something he was grateful for, even now.
The sound stopped eventually.
They left the house.
Neil and Andrew were sitting on the ground outside, Neil drawing absent patterns in the dirt with a stick, boredom etched across his face. He looked up when they emerged, then immediately covered his nose with both hands.
"What in God's name is that smell?"
Damien winced. Nerezza's face arranged itself into the particular smile that sent uninvited chills up Neil's spine at the best of times.
Neil decided, wisely, not to ask again.