Soul Fire

by Nazri Noor

  Stupidly I wondered if the map could, I don’t know, zoom in. What was the point of scrying if it could only show us her general location? Would the map reorient itself, maybe shift perspective somehow and show us a tiny, levitating Agatha Black in her general surroundings?

  I froze. What if scrying worked both ways? Agatha was certainly powerful enough. What if she could see us?

  So many questions, none answered, because Carver gasped before I could even phrase something to say. The brooch was moving much faster, sliding and scraping along the inside and the bottom of the cauldron, tracing a haphazard pattern around the map. Faster and faster it went, speeding through the scrying water like a torpedo, its eyes glowing ominously.

  Then it stopped, sitting motionless at the center of the cauldron, where it first began. I sipped in a careful breath, desperate to ask one of the dozens of questions I needed answered right then, when it happened.

  The surface of the lion’s head splintered, then cracked into a dozen pieces, each shard rushing to a different part of the cauldron, as if drawn by some eldritch magnetic force. Not a dozen, I realized, counting again. Thirteen.

  “Impossible,” Carver hissed under his breath.

  I looked around at the others, my confusion building until I finally settled on Romira’s face, which had grown pale and drawn.

  “It can’t be,” she muttered, in a voice thick with horror and reverence. “The Coven of One.”

  Chapter 18

  “Okay,” I said. “Coven of One. Go.”

  Romira took another pull from her beer. Her second one. She’d quickly downed the first we’d offered her, after we tracked her to the Boneyard break room slash living area, where she immediately began sifting through the cupboards for hard liquor. We’re not huge drinkers at the Boneyard, but duh, everyone keeps the good stuff in their own bedroom. So a nice, frosty beer right out of the fridge it was. Well, two of them. Everyone had assembled there, in fact, even Sterling and a recently placated Mason, like confused D-list superheroes with nowhere to go.

  “Right,” she said, finally catching her breath. “Right. Historically, I didn’t think it could be done. You know how magic gets amplified when more people are involved, right? When multiple minds and hearts aim their energies towards the same purpose. Pour enough magic into one, singular objective, and you can move mountains.”

  “It’s why cults exist,” I said. “It’s the whole premise behind ceremonial magic.”

  In the back of my head, the distant memory of Thea’s voice broke the surface. “It’s how you get an apocalypse going.” My gaze locked with Carver’s for a bare second. He was listening intently, suspiciously quiet.

  “It’s why magic users and spell casters of the same vein tend to gather together. Cults, as you said, or druids, and covens as well. As in witches.”

  “Of which Grandmother is one of the most powerful,” Bastion muttered.

  Romira nodded. “Right. And to get everything truly magically aligned, you’d want everyone to be on the same page. For best results, basically, like how a corporation ideally works. Same vision, same mission. And if someone, or several someones in your coven have different ideas about how to do things, that can dilute the power of the magic you’re trying to make. But what if everyone was of the same mind? With your intentions streamlined. No blocks in the arteries. Just blood pumping straight through the system, because everyone works in concert.”

  My gaze went distant as I imagined the possibilities. “One mind,” I said.

  “Exactly,” Carver said, finally adding his voice to the conversation. “Everything unified under one mind, perfectly orchestrating the same goal. The Coven of One is a bizarre, terrible ritual, one that allows a witch powerful and brazen enough to perform it to split her mind across multiple bodies. Thirteen of them, to be precise, as you all saw in the cauldron.”

  Which, I should have mentioned, burst into flames, cracking the cauldron in the process. It took Carver and Romira’s combined efforts to get the fire settling at all, but by the time it had died out, nothing was left in the cauldron, no water, no shattered pieces of brooch. I must have been right, in a sense. Agatha detected us, and she didn’t like being watched.

  “Far be it from me to cast judgment,” Carver said. “I am hardly blameless. I have also regretted the things I have done to extend my life beyond its natural bounds. There are different variations on the rite of becoming thirteen, but many of them require multiple sacrifices. Human sacrifices.”

