I was provided a scant meal of cold chicken and microwaved peas when the witches sat down to their own dinners. I didn't care for the quality but ate regardless, having expected nothing better from a group of renegade witches in the middle of an inhospitable desert. Once I ate, I shoved aside the chipped plate and laid upon the cot, too tired to think but too anxious to sleep. My mind was caught in the middle ground, a terrain of muddled incoherency and exhausted half-thoughts.
I found rest in time, lulled by the rattle of a fan next door and the weight of the room's dark, stuffy heat, but instead of falling into sleep's oblivion, I once more walked the crumbling paths of my mind's endless halls. In those untended passes, I lost myself to the snatches of color and light that proliferated the area behind each threshold.
Much of my life was awful. It was a menagerie of events testifying the very worst of creation's nature, an array of wars, massacres, nights spent hungry and hunted, lies, machinations, and the murders they entailed. I considered those rooms, if only because they were familiar, and because their ability to inspire horror had dulled long ago.
I liked to search those hideous places for spots of redemption. I saw beauty in the evening after a battle, when both the sky and the earth had glowed red like a ruby in sunlight. I saw morality in the eyes of a barghest pup I'd released from captivity after slaughtering his abusive master. I savored the first bite of charred meat I'd swallowed after crawling free of the Baal's Pit.
There were other brighter, precious places within my memory's manor I sought only on the rarest of occasions, unwilling to taint those recollections with my morose affliction. I remembered an aged philosopher in Rome and his raspy voice telling me Mithras could be so much more than a harbinger of war. I remembered Strombar as he sat on the banks of a tranquil river with a fishing rod in hand, waiting for a bite. I remembered Sara's laughter, rare and ephemeral as it had been, like bolts of lightning hitting the sky and disappearing before I knew they were there.
I passed through the corridors and saw snatches of many things and many places, and always I moved on until I crossed one threshold and felt myself being drawn into its intricate folds....
My footfalls sounded through the foyer with the vigor of Sunday church bells. Those who heard the pealing of my stride took notice, peering from beneath the brim of their hats or from behind flared fans. Aos Sí men gathered at the foot of the marble steps turned away, careful to hide their attention, while their women were more brazen.
"Who is that?" one asked her friend, tugging upon her lace sleeve. The friend shushed her, hand going to her coiffed hair.
"Tis' Lord Pride," she whispered. "You shouldn't look at him, Delilah."
I walked on, unmoved by their gossip as my boots sounded with confidence upon the stone floor. The gray cape at my shoulder fluttered, the edge caught beneath the baldric too tightly bound around my crimson doublet.
"Bloody thing," I muttered as I fit my thumb beneath the buckle and tugged. The smell of perspiration and horse reached my nose, the byproducts of an exhausting two weeks spent on horseback at the behest of my host. I'd been forced to escort his retainer from port to port along the southern coast, playing the stoic guard. Ten minutes more with the sniveling man and I would have been obligated to kill him on principle.
I knew the halls of Crow's End well, as if they were my own—though I had never claimed a place in this realm, and doubted I ever would. I moved with speed and didn't hide my nature, knowing all those who sought asylum in this manor had inhuman natures of their own. Those who knew of me maintained a careful, respectful distance, while those who didn't know felt the bite of my passage's bitter chill.
I came at last upon a conservatory kept within the manor's many odd and varied levels. Diffused light crept in from the mist-clad windows and shone upon the various trees and untamed bushes sequestered within. A path of white flagstones wove through the wood planters, picking a route that displayed the most colorful of the assorted foliage.
Ignoring the gathered beauty, I found the patio beneath the boughs of a Valian elm tree. Cuxiel was there, stationed upon his favored stool with his easel and canvas angled toward the thin daylight. The sleeves of his tunic were rolled to his elbows, flecks of paint marring his hands and bared wrists, while his black breeches were untidily tucked into the tops of his riding boots.
The brush swayed in his experienced hand, and the liquid motion stopped when the Sin of Sloth's gilded eyes snapped to me.
