Kat, on the other hand, was just pressed against Marco, a dreamy look in her eyes, as if she could not bear not to touch him—and it didn’t even matter if Luciano enacted a black mass, so long as she didn’t stop holding his hand. If Petro Dorma had noticed, he hadn’t commented.
Luciano had the corpse hedged about with diagrams; the man was inside a pentacle, which was inside a pentagon, which was inside a circle, inside a circle, inside a circle, all drawn with blessed salt and water and traced with a dagger made of black glass.
They all . . . glowed. Could anyone but Marco and Luciano see that? Rafael, probably—if Kat did, it didn’t matter to her—and from Petro Dorma’s slightly puzzled, slightly skeptical expression, he saw nothing. This wasn’t the pure white light that Marco was used to in working with Brother Mascoli; this was a creepy sort of purple.
But—oddly enough—before Luciano had stepped out of the pentagram and pentagon and had invoked whatever spirits he’d called that made the lines spring into life, he’d placed a crucifix very firmly around what was left of Aleri’s neck.
“Marco, the powers he’s calling up—” Rafael was still murmuring in Marco’s ear. “You’ve got to be careful with them. You know? They’re not just called on for good things—”
Marco’s skin shivered and it felt as if a cold, dead finger was running down his spine. Oh, he knew. Luciano was just muttering his incantations, but—Charun, Vanth, Carmina—oh, he knew all right. These were the Dread Lords and Ladies of the Night, of the Dead, and not the sort of Powers you called on for a blessing or a healing. . . .
The corpse began to glow. Luciano’s face looked as gray as the corpse’s in the strange light—and was the purple witch-light growing stronger, or the room light weaker?
The latter.
As Marco glanced surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye, he watched the candle flame nearest him sinking. It wasn’t guttering, it was sinking, diminishing, exactly as if someone had upturned a jar over it. It didn’t go out, but in a few moments, it was giving off no more light than a mere coal.
No one commented; not Dorma, not Rafael, not Kat, certainly not Luciano, who was—weaving some sort of complicated knot in the air above the corpse with the point of his knife, which left a trail of sullen red light where it passed. And there was no doubt that Aleri hadn’t said anything about it either. Although, to Marco’s horror, the pentacle-enclosed man—corpse—was stirring. He shouldn’t be. Even if Harrow hadn’t killed him, Marco was a good enough physician already to know that the herbs that Luciano had stuffed down Aleri’s throat should cause death all over again. The hair stood up on Marco’s head; this should not be happening! He’d expected a ghost, or something, not that the dead body should sit up and start to move! This was wrong!
Aleri’s voice was a weak and hollow thing. But the words were clear, even though the jaw hung loose on the face. On what was left of the face. “Who has called me back . . . ? Why am I called back . . . ? The pain . . . the agony . . . oh, Lucrezia . . .”
Luciano straightened, and became something altogether terrible. His face, corpse-gray and marble-still, took on the qualities of a death-mask. “I, Grimas Luciano Marina, servant of Triune Diana, have summoned you. She is the mistress of the earth, the dead and of rebirth. In Her name I command you; in Her name I compel you!”
The corpse made abortive moves, jerky, and uncoordinated. It brushed against the purple lines of the pentagram, and moaned. “I am not hers. Let me go . . .”
“You are Hers, as all things are,” Luciano said sternly. “I abjure and command you. Stay you will, until She or I permit you to depart. Speak the truth and the truth only. You are bound here until you answer the questions set to you.”
The lips of the dead man moved. “I . . . obey,” he whispered. Sobbed.