Council of Souls

by Jen Printy

  Her unwavering reassurance has no influence over my fear and concerns. I wish I had her brand of faith. So steadfast in her beliefs, it’s as if she can peek into the future and see a happy ending waiting there for us.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next night, at nine sharp, as promised, there are three quick knocks on the door. The sound reverberates through the apartment, causing every muscle in my body to stiffen. Leah sits next to me on the sofa, frozen, her hands clasped in her lap.

  “I’ll get it,” I say, giving her knee a squeeze of encouragement. I stand and walk to the door because I have no other choice. If it were up to me, I’d stay in my seat for the rest of time rather than walk these ten short paces to the door. I run my sweaty palms along my jeans.

  This morning, Leah insisted we ignore the darkness looming on the horizon, maintaining that we should carry on with our regular schedules of work and school. I elected not to push the matter. If Leah wanted to forget what was to come for a few hours, who was I to argue? The whole scene last night was horrific, and my little stunt did nothing to make the event any easier. Following her wishes was the least I could do.

  I take a deep, cleansing breath and open the door.

  Pausing at the threshold, Artagan gawks at my humble accommodations. He looks more like himself—black hair groomed and slicked back from his clean-shaven, angular face. His pressed, tailored blazer is well fitted to his lean frame. A small leather knapsack hangs over his shoulder. His gaze darts around my apartment, from my old sofa to the seen-better-days dinette. He stares for a moment longer before his mouth twists into a smirk. “This place is a dump.”

  Regardless of the storm of emotions seething inside me, I cannot let Artagan get under my skin, not tonight. No matter what happens, Leah needs me calm. I roll my shoulders. The tension recedes a little.

  “It’s home,” I say flatly.

  “I suppose.” His incredulous gaze lands on Leah, and he bows at the waist. “Good evening, lassie. I half expected to show up to find Jack had stuffed you in a trunk and shipped you off to Timbuktu.” He eyes me again. When he gets no reaction, he grins. “Better. Maybe there’s hope for that temper of yours yet.”

  “Maybe if you didn’t provoke him, you wouldn’t see that side of him,” Leah interjects.

  Artagan raises his eyebrows. “You are a cheeky one. We’ll get along fine.”

  He plops his knapsack onto the coffee table and unbuckles the flap. After removing a small bunch of dried twigs tied with a string, he slips a lighter out of his blazer pocket and ignites the twigs. When the spark has grown into a steady flame, he douses it. Ribbons of smoke curl and spiral in the air. Smelling of stale cigarettes and weed, the odor clings in my nostrils and makes me cough. Artagan fans the smoke, dispersing it first to the east and then to the north and so on, all the time muttering incoherent words under his breath.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.

  “Smudging. It’s a little trick I learned from the Native Americans. They believe it wards off evil spirits. It also prevents shadow walking. But once done, we can talk without the fear of someone listening in. Everyone will have to use the door for the next week or so, but it’s worth the sacrifice.” He carries the smoldering bundle around the apartment, waving the smoke back and forth and paying careful attention to every corner, behind every door.

  When the ritual is complete, Artagan sets the slow-burning bundle in the center of a forgotten plate on the coffee table. “There, now let’s get down to business.” He reclines in a chair, folding his arms behind his head. I move to the sofa and sit next to Leah.

  “Before we start, I have a few questions,” Leah says.

  “I’m sure you do.” Artagan smiles.

  “So you’re training me. What will that include?”

  “Many things, but I think it would be best if we take one step at a time.”

  “And if I can’t do this? What happens then?” She purses her lips, and worry lines etch her face. I reach for her hand. My touch seems to relax her.

  “You can do this. And you will.” Artagan speaks with conviction. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First you need to know how the council formed. ‘Dust you are, and to dust you will return.’ I trust you recognize the scripture.”

  Leah gnaws on her lower lip.

  “Genesis. The curse of mankind,” I answer in a monotone voice. It was the favorite sermon topic of my father’s successor. The old vicar preached variations of this topic, banging his fist on the pulpit and screaming at the parishioners to repent.