"Long trip?" he quipped with a slight smirk, resuming his work. "You should have jumped in a river on your way back. I can smell you from here, old friend."
My answer was to strip off my gloves and flex my hands. They were sore from gripping the reins for so long, but a slight whisper of energy was enough to relax the uncomfortable ache. "I did what I had to."
Cuxiel hesitated, the brush hovering an inch from the canvas's face. "I noticed you've taken to not carrying your sword about."
"What of it?"
"I thought you enjoyed swordplay."
I did, but swords were not popular in "proper" society—the rings of aristocratic hell in which I had to survive. What I enjoyed didn't matter, only the role I had to play. "It does not concern you."
Mumbling under his breath, Cuxiel returned to his painting. I should have ascended to my rooms, but I remained for a time, taking a seat on a planter, content to relax in the quiet of the conservatory, breathing in the sweet, mist-filled air as I listened to the quiet chatter of birds loose in the rafters. I had but maybe a day or so to relax before a letter would come, yet again summoning the Sin of Pride to wreak ruin upon the countryside.
I realized Cuxiel was humming, the music of his voice interwoven with the gentle scratching of his brush stroking the palette. He had a coy smile at his lips, one that didn't dissipate even as I glared.
"What is wrong with you?" I demanded as I leaned my back against the elm's gnarled trunk, feeling the thick roots press against my thighs and backside. "Why are you...pleased?"
The word left my lips as if it were a filthy slur, and Cuxiel laughed, his amusement resounding in the enclosed space. "Darius, you can be such a fool. It's a woman."
"A woman?"
"Yes." He sighed as he rubbed his jawline with paint-splattered fingers, considering his work. "A mortal woman, named Kyra. I'm...quite taken with her. She can be rather spirited. I enjoy her company."
The disgust in my voice was blatant. "How the mighty have fallen. A mortal, Cuxiel? Really?"
"Mock me if you must. We each find purpose in our own ways, be it in the chase of actualization or the comfort of a mortal girl, and we shouldn't be ashamed of it." Cuxiel shrugged, unruffled by my accusatory words. "What is your purpose, Darius?"
My shoulders tightened, the muscles of my jaw twitching with unfocused strength. Purpose? Utter nonsense. "I am a Sin," I answered, annunciating each syllable with care, lest my frustration show. "I have no purpose but for the execution of my host's will."
"Rubbish." Cuxiel shifted, dropping from the stool. "You need a bloody hobby, Darius. If you've given up the blade, then try your hand at other occupations. Find something with which you identify, some skill you feel gives your person definition. Come—have a go at painting." He swiveled the brush in his hand so the end was held out to me. "Up you come, my friend."
"Don't be ridiculous." I crossed my arms, wincing at the baldric's hold.
"I am not the one being ridiculous."
Our impasse continued for some minutes before I indeed began to feel ridiculous. I knew he would not relent on this issue, so I rose, soothing the front of my doublet as I strode across the space separating us and snatched the brush from the Sin.
Cuxiel suppressed a smile as he tugged on my arm, pulling me before the easel.
The piece he was working on was beautiful. It featured a murder of crows taking flight from the half-bare branches of an autumn tree, their motion captured in a flurry of glossy black feathers and curled leaves. The main subjects had been completed, but the miscellaneous background elements and part of the earth were yet untouched.
"Go on."
Cuxiel urged me forth and I hesitated, uncertain. "I will ruin it."
"So? It's just paint, Darius."
It may have just been paint to him, an afternoon project meant to pass the drudgery of time, but it was beautiful in my eyes. I yearned to create such beauty, but I spent my days destroying such things, killing and breaking people, burning their homes, watching as art and its effort turned to smoke. I was used to painting the sky black.
Footsteps brought my attention from the canvas and I jerked back, the brush slipping from my poised fingers to the flagstones below. A woman had appeared from the overgrown path, the chestnut curls of her hair peppered with the white blossoms of a dogwood tree. She was a pretty thing, but rather severe looking, her bones and drawn flesh belying the richness of her new gown. The room's essence stirred, riled by a sudden spike in Cuxiel's mood. I peered sidelong at the fool and knew this must be his mortal.
