The Left-Hand Path: Disciple

by T. S. Barnett

  Thomas let out a quiet sigh. “After Claire...died, and I had to come to terms with the deal I’d made for nothing, and with what I’d done to her, I—tried to kill myself. Get it over with. But the rope broke, and I didn’t know Claire’s aunt was coming to check on me. She found me and called an ambulance.”

  Cora wanted to reach out for him, but he seemed to be purposely distant from her, so she resisted. “Sounds like you were lucky,” she said softly.

  “That’s too much luck,” he said. “One of those things I might have brushed off, but both?” He shook his head. “I realized that the demon wanted its thirty years out of me. It probably didn’t want me to be able to claim it hadn’t held up its end of the deal.”

  “Well, I’m glad for it, at least,” she offered, and he faintly smiled.

  “I am too. Recently more than before.”

  Cora bit her bottom lip in a smile. “I’m...gonna go shower. Then we can have a real dinner before you have to go back to your blood beans again.” She hesitated at the bedroom door, reluctant to take the step across the threshold and return to their reality, but she just spared Thomas one more glance over her shoulder and entered the hallway with warmth in her cheeks.

  ***

  Elton insisted that they get helmets after the first day riding, no matter how Nathan insisted he would be able to prevent them from having their heads erased on the asphalt in the event of an accident. He didn’t say out loud how likely an accident seemed with him attempting to drive—which lasted only an hour or so before Elton admitted his lack of skill and returned to the back of the bike.

  They made good time, and Elton enjoyed seeing the landscape gradually turn green again as they approached the eastern coast. Nathan rarely even stopped if not to eat—Elton suspected he was eager to see Cora again but unwilling to say it. They did speak on the phone on the second night, confirming that they were expected, and by the time they parked the bike in the yard outside the bleak colonial house, Cora had already prepared their rooms and rushed from the front door to squeeze them both in tight, leaping hugs. Thomas lingered near the open door, his greeting significantly more subdued as they entered the house.

  “Just the two of you?” he asked Elton, shutting the door behind them as Nathan and Cora immediately made for the kitchen, already chatting.

  “I didn’t figure you had a place to keep a prisoner,” the blond said. “There’s someone on the list who’s up in Syracuse, so we’ll go get him when it’s time. Do you have a date?”

  “I still need eleven days.”

  Elton frowned at him. “You said two weeks almost a week ago. Did something happen?”

  “I—had some difficulty. A lapse. I had to start my fast over,” he said quickly, seeming in a hurry to exit the conversation. “It won’t be a problem.”

  “A lapse,” Elton echoed. Cora’s panicked call played in his mind, and he narrowed his eyes faintly as he glanced to the kitchen doorway. “What sort of lapse?”

  Thomas followed his gaze and then looked back up at him with a tight frown on his lips.

  “Christ,” Elton sighed. “Don’t even say it. And don’t tell Nathan,” he added, nodding toward the kitchen. “Unless you want the ‘if-you-hurt-her’ threat of your life.”

  “It’s not—”

  “Any of my business,” Elton finished for him. “I’ve been in the way of your life enough.”

  Thomas paused, his brow creasing as though he hadn’t expected that answer. He looked back in the direction of the kitchen and then lowered his eyes. “I still have prep to do,” he said quietly. “I’ll be in the cellar.”

  Elton watched him disappear into the hidden trap door and let himself have one heavy sigh before going to join the others.

  ***

  Nathan was happy to spend a few days exploring Salem with Cora, and Elton was happy for a few days without Nathan no farther than three feet from him at all hours of the day and night, but a cloud hung over them all made up of the knowledge that the people in the camps suffered while they were forced to wait. Another of Thomas’s friends in Ottawa disappeared—Magister Hubbard’s own assistant. Thomas hadn’t said it, but Elton knew he must have felt responsible.

  Anne passed them information as she found it out; she heard whispers of families captured whole by the Magistrate, witches afraid to leave their homes for fear of being charged with crimes and afraid to stay inside for fear of being taken in the night without warning. Her own cousin in New York had been taken, and a few mundane friends had vanished. Even Cora wanted to venture out of the house less and less, afraid of drawing undue attention to anyone in their periphery. How many more families must be living in fear?