  Artagan nods. “Or if you think about it, the creation of Death.”

  “So he’s right. God created him,” Leah says.

  “That remains to be seen. The quandary we find ourselves in now began in ancient times, back when the earth was new. Some legends say Death had three daughters—triplets named Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos—with an immortal. When the girls were old enough, Death trained them in secret, teaching them his skills. Like many fathers, he claims his greatest wish was to have children and pass his trade on to them, creating a dynasty. It’s said when their mother found out what Death was doing, she was horror-stricken. She ran away with her daughters and hid them. You might have heard of the triplets. They call themselves the Moirai.”

  “The governors of fate,” I say.

  “One and the same. But unfortunately, that is not the end of the tale. When Death could not find his young daughters, alone and brokenhearted”—Artagan rolls his eyes in sarcasm—“he devised a plan.”

  “You don’t believe Death missed his children?” Leah asks.

  “Love often desires devotion whether present or not,” Artagan says. “In my experience, Death loves no one but himself, no matter how much he hopes you’ll think otherwise. And I bet you’ll agree with me by the end of my tale.

  “Death’s plan was simple. Have children with mortal mothers, and after the child’s birth, gather, essentially kill, the women so no one could ever steal his children from him again. His first attempt went horribly wrong. Like the Moirai’s mother, the woman attempted to hide the child. Enraged and far too eager to teach his new offspring his trade, when he found them, Death made the girl gather her mother. It was a cruel act that destroyed her.”

  “How old was she?” I ask.

  “Almost seventeen. I’m still not sure how the mother hid her for so long. The story doesn’t say.”

  I stare at nothing, my eyes narrowing. If this is how he shows his affection to his child, imagine what he’d do to a mere descendant like Leah.

  “Wait. I thought Jack said Thanatos was the oldest of the Endless,” Leah interrupts.

  “That is what you told me,” I say, glancing at Artagan.

  “I did, didn’t I? Well, in my defense,” he says, raising his hands, “there isn’t much human left in the girl. All that remains is savage. Because of this, Death can’t allow Morrighan on the council. She’s far too wild for such pomp and circumstance.

  “Thanatos claims her mother was a druid witch from the area of the Black Sea. Whether that’s true, I don’t know. From all the firsthand accounts, Morrighan holds great magical powers, including the ability to shapeshift. Some say she can turn into a raven, and God knows what else.

  “After his mistake with Morrighan,” Artagan continues, “Death learned, and after that, he chose the mothers much more carefully, picking women easily manipulated. Under his strict guidance, he let the children live with their mothers until they were old enough to care for their own personal needs, and then he raised them himself. However, my ancestor, Brennus, was only two when he went to live with his father after his mother hanged herself.”

  “And other mothers? What happened to them?” Leah asks. “Easily manipulated or not, I can’t imagine they let Death take their children willingly.”

  “Done away with in private,”
Artagan says, voicing my conclusion, “well out of the child’s sight.”

  Leah shifts uncomfortably at my side.

  Artagan grasps her reaction at once. Grimness darkens his eyes, and his mouth lifts into a grudging smile. “Death’s strategy worked, though, to the extent that none of the other children are feral lunatics.”

  I snort. “What was Vita?”

  “Savage, yes, but Vita was far too cunning to be insane,” he says. “Believe it or not, in the beginning, Vita and her twin were said to be sweet, even sanguine.”

  My eyes narrow. “That’s a far cry from the beast I met.”

  “Yes, and therein lies the rub.” His eyes focus on Leah again as if he’s trying to see into her soul. “Were Vita’s malicious qualities buried, waiting to emerge, or were they tendencies cultivated by Death? Nature or nurture—the age-old debate. And like it or not, Vita’s infernal blood courses through your veins, possibly along with some of her family traits.”