"My apologies," she said, tipping into a brief, reluctant curtsy. "I didn't realize—."
"Don't mind him," Cuxiel crooned, extending his hand toward the woman with a measure of unnecessary flair. "You are as lovely as ever and very much welcome."
The woman's lips flattened as she came nearer, heels clicking on the stones, and I was under the impression she would have refuted Cuxiel had I not been standing there. She laid a gloved hand in his and Sloth's fingers gently wrapped about hers.
"Kyra, I'd like you to meet my associate." He drew short, mirth in his golden eyes as he looked me over. "I've quite forgotten your name, though. What do they call you now?"
A cold feeling gripped my chest as the woman's violet eyes met my gaze and Cuxiel's arm encircled her waist. I'd seen the man with other women in ages passed, when familiarity was a social norm and not the marker of a pariah—but I'd never seen him like this. Cuxiel wasn't just smitten. His attention was stolen by her every breath, every movement, every quirk of her strange, sharp eyes. From one moment to the next, he became an entirely different person. It was plain he loved this mortal girl.
My lip curled. "Pride," I sneered, unable to look upon such a travesty for another second. I swept from the room.
In my wake, I heard Cuxiel guffaw, whispering, "I told you not to mind him, my dear."
Later, when the sun had retreated from its heavenly climes to the reaches beyond, I walked the gardens, savoring the seasonal chill, and listened to the sounds of the Aos Sí in the distance as they discarded their noble personas and returned to their wild beginnings, their voices raised in laughter and song, their children shrieking with joy as they darted through the maze hedges. There was to be a bonfire tonight.
I passed Cuxiel and his mortal, both too entwined in their own world to notice my presence. They shared quiet words between each other, the soft murmuring of lovers not meant for the ears of others, and I knew Cuxiel to be content—perhaps even happy. He held her fair hand and didn't let go.
It was peculiar how one could live for so long and yet find meaning in the tiniest of actions.
I walked until I could no longer hear them and the garden's torches dwindled to nothing. I strode through the dark, finally coming to a bench in the eaves of a crooked willow, and there I sat, alone. I lay back upon the stone seat, arms behind my head, and stared upward at what few stars were visible through the wispy branches and unfurled clouds.
In the night's shadow, beyond the eyes of those who would judge my choices, I could admit that I desired such a thing. I held no fondness for mortals, and yet...and yet I was jealous of Cuxiel's affection, because I couldn't feel the same. I was alone, bitter, without purpose or reason. I did not bring beauty into this world. Only death.
Tomorrow, I would be summoned once more. Tomorrow, Pride would march again and kill under the word of a human man he despised. Tomorrow, Pride would give this world more despair.
Tonight, in the invisible dark, Pride didn't have to exist. I could pretend I was only Darius, and that I belonged here, sheltered by the trees and trimmed hedges, feeling the breeze and cool fog, listening to a joyful celebration sparking beyond my line of sight. I could pretend to be relevant, and to hope I—too—would find purpose in my future.
Music sounded. The Aos Sí sang and their drums beat in hurried rhythm. I listened to the percussions, felt the vibration in my bones, and as I drifted off to sleep, it seemed as if the sound were growing louder, moving closer....
Saule sneezed on the dust and smothered the noise in her cupped hand.
The La Voisin basement was filthy, untouched by broom or cleaning rag for quite some time. The Baba Yaga witch sat at a wobbly table, her legs tucked under the chair beneath her as she scanned the aged grimoire. A single candle remained lit at her side, the flame dancing on the bent wick.
Saule had no business being in the basement among the La Voisin books. She'd waited long into the night, waiting for the militant witches to doze, before coming here. Covens didn't share grimoires. The old tomes were hoarded, hidden, and treasured by their witches, the spells inside known only to the coven of their origin. The La Voisin girls would probably strap her to a pyre if they knew Saule was in their hidden archive, reading their works.