  The air went still. I looked around at the others, at the looks of shock and dawning dread on their faces. We thought we were up against Agatha Black – not thirteen witches powered by the madness of the Eldest.

  “I never knew,” Bastion murmured. “Is that what Grandmother has been doing all this time?”

  Prudence gripped him by the arm, but said nothing.

  “As I am sure you have determined by now, the situation is far from ideal,” Carver said. “The world is in greater danger than we thought. And now Agatha knows that we are seeking her out. I would consider ourselves lucky if she didn’t look back through the ethers and see us. It wouldn’t take much for a witch of her power to track us down.”

  “But what if that’s the answer?” Mason said, his head held high. “If we can’t find her, then maybe we have to work on making her come to us.”

  Carver’s eyes remained impassive as he studied Mason for several long, uncomfortable seconds. “You are not wrong. But after the description of your initial encounter with Agatha Black at Brandt Manor, it is reasonable for me to express my – concerns.”

  How could anyone forget? A man exploded, tiny parts of his body scattered across the mansion’s lawn. And all Agatha had to do was close her fist.

  “I can use my gravesight,” Asher said. “I’m getting better and better at it. It might be slow – the dead aren’t used to hearing from someone on the other end of the world – but I can reach through the network, find out what everyone has heard.”

  To see through the eyes of spirits in Southeast Asia, and hear through the dead ears of ghosts still lingering in urban Russia. I believed in Asher’s conviction and talent, but that sounded like a monstrous undertaking. How much energy would a necromancer need to spread his influence across the entire world?

  Carver blinked several times rapidly, the concern washing across his features quickly banished. He raised his head. “This is possible. But be careful, Mr. Mayhew. Extremely careful. Scrying is powerful and useful in any form, but arcane backlash is very much a real thing. It can be dangerous. Fatal, too.”

  Romira hugged her elbows and shuddered. “Tell me about it. I’ve heard about what happened to some of the Eyes at the Lorica. They were trying to track someone dangerous down in the nineties, this warlock who was terrorizing the Midwest. You know how he retaliated? By burning their eyes out. Worst kind of forced retirement there is.” She chuckled nervously. “Occupational hazards, am I right?”

  “Then that goes for all of you who may think to scry for Agatha’s manifestations,” Carver said. “Stay safe. Employ every protection you can think of.”

  “I’ll try my best,” Asher said, his voice only slightly shaken, his back rigid, muscles tense. Sterling stepped up and gripped Asher’s shoulder in one of his stark white hands, massaging with strong, dead fingers. You could barely tell, but Asher relaxed, giving Sterling a quiet, grateful nod. See? Whatever else Mason’s presence at the Boneyard meant, and despite the dizzying age difference, our necromancer and vampire were still best friends. Sterling was just being silly.

  “Then we adjourn for now,” Carver said. “Consider all the resources you have at your disposal. Speak to your peers and superiors at the Lorica, whatever it is you must do to warn the arcane world of Agatha Black’s movements. We must be prepared. All of us.”

  Our goodbyes were quiet and stilted, Team Lorica awkwardly shuffling out of the Boneyard, all clearly considering the ramifications of our discovery. I stayed in the livin
g area, staring at my thumbs. Carver and the other guys had mostly wandered off to their rooms, except for Asher and Mason, who had stayed behind to clean up.

  “Thanks,” I said out loud to no one in particular, listening to the clink of beer bottles and drinking glasses.

  “Yeah,” Asher said absently.

  The sofa next to me dipped as Mason threw himself into the cushions. He leaned back, then sighed heavily.

  “You know what gets me about this the most? If this Agatha person is so damn dangerous, why hasn’t she done anything yet? Why has everything been so quiet?”

  I looked at Mason, then back down at the floor. He had a good point. A terrifying one, at that. What was Agatha up to? Mason leaned into the cushions even more, groaning and rubbing his forehead.

  The dread in the air was palpable, even with just the three of us there. I reached for my phone, thinking to call Herald to fill him in on the bad news when it went off on its own.

  And despite my anxiety, I had to smile. It was my dad, trying to initiate a video call. I picked up immediately. Norman Graves’s bushy, teacherly mustache filled the screen. He smiled at me, then frowned.

  “Well, well,” he said gruffly. “Look who finally decided to pick up his phone and call his old man. Oh, wait.”

  I rolled my eyes and chuckled. “Come on, Dad. You know things have been busy for us.”

  He pursed his lips, then smiled again. “I know, buddy. It’s just been a while since I’ve seen you face to face. Would it kill you to swing by one of these days? We’ll do some beers, some burgers. Hey, bring Gil and Prudence and the others. We’ll make it a party.”

  “Hi, Mr. Graves,” Asher said as he walked past the sofa, giving a quick wave.

  “Hey, Asher,” Norman called out of the phone. “And who’s that on the couch next to you, Dust?”

  “Oh, that’s Mason. You haven’t met him yet.”

  Mason leaned against my shoulder, squeezing into frame. On my video screen, the little reflection of Mason next to me on the sofa grinned broadly.

  “Hiya, Mr. Graves,” he said, waving with a loose wrist, his free hand smoothing back his hair as he gave my dad an excessively goofy grin. “It’s nice to meet you.” Dad waved back, a bemused smile on his face.

  I tried not to smirk. Mason really knew how to charm people. Maybe we really were related, in some twisted, alternate timeline kind of way.

  “He’s like my son,” I said. Mason laughed. Dad’s forehead crinkled.

  “Wh-what?”

  “And we’ve got an exploding dog. It’s this whole thing.”

  After swapping a few niceties with my dad, Mason and Asher eventually trailed out of the break room themselves. I looked around the emptiness of our living area, everything cleared out of the way, and made eye contact with the abyss beyond the stone platform that carried all our furniture. No walls in the outside areas, just a long, hard view of the void, and that had never bothered me in the past, but the helplessness of our situation made the Boneyard feel just that little bit drearier.

  I couldn’t help sighing, and Dad caught on pretty quickly. He frowned.

  “Something’s the matter,” he said. “You can tell me anything, Dust. You know that, right?”

  “I know,” I said. Except that I didn’t want to burden him with the knowledge of what we were going through. “It’s just a really tough time for everyone here, you know? Saving the world and all that shit, it kind of gets exhausting after a while.”

  Even past the mustache I could see Norman’s lips press together into a tight line. “Listen. I know you don’t like weighing me down with what you think are just your problems, but it’s always cool to share. Really. I worry about you, and it might help relieve some of the pressure.”

  I shook my head and forced a smile. “Can’t tell you, Pops. Classified information. I promise, when all this is over, I’ll come and visit.”

  Dad sighed, giving in, before he nodded. “Sure, sure. Hope that’s not too far away,” he said, in a kind of tone that softly suggested how he would very much like for me to stay alive, at least until we got through our next visit. “Bring Herald, I haven’t really had much of a chance to talk to the guy.”

  I chuckled, feeling my ears going red. “Dad, please. Don’t embarrass me. God, I wish I could burn all my baby pictures. I know you’re going to use them against me.”

  He held up one warning finger. “Don’t you dare. I’m keeping them locked away the next time you come over, and – oh. Hello.” His gaze unfocused slightly, then looked past my head.

  I didn’t think there was anyone else in the living area with me until I followed his eyes. Looking back at me was a woman’s strangely familiar face.

  My heart jumped up my throat as I leapt up off the couch and whirled on my feet. There she stood, her smile an enigma, her face a constant, ever-shifting puzzle.

  “Fleshling,” Hecate said. “It has been a while.”

  Chapter 19

  “Gotta go,” I muttered to my dad, ending the call even as he sputtered in protest. I love him, but when a goddess peekaboos at you from behind your living room sofa, you kind of have to shift focus.

  I slipped my phone into my pocket, ran my fingers through my hair, and smoothed down the creases in my shirt, like any of that even mattered.

  “Hecate,” I said. “It’s been a while.”

  “Quite.” Hecate smiled, running her fingers along the edge of the couch. She looked as she always did, wearing a gown cut out of midnight, her skin an unnatural shade of white, her features beautiful, yet always changing, indecipherable.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Horror. I almost said horror instead of pleasure.

  “We have been in your thoughts, fleshling.” She stepped around to the front of the couch, sitting on the edge of the armrest, looking down at the piece of furniture as if in puzzlement. “You’ve met so many of our brothers and sisters now. Perhaps you shall meet the father of our pantheon as well.”

  I held my hands up in protest. “No no no, no Zeus. One All-Father is more than enough for me.” I furrowed my eyebrows. “Wait. Did you say that you were in my thoughts?”

  She looked up at me and blinked. “Have you not noticed, fleshling? Think back to recent discussions. We heard our name being mentioned. Quite a few times, in fact. After all, when a mortal prays enough, is it not a goddess’s place to listen?” She grinned. “Perhaps even answer?”

  This was the thing with Hecate. She liked to talk about answers, sure, but actually arriving at something was always such a production. The Greek goddess of magic liked to trade in riddles and vague references. But as much as I’d lost patience with the other gods of her pantheon, I knew deep in my bones that Hecate was not among the ones I should even consider affronting. I thought of my next words carefully, taking a long, deliberate breath.

  “There’s a reason you’ve come. Just as there’s a reason I’ve been thinking about you. A lot has happened, between failing to get anything out of the Great Beasts and the awakening of Agatha Black.”

  I knew I didn’t need to explain any of those things to Hecate. The gods are gossips, Dionysus’s voice laughingly said in my mind. But Hecate, even as she kept to herself, always knew what was going on, one way or another. I would have guessed that her enormous book of magic had something to do with it.

  She nodded. “Yes. We have heard of what has transpired. Most unfortunate. We have also heard of your recent reunion with your beloved Dark Room. What a happy occasion.”

  I grimaced. “It’s a more complicated situation than that, and you know it. I can barely use the Dark Room without letting it take over my mind – no, even my body now. It’s grown wild, too strong. And speaking of bodies, did you know about Agatha and how she has thirteen of them? The Coven of One?”

  Hecate chuckled. “Sweet fleshling. Who do you think wrote the ritual?” She tilted her head, and two other copies of the goddess appeared along the cushions on the couch, all three starin
g at me with lopsided grins.

  I held my breath. “Then you must know how to stop them.”

  “Indeed, we do,” the three goddesses said. Two of them faded, leaving one sitting in the center of the sofa. “You would destroy a witch as you would any other mortal, of course. By slaying her.”

  “So you’re saying that we can only win by killing all thirteen copies of Agatha.”

  She shrugged. “We said that destroying them was possible. We did not say it would be simple.”

  I flopped onto the couch next to her, surprised at my own sudden comfort with her presence and proximity. The cushions dipped, and Hecate made a small giggle, as if pleased at being ever so slightly jostled.

  “I don’t know where to start, Hecate. The end hasn’t begun, but it feels like everything is funneling towards that. The world is quiet right now, but I just know that things are going to crumble around my ears before long. And I don’t know how to stop it.”

  Her hand was surprisingly warm when it patted the back of mine, a strangely human gesture coming from someone as alien as Hecate.

  “In the end,” she said, “it is up to mankind to protect its home after all. You have always known this, Dustin Graves. What have you learned in all this time of dealing with gods and demons and monsters?”

  My heart twinged. “To expect nothing.” Depressing, but true. “I’m so tired, Hecate. I never asked for any of this. I’m not some super powerful chosen one. It’s not like there’s some secret weapon out there that’s just going to change the game for my side. I – I never asked for any of this.” My voice trailed off.

  Hecate nodded in polite agreement. “Everything occurred to you by happenstance. And yet, this is your role now, to be caught between the earth and the Old Ones. Who else but you could help win this battle for your realm? You could walk away, fleshling, but you know the consequences. The world will wither. The Old Ones will come. And then there will be nothing left.”