  My posture goes rigid. I can feel my blood pressure rising. “Leah’s nothing like Vita,” I say. “Besides, how do you know it’s true that Vita and her sister were sweet, cheerful children? All of this happened, what, a thousand years before your birth?” Leah places her hand on my leg. I purse my lips and look away. “I’m just saying you trust this legend to be accurate, but you said yourself that’s seldom the case. I bet Vita was always cold-hearted, even as a child.”

  “I hope that’s true. However, if that were the case, Vita’s evil tendencies were well hidden. My source is reliable. It’s a firsthand account. Along with a council seat and immortality, Brennus left me a journal of sorts.” He tugs a small, worn leather book out of his inner breast pocket then hands it to me. “It’s a personal account. He had no reason to lie.”

  Leah leans against my shoulder. I tilt the book in her direction as I thumb through the brittle pages cluttered with chicken scratches in a language I don’t recognize. “What language is this?” I run my fingertips over the script.

  “Proto-Germanic. It’s mostly history, with his thoughts peppered among the assorted facts. Brennus was a dark and brooding soul, plagued by his own personal demons. A trait I wage war against every day, a trait shared through his lineage.” He nods in my direction, daring me to disagree. “Nature or nurture.”

  “She’s nothing like Vita,” I reiterate, handing the book back.

  His attention wanders to Leah. “The point of my little history lesson isn’t to scare you, but to warn you. Whatever the case may be, nature or nurture or both, Death would like nothing more than to turn you into a carbon copy of his recently departed daughter. He must see something in you that makes him believe that transformation is possible, something he didn’t see in the other descendants, or else he wouldn’t have chosen you. Be wary. He’s good at camouflaging himself to become what you need. If you need a friend, he will be loyal. If it’s a lover, he’ll be devoted. If a father…” Artagan raises one thick eyebrow. “He’s cunning. Therefore, you must question everything you feel and whatever the voices in your head tell you. You must make sure those thoughts and feelings are your own and not what he wants you to think and feel. I cannot stress how important this is. Understand?”

  Leah nods.

  “Let’s begin. If I’m right, and I usually am, our mark should be leaving work right about now.”

  Leah gives him a hard stare. “Wait. Now?”

  A pang ripples through my chest, but I keep the pain from my expression.

  “No rest for the wicked.” Artagan grins, but his eyes lack excitement. “Besides, orders are orders. I’ve set everything in motion, so tonight you are only accompanying me. Tonight we are sending a man named Daniel Harris to meet his maker.”

  Leah sucks in a long breath, wavering a little. “I’ve been dreaming about him. I thought the accident stirred up past-life memories as my cancer did with memories of Jack. But Daniel Harris has nothing to do with a past life, does he?”

  “No, he does not,” Artagan says. “I’ll warn you, the first will stick with you. The particulars may fade, but his name, his face, that will always remain. However, with each gathering, more of the instincts Death has bestowed upon you will awaken until, eventually, all of this will become much easier.”

  The pang in my chest grows into an ache of guilt. I glance at Leah. Her face tenses, the small lines around her eyes visible. She plays with her hair, wrapping a strand in loops around her finger.

  “Always remember, there are ways to show kindness even when taking a life,” Artagan continues. “A death with as little suffering as possible is the kindest gift we can give them.”

  “So you remember your first?” Leah asks. She doesn’t look up but keeps her gaze aimed at the floor.

  “That I do. But it was neither quick nor kind.” Artagan takes in a long breath. “I’ll never be as cruel a teacher as Thanatos was. I promise you.” He sucks in another breath, his expression hardening. “His name was Andre Labonte. He lived in France near Bourges. The area has changed since 1393, but it’s still a beautiful city, despite any unpleasant memories I may have of it. Labonte was a lieutenant under Charles the Mad. He fought in the Hundred Years’ War. He didn’t have the privilege of dying in battle. My fault. Instead, he met his maker on the hard floor of Bourges Cathedral, bleeding out among the pews.” Artagan’s voice falters. He removes a pack of cigarettes and lighter from his pocket, his hand quivering. “Mind?”

  “No, have at.” I don’t have the heart to say no. In all honesty, I’ve only seen Artagan in such a state once, when he told me the story of Olluna’s death.

  He smiles back then takes a long drag and lets trails of smoke ascend from his nostrils. More relaxed, he continues. “Labonte had suffered a near-fatal injury during battle—a failed attempt on my part. Healed and scheduled to return to the front the next morning, he went to the cathedral to pray. At the foot of a statue of Mary, under the virgin’s watchful eye, Thanatos furnished me with a knife and told me that, because of my failure, the lieutenant would have to die by my hand. I remember thinking the blade was far too small for the job. I was a crude deliverer of death. We’ll leave it at that. He asked for a priest to perform last rites, begged for one, but I stayed silent, too high on the euphoria to care about the final resting place of the man’s soul.” He drops his chin to his chest and rubs the back of his neck. “Thanatos made the task as personal as possible to either indoctrinate me or break me. I don’t think he cared which. No one on the council was fond of having a former soul immortal around back then. They’ve grown used to me over the years.”

  Artagan glances up, his eyes meeting Leah’s straight on. “It won’t be that way for you, I promise. I’ll make this first gathering as easy as I can, but you have to follow my instructions to the letter.”

  Leah nods, swatting at a tear.

  “Whether we like it or not, death is a part of life, a part of us, and we must do our jobs. I want you to focus on a point inside, a place that makes you feel safe and makes you feel like you. Whether a memory, a feeling, or a person, hold on to it and don’t let go. All right?”

  Leah nods again.

  Artagan takes another quick pull on his cigarette. “Time for a little quiz. What do you know about this bloke? Many details flowed in when you received the name for the gathering—hobbies, favorite foods, etc. It’s our job to decipher which are important and which are just filler.”

  Leah lists the details one by one. Some she has told me, but many she has not. With everything we now know, the connection is obvious. The psychotic ex-wife and her death wish, an allergy to shellfish, even his job are all ways Leah could kill Daniel Harris. Bile rises, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

  “Good. Very good. I’m sure you can see how we could use this information,” Artagan says, pleased. However, I know the man well enough to hear the performance in his tone. “Normally, this kind of gathering would take a c
ouple well-laid thoughts, but tonight we will do it the old-fashioned way, so to speak. Do you know where Mr. Harris will be this evening?”

  Leah opens her mouth to say something but then closes her lips tight and shakes her head.

  Artagan narrows his eyes and tilts his head in her direction. After a moment, he speaks. “I’m your instructor. I already know the answer.”

  She looks at him as if she suspects he’s lying.

  “He’s meeting colleagues for a late dinner at Harris’s favorite restaurant, Bartolini’s.” He smirks.

  “Oh.” Leah’s shoulder slump. “Then why do you need me?”

  Artagan ignores this. “We’ll have to use the sous-chef. I fear he’ll be looking for work tomorrow. Tonight, he will make a fatal error. You will distract the sous-chef, causing him to contaminate Harris’s dinner with shellfish.”

  Leah’s face turns ashen. “But why can’t this be done without hurting someone else? This sous-chef has a family to support. It seems wrong—”

  “I know this will be difficult, but this is the simplest, most direct path to our goal. I will be there holding your hand the whole way. As I said, this will become easier. Are you ready?”

  “No.” Defiance snaps like sparks in Leah’s eyes.

  Artagan stands and holds his hand out to her. “Sorry. No choice, lassie.”

  Without his help, Leah hoists herself to her feet.

  At the door, I retrieve my jacket from the coat hook.

  “No, Jack. You’re staying here.” Artagan’s tone is commanding, but it doesn’t stop me from slipping my leather on.

  “I’m coming. Debate over,” I say, looking him square in the eye.

  “I don’t want you there,” Leah says from behind me.

  I spin around.

  “Please, don’t argue,” she says. Her expression is a poor attempt at serenity. Her eyes tell the real story, eerily vacant.

  “Don’t you think—?”

  Leah shakes her head.

  I look at my feet, not wanting Leah to see how much her words sting. “If that’s what you want, love.”