Council of Souls

by Jen Printy

  Artagan steps back to survey his work. Then, removing the flask from the pocket of his blazer, he kneels at the man’s side and mutters under his breath, finishing his ritual by drawing the sign of the cross on the man’s forehead and palms.

  “Well, at least he’s at peace now,” Artagan says, standing. He stares down at the man’s bruised and swollen body. His face is streaked with yellow powder, the pain he felt in death plain in his expression. “No need for such brutality, ever. Poor bastard.”

  “He had a name. He was Eric Gammon,” Leah says. The strength in her voice comes as a surprise to both Artagan and me.

  “They all do, lassie.” Artagan offers her the flask. “For your nerves.”

  Leah accepts it. She sniffs and draws back, wrinkling her nose.

  “There’s a bar downstairs. I’m sure I can find something less strong and more fitting for a lady.”

  Leah glares at Artagan over the rim. She straightens her shoulders and, before I can stop her, tosses back the flask, taking a rather large gulp. Her hand flies to her throat as she splutters scotch and then coughs until I feel obligated to thump her on the back.

  “I’m okay,” she says, red faced, waving my hand away.

  “Burned, didn’t it? Have another go. But this time, don’t guzzle it like some common drunkard.”

  “I’m good. I think I’ll stick to wine.” She glances at Artagan, her manner turning sheepish, and she hands him back the flask. “Thank you, though. Sorry I snapped.”

  “Not to worry. You’ve had an eventful morning. I suppose I owe you an apology as well, accusing you of going with those appalling creatures willingly,” Artagan says calmly, but there’s a definite edge in his tone—concerned and hesitant, fearful even. He scans the shadows and then relaxes, continuing. “I’m proud of you. You stood up to them. But until we understand all that went on here, we need to keep what occurred to ourselves.” He pauses. “Not even Kemisi and Otmar can know that you made Muan bleed.”

  Her brows crease over uneasy eyes. “So that did happen? I’m having a hard time determining what was real. It’s like I remember everything through a fog.”

  “That was because of the powder Izel blew in your face. The disorientation will pass. From your reaction, it had some potent hallucinogenic properties. And yes, you most certainly did make Muan bleed. But why? That’s the million-dollar question. So until we know, tell no one.”

  “But what about Muan? Don’t you think he’ll tell the others?” I ask.

  “No. He’d do anything in his power to hide weakness. Even among his brothers. I doubt any of them, besides Izel and Pacal, will ever know.” He looks to the shadows and then to Leah again. “We should get you back to the house so you can clean yourself up.”

  Once home, Leah showers. When she reemerges from the bathroom, she settles next to me on her bed. She lets her finger trace the zigzag pattern of the puffy quilt, lost to her own train of thought. I sprawl next to her, propping my head on my elbow. Past the placid gaze, I see a storm brewing in her eyes, and I use these quiet moments to dissect what might be going on in that beautiful head of hers.

  “Jack?” Leah finally asks, her eyes riveted on the quilt. “If the Soulless are so secretive like Artagan said, why did they involve me in some ancient ritual right out of the Temple of Doom?”

  “Artagan believes they took you because he humiliated Muan last night.”

  “Hmm.” She purses her lips and looks at me. “I don’t. It seemed much more than that. They talked about blood being powerful because of the magic residing in it.” She swallows hard. “Do you really believe I can live this kind of life and not turn into a monster? Like Vita was? Truth, please. Not just what you know I want to hear.”

  “You are nothing like her,” I say with all confidence.

  Her gaze drifts and fixes out the window, staying there for a minute before returning. “That day when Artagan told us what Vita and Domitilla changed into, and that it could happen to me, I think I convinced myself that you were right, that none of their evil was part of me.”

  Anxiety sprouts in my chest. “And now?”

  “I don’t know,” Leah says. “I’ve never liked causing anyone or anything physical pain. As a kid, my mom said I was the president of the insect catch-and-release program.” Her lips turn into a weak grin. “Even spiders, the big hairy ones, were safe under my watch. At school, while other girls screamed or tried to whack them with their sneakers, I’d catch them and find them a new home in the woods around the playground.

  “Before that first gathering, Artagan warned me about the euphoria that comes with taking a life, and that I needed to fight against it. I’ve felt ashamed and guilty, even angry, but never euphoric. Not once, not even after the train crash when all those people lost their lives because of what I did.” She hunches her shoulders and averts her gaze.

  “Never?” The muscle at the corner of my mouth twitches upward. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t tell Artagan, either. I didn’t want you two to worry.”

  “Worry? That’s the best news I’ve ever heard.” I break into a smile.