Saule turned a page, scanning the script worked into the illustration there as she chewed her bottom lip. She considered the fact that witches were so stingy with information to be a contributing factor to their current dilemma with the mages. Sure, they traded messages on their secure servers, chatted about standard deviations of potions and enchantments—but when it came down to the useful, genre-defining stuff, oh no. No, those spells were coven-clad secrets outsiders weren't supposed to know.
By her feet, Bram growled—and Saule jumped, her breath coming out in a panicked whine as she peered around her. The shadows lay thick upon the windowless room, seeming to reach from their recesses for her candle as if trying to put it out. Saule bent nearer the book she'd found as she muttered half-hearted prayers.
She didn't know what she was searching for, only that she was searching for something, something the witch could use in her quest. Mistress Voronin was far away and Saule was beginning to realize the magnitude of the task she'd undertaken. Saule was just a priestess—a good one, but still just a coven-born priestess who knew how to mix some mana pots and work a few talismans. That was it.
Mistress Voronin had been taken by mages. Blue Fire Syndicate mages. Those flash-bangs weren't going to be cowed by pretty colored pots or well-written talismans. If Saule wanted to have a shot at rescuing the Baba Yaga Mistress, she was going to need something bigger, something dangerous.
Something like the spell she'd used to melt that mage back at the Inkwell.
Saule shivered and tucked her shoulders in. The desert was cool in the evening, meaning the basement was downright drafty without any of the lights or heater on. She concentrated on the grimoire, on the messy sprawl of the Esoterica written by a long-dead witch—who Saule was certain had been a bit of a lush, because Saule couldn't make heads or tails of much of the book.
"Tqekugh-zisk, Ay cus ruor krusk krixkrsk uhquk shuk ruor—," she mumbled, tracing the curving line with her fingers until it petered out in a wet blemish. "Cold spirit, I fill you with warmth and so bid you—. What type of confusing snot is this?"
Saule turned another page, and was confronted with an image she had only seen maybe once or twice in her entire life. It was a femur poised between a triangle and an inverted triangle with a dash and a line inside of it—the alchemical symbols of fire and blood.
"Fire, bone, and blood...oh Hecate...."
The image and the slogan it represented were the calling cards of a necromancer. Witches didn't have "black" witches like mages had "black" mages, mostly because witch magic was inherently more flexible and more diverse. What they did have were called necromancers, bone witches, who were blood witches who dabbled in dead magic.
Dead magic didn't call on spirits as its wording would often suggest. True spirits were beyond the reach of the living, gone beyond the void and the wall it built between this realm and the next. What bone witches did was pull upon the void and use its stillness as the catalyst for greater motion in blood spells.
Nasty stuff. It could go real wrong, real fast, as the void was unpredictable and it sometimes lashed out at the necromancers who toyed with it.
Saule swallowed as her hands began to shake, fingertips chasing each other over the yellow pages—apprehending that the splotchy stains on the book's corners were dried blood. This was a necromancer's grimoire. How in the hell had it fallen into the hands of coven witches? Extreme as the La Voisin women may be, they were still coven-clad earth sisters. They wouldn't practice this.
Saule knew she should drop the tome and leave that place. She shouldn't look at it. She was just a simple healer from a big city who'd been sheltered and coddled all her life as her coven's line holder. She was Baba Yaga's descendant, and that meant she was the heart of the coven, the tangible bit of the Old Sister who'd fought the mages and the faeries and even the Sins in the ancient wars.
The heart of a coven wasn't a bone witch. She ignored necromancy like a good girl, just like she ignored all the taboo arts not spoken by coven girls. This was the work of a wild woman, an outlier, a covenless cur.
The Baba Yaga witch took in a shaking breath that almost put out her candle and closed the grimoire—but she didn't let go. In fact, she held on tighter.
A dull throb seemed to rise from the earth and rumble under the floor. At first, Saule feared the sound was footsteps on the stairs, so she hopped from her seat and snuffed the candle, clasping the grimoire to her chest—but it wasn't footsteps. The throb expanded, and the shaking began. Each beat came like the pulse of a heart, coming quicker and quicker as the heart started to race.
Saule heard shouts, the crash of glass.
Are those...explosions?!