  Thomas kept to himself; he ate his evening meal after everyone else to avoid their uncomfortable gazes and spent most of his time in the cellar. He had been receiving packages every few days, the contents of which he did not share with his guests. At the end of the week, Cora helped him prepare his mixture of wine, poppies, and hemp, which he strained into drinkable liquid through the cloth she’d woven for him. She supposed it was handy that it had so many little mistake holes in it, then. He hadn’t let her into his room at all once Nathan and Elton had arrived, but when he carried his narcotic-laced cup upstairs, he even locked the door. It was difficult not to touch him or comfort him when he looked so constantly tired and worn, but she didn’t want to risk ruining his fast with improper thoughts—not to mention having to hear about it from Nathan if he caught on to the new development in their relationship.

  “Do you know what he’s doing in there?” Nathan asked her one day from the kitchen table, watching Cora knead a lump of dark bread dough as he stroked the black cat standing in his lap.

  “He wouldn’t tell me, exactly,” she answered. “Not that I pushed very hard. But I saw in his book some of the things he needs, and...it’s not pretty. A bat drowned in blood, the head of a cat that’s been fed human flesh, a human skull, coffin nails—and I’m pretty sure it said something about using the sacrificial victim’s skin to line the circle. I think I’d rather not know what’s going on under my feet, you know?”

  “He is bloodier than he lets on, isn’t he?”

  “I guess so,” she said softly.

  A bang sounded from the next room, and Thomas passed by them with a grim look on his face, letting himself out the back door without a word. Cora frowned after him through the nearest window, but he crossed the yard and disappeared into the line of trees without looking back.

  “Is he always this friendly?” Nathan asked as Herman reached his little arms up and flexed his claws into his captive’s shoulder, arching his back under Nathan’s scratching fingers.

  “Just about. But not talking a lot is part of his fasting, or preparation, or whatever—so he doesn’t mean anything by it.”

  Nathan seemed skeptical, but he let the subject drop, pursing his lips to make a few soft kissing noises into the top of the cat’s head.

  When Thomas returned a couple of hours later, his pants and hands were filthy and his brow was creased in thought, but he still only walked through the house without stopping, the sound of the heavy cellar door signaling his next disappearance.

  When a few more days had passed, Elton and Nathan took off on their own again and headed upstate on their kidnapping venture. Cora expected it might take some time to track someone down and steal them away for a human sacrifice, but two days after they left, she heard the rumble of the motorcycle’s engine in the yard and looked out the window to see a middle aged man riding in a newly attached torpedo-shaped sidecar, his head lolling backward and his mouth half open but his eyes protected by a set of goggles.

  “You drove him all the way from Syracuse like this?” she asked, taking an overnight bag from Elton so that he could haul their victim from the seat by his armpits.

  “Better than listening to him the whole way,” Nathan pointed out. “Oh, set me free, who are you, what do you want with me, et cetera.”

  “You guy
s are way too relaxed about this.”

  “It’s for a good cause, isn’t it? And anyway, if we hadn’t brought him here, Elton would have stuck him on a pike or somesuch in any case. You should see how creative he is, my love.”

  “Creative?” Cora repeated uncertainly, but Elton was already halfway up the yard with the limp load in his arms.

  Thomas held open the cellar door so that the man could be brought downstairs, and Cora knew from the look on Elton’s face as he emerged that there wasn’t a single thing in the basement that he approved of. She tried not to think about the man’s fate as Thomas let the door drop above him—or the toll it would take on Thomas himself.

  ***

  Cora sat with Nathan in the study while they drank coffee in the evening, though Nathan spent most of his time critiquing Thomas’s library. Despite the fact that she knew there was a—possibly still living—sacrificial victim in the cellar, things had seemed to settle. Cora worried for the people in the camps and those still being taken, but she comforted herself with thoughts of what it would mean when Thomas’s ritual was complete. Thousands of people, back at home with their families, telling stories of Magistrate abuses and injustices. Something would have to give, then. The Magistrate wouldn’t be able to keep its secrets anymore.

  A heavy, scraping thump came from outside, and Cora leaned to peek through the curtains at the front step. A large cardboard box sat in front of the door, its carrier already vanished. She set down her coffee cup and made for the door with her lips pursed curiously. The mail usually arrived before dark. She pulled open the front door and bent to bring the box inside, but she paused as she looked down at the label in the light.

  “Nathan,” she called, waiting the moment it took him to reach her. “This is addressed to you.”

  “Me?” He took the box from her and frowned at the scrawled address. “So it is. That seems...unlikely.” He carried the box into the study and set it down on the coffee table. He ran his hands over its surface until he was satisfied it wasn’t warded, then began to tear away the tape. As soon as he pulled the lid open, a sickly smell poured from the contents, and Nathan’s hands stopped just above the open box, the blood drained from his face in an instant. A soft, stifled breath caught in his throat.

  Cora leaned forward to see inside and drew her hands to cover her mouth, her scream dying before it could escape her. The box contained a human head, its face turned upward toward the recipient in a slack, empty stare. It looked pale and sunken, the eyes softened and discolored, but Cora knew the dark ringlets that still framed what once had been a beautiful face.

  It was Adelina.

  Nathan stared into the open box for some time, numb to Cora’s tight hold on his sleeve, and he slowly lowered his hands, fingertips gingerly touching his daughter’s dark hair.

  “Oh, Maman,” he whispered, “kisa mwen kite rive? Kè mwen, ti fi mwen, pitit fi mwen—” He pushed the lid open further and let his arms rest on the edges of the box as though he might fall without its support.

  “Nathan, I’m so sorry,” Cora managed, but he didn’t seem to hear her.

  His eyes narrowed faintly, and he reached forward to pick a folded slip of paper from where it lay tucked against the side of the box. A simple note was written inside.

  Meet me

  43.256120, -74.437417

  Korshunov

  Nathan folded the paper again, slowly, and set it on the table. He stared into the box with his jaw set tight, and he moved to touch Adelina’s hair once more. Then he gently closed the lid again and laid his hands flat against it.

  “Cora,” he said softly, his eyes seemingly focused somewhere on the rug ahead of him, “I wonder if you might be good enough to...watch over her for me. Until I get back.”

  “Of course,” she said immediately, “but you’re not going alone? This Chaser is—”

  “Thank you,” he interrupted, and then he brushed past her with a light hand on her shoulder, and before she could catch up with him, he was gone, the sidecar broken and abandoned in the yard and the red trail of his taillight following the roar of the motorcycle’s engine.

  Cora ran back into the house shouting Elton’s name, and when she met him halfway up the stairs, she pulled him into the study by the front of his shirt.

  “Nathan’s gone,” she said in a rush. “He went to find Korshunov. He...” Her voice failed her as she gestured toward the box, and she couldn’t bring herself to look again as Elton opened it with confusion written on his face.

  “My god,” he breathed. He stared for a moment, brow furrowed, before shutting the box again with careful reverence. “Where did he go?”

  “There are—coordinates, I think, on the note—he went all alone, and—Elton, you can’t let him be alone,” she fumbled, wiping at her spilling tears with the ball of her hand. “You have to go with him.”

  The blond frowned at her, then gave her a small nod, his hand squeezing her shoulder on his way back up the stairs. Cora took her phone from the loveseat and dialed Anne’s number.

  “Can we borrow your car?” she asked as soon as the other woman picked up.

  27

  Nikita heard the whine of the approaching motorcycle’s engine even from the depth of the forest. When it cut short, he scanned the trees for movement and focused his gaze once he spotted the distant figure breaking up the moonlight.

  “Go,” he whispered to the spirit lurking nearby him, and he retreated deeper into the wood to distance himself from his target. The faintly luminous creature drifted forward on slow, even steps that passed through the underbrush, the thin, transparent fabric of its white gown drifting breezily with each movement of its feet. The spirit’s dark brown skin seemed to shimmer in the moonlight, its mass of black hair almost weightless. As it slipped away from him, the wide slit of its gauzy gown revealed a skinless back and pulsing organs open to the night air. A thin mist of rain softened the edges of the trees, enough to hide him from sight as he withdrew.

  He waited for Moore to draw closer, waited to see the look on his face as he realized—as he saw his daughter, bright and ethereal and beautiful, beckoning him farther into the trees. That smug face blanched; Moore's hand laid against the nearest tree as though he needed it to stand, and his voice carried his daughter's name over the faint hiss of the rain. He spoke to her in the language they shared, the spirit's hands reaching toward him and urging him a step closer, but he hesitated, and a sneer of contempt curled his lip.

  “Korshunov!” Moore shouted in a hoarse voice. He scanned the trees, but he didn't seem willing to take his eyes from the spirit in the shape of his daughter for more than a moment. “You wanted me here?” Moore snarled. “You've got me!”

  A rumbling moved the damp earth under Nikita's feet, and at Moore's gesture, two of the trees just beyond the spirit snapped and fell—but Nikita wasn't there. He kept his distance, circled slowly, trusted the spirit's soft call to hold the other witch's attention while he poured his oil into his hand. He waited until Moore was close enough to touch it, to pass his fingers through the vapor of her hair. As Moore rounded the spirit, mumbling softly, Nikita heard the soft gasp of despair as he saw the wet muscle and bone of her back, and he had his moment.

  With Moore's back to him, Nikita approached as swiftly as he dared, and as the older man's head turned toward the sound, Nikita struck him—the crunch was satisfying under his fist, and blood poured freely from Moore's nose as he stumbled a step backward.

  “Иди ко мне,” Nikita whispered in a hurried rasp, his extended fingertips stretching toward the blood that flew from Moore's injury toward his palm. Just a little—all he needed was a little. The red pooled in his palm, and he squeezed it tight between his fingers to smear it against the oil waiting there. “По моей воле, мора, разорвать галстук!”

  Moore had focused on him again with a deadly glare, but as soon as the witch's mouth opened to spit out his curse, a burning red slashed its way across his fore
head, and he wavered. He put a hand to his face, clawing at his own skin and panting out words Nikita couldn't understand, but he knew that Moore felt the same scorching in his skin that already burrowed deep into Nikita's hand everywhere the oil touched. Nikita repeated his incantation, bolstered by the shouts of pain from the other man, and he pulled, heaving against the same strings he'd stretched thin and snapped free from a dozen other witches before this one. Moore fell to his knees and then the ground as the skin on his forehead cracked and split, and Nikita struggled to keep patient and focused while the moth's tiny legs first broke free of the bloody flesh. Nikita saw the subtle blue flash on its soft body as it flapped its wings to fly from Moore's wound and moved forward. The spirit, standing nearby, reached out a hand as though she meant to touch the small insect with one curious bloodless finger, but Nikita snatched it in his hand and crushed it to dust without hesitation.

  The thin wisp of smoke disappeared into the rain, and Nikita turned back to face Moore's still body, his head buzzing. He'd done it. He had him. Nathaniel Moore lay helpless in the grass, waiting for whatever justice Nikita Korshunov chose to serve him. Nikita's reddened and burned hand trembled as he reached for the man beneath him, breath coming quick and shallow while he took Moore by the shirt and rolled him onto his back. The rain diluted the blood on the witch's face, running pink rivers down his temples from the broken skin just below his hairline. This man was nothing now.

  Nikita took a long, thin knife from its place at the back of his belt and held it at the curve of Moore's jaw. He would take him back to Ottawa and leave him like a gift on Magister Hubbard's desk. He would get the recognition he deserved.

  But as soon as the blade nicked Moore's skin, he jerked awake, and black eyes wandered for only a moment before fastening onto Nikita's startled face. Moore knocked the smaller man back with a forceful shove to his shoulders and snapped out a spell—but nothing happened. Nikita stood, coarse laughter falling from his lips in the face of Moore's panicked expression. He let a moment or two pass, allowing Moore to glance between his victor and his own powerless hand.