  “Don’t get too excited. This morning, when I cut Muan, I didn’t even notice the blood. All I saw was the pain in his face. The realization that I had caused it gave me such a buzz. No, more than that, I wanted to go further. If there were a way, I would have killed him right then, because I wanted to see him writhe and suffer. I wanted him dead.”

  As the revelation leaves her lips, Leah turns pallid. I capture her by the chin, and she turns her face toward me. “When he touched you like he did, I wanted to break through that barrier and rip him to shreds. Even now, in the back of my mind, I’m playing with ways I could kill him. If taking his life was a possibility, God would have to have mercy on him because I wouldn’t.”

  A snarl of bloodlust breaks through my lips. Embarrassed, I look away. Taking a deep breath, I feel a confession brewing on the tip of my tongue and wonder what Leah’s reaction will be to this next admission. “I killed a man. His name was Richard Hake. He was a wicked man who preyed on the weak and exploited them for money. He threatened to expose me because he knew I was different. So I killed him. I’d like to think it was to protect all those lives he was destroying, but I know better. I did it to protect my secret.” After a moment’s pause, I ask, “Do you think I’m evil?”

  “Of course not! How could you ask that?”

  I let out the faintest sigh of relief. “Well then, if I’m not evil, then neither are you. You’d just seen Muan torture a man to death. Even the pope would have gotten a thrill out of seeing that piece of rubbish squirm.” My mouth twists into a sneer. “When you gripped that blade and stood your ground, you did it to protect Eric Gammon from any more suffering. That was brave and kind. Vita wouldn’t have done that. She would have rejoiced in that man’s pain. You’re not the monster here. The Soulless are. And if anything, this morning proves how far from Vita you truly are.”

  My reassurance seems to comfort her, and our conversation proceeds jerkily without further mention of the Soulless, Vita, or tainted blood.

  As soon as Leah is resting, I disentangle myself from her embrace. She mumbles softly, but then her breath resumes the even tempo of deep sleep. I kiss her on the brow and then steal from the room to find Artagan. With over six hundred years of knowledge, he has to have at least an inkling of what’s going on, no matter what he said back in Gammon’s apartment.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Through the cracked door of Artagan’s study, the murmur of a one-sided conversation floats out into the hall. I consider leaving and returning later, but his next words stop me in my tracks.

  “Please listen. The girl has abilities, and not ones I’ve seen before.”

  I edge closer, being careful of any squeaking floorboards, and lean against the wall to listen.

  “You kno
w I’d share the source of this information,” Artagan says. A long silence hangs in the air before he speaks again. “Dammit! Listen! Whatever I might be, I’m not one of them.” He puffs out a sharp exhalation and adds resentfully, “Well, if you’d agree to meet every once in a while, maybe you would.”

  Following another pause, he goes on, his voice growing more animated with each syllable. “I hoped you’d be able to tell me more than that… Yes, I understand. But I’m not the enemy here, Tobias.”

  Tobias? Who the hell is Tobias? Artagan made his instructions clear. Tell no one. My jaw clenches, but I force the mixture of anger and unease down. I need to listen.

  He chuckles, an edge of irritation ringing clear in his tone. “Yes, I’m sure she’d disagree. How is your mother?… Yes, yes. I understand. Hear me out. This girl, Leah—there’s something different about her. Do you know what would cause a Soulless to bleed?… That’s exactly what I’m implying… Tobias? Are you there?” A flurry of expletives follows, and then the room falls quiet.

  I push the door open with my foot. Artagan sits, shoulders slumped as he rests his elbows on his knees, a tumbler teetering in his grasp. With papers spread out across his desk and books scattered about the floor, it looks like a tornado hit the room.

  “You said not to tell a soul,” I say, my tone controlled. “Who’s Tobias? What does he know about Leah?”

  Artagan ignores me, not even having the courtesy to acknowledge my presence. The odor of alcohol wafts from him in a plume.

  “Are you even listening?” I say. “Or are you too drunk to give a damn?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been shitfaced in my life.” He glances up from his drink, unconcerned at my tone. “And there’s nothing wrong with my hearing, whatever my moral shortcomings may be,” he says and downs the rest of the liquor. He stares at me for another passing moment, a critical glint in his eyes. The air of hostility between us intensifies.

  I inhale, steadying my nerves. “I trust you. I swear I do. But you promised no secrets.”

  “No, I implied no secrets. And I suppose having doubts is your way of showing your faith in me?”

  “That’s not—look. If you won’t tell me, you have to tell Leah. Whatever this is, it’s clearly about her. She has the right to know.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t tell her about this conversation at all.”

  “Why not? What are you hiding? And don’t say nothing because that’s clearly not the case.”

  “Enough.” He raises his hand. “I don’t have time for this.” Then, setting his tumbler down in the middle of the flurry of papers, he pushes up from his seat, and with a steady gait, he moves past me. I reach out to grab him, catching the sleeve of his jacket. The material slips through my fingers, and I’m left gripping nothing but air. At the door, he pauses long enough to glance at me over his shoulder. “Don’t do anything foolish while I’m gone.”

  “Gone? Where the hell—?” The door shuts with a resounding thud, cutting off my question and leaving me alone in his study. A glutton for punishment, I chase after him, but as I should have expected, I don’t find him. I return to his office and explore the clutter of papers, but I see nothing that suggests where he went or who Tobias is.

  The next day, the storm in Leah’s eyes has returned. We sit in silence at the kitchen table. Leah stares at her plate of scrambled eggs, pushing the fluffy lumps around with her fork. Ever since she woke, her expression has remained haunted, trepidation lurking under the surface. Still processing is all she’s told me. In a way, this response has eased my mind. If she had gotten up this morning without a care in the world, that would have been far more worrisome. Fear and edginess are natural reactions to everything that happened to her yesterday.

  While eating a bowl of Cap’n Crunch, I’m distracted now and again by Otmar as he digs his way through the contents of the refrigerator. I watch as he removes each container. After examining each one, he opens the lid and sniffs. Every time, he scrunches his nose and, with a curse, thrusts it back into the fridge.

  “Here you are,” Kemisi says, appearing in the doorway. Her face glows, but something about the smile looks fake, almost forced. “I want to go over a few things with you after breakfast.”

  Leah peers up as Kemisi slips into the chair by her side before turning her attention back to her eggs.

  “Don’t worry,” Kemisi adds. “It will be fun. Artagan suggested I teach you my specialty.”

  “He’s back, then,” I say.

  Kemisi offers me an apologetic smile. “No, Artagan texted me.”

  “What do you mean? Where is he?” Leah asks, her eyes snapping up from her untouched plate.

  Kemisi’s smile turns serious, her amber gaze unsettled. “In typical Artagan fashion, he left that part out,” she says. “And if experience holds true, I don’t expect him back anytime soon. He put me in charge of your training until his return.”

  Leah glances from Kemisi to me, her eyes wide with surprise. “Did you know?”

  I nod but then feel the need to clarify. “He mentioned late last night he was leaving, but that’s all. I hoped he’d be back this morning. But it seems—” I frown.

  Leah’s animated eyes turn dark with thought as they drift away from me, resting sightlessly out a window at the far end of the kitchen. I touch her arm. She gives me a brief, distracted glance and tries to smile.

  “One more thing,” Kemisi says. “I hope you understand, Jack, but I can’t allow you to accompany Leah on any more gatherings.”

  I answer her with a quick bob of my head.

  “Why not?” Leah’s voice spikes with agitation. “It’s not Jack’s fault Artagan took off.”

  “It’s nothing personal. But he is Artagan’s descendant, not mine, and I don’t break the rules for anyone.”

  “Don’t break the rules, huh?” Otmar chimes in, setting a Tupperware container of leftovers on the table and slumping into a chair next to me. “So Death knows Artagan skipped town and you’re covering for him?”

  “Hush. You’re just pissed because he didn’t ask you to take charge,” Kemisi says.

  Otmar grumbles something under his breath.

  Kemisi smirks. Clearing her throat, she continues. “Like I was saying, today will be fun. I’m going to teach you to fight. Artagan believes a knife would be the best weapon for you. And I agree.”

  Leah pulls and twists at a strand of hair, her eyes falling away again.

  “Don’t worry,” Kemisi reassures her. “After a few lessons, you’ll know how to defend yourself. Just in case.”

  “Isn’t there anything Death can do?” I say.

  Otmar snorts. “To control Muan? No. The Soulless have always been out of his control. Whether Death likes to admit that or not is another story.”

  With the picture of Leah clutched in Muan’s arms still fresh in my mind, I tighten the grip on my spoon. “I’ll tell you what. If that black-eyed demon wants to get to her again, he’ll have to go through me.”

  Kemisi’s expression pinched, she stares at me. “When Muan comes calling next time—which he will—he’ll wait until she’s alone again. If nothing else, he is a creature of habit.”

  I sigh. “I only meant—”

  “Besides,” Kemisi continues, cutting me off, “the knight-in-shining-armor sentiment is sweet, but damn boring if you’re the damsel. Sometimes the woman wants to be in on the action, likes doing some of the saving herself. Am I right, Leah?”

  Leah nods in affirmation, a smile playing around the edges of her lips.

  Otmar leans close. “See what I’ve been dealing with all these years?” The brawny Viking’s grin widens, indicating that he’s joking, but that doesn’t stop Kemisi from scowling at him. Unconcerned, his attention returns to the plastic container on the table, and he pokes at the contents with his fork. “What is this?”

 
“Brussels sprouts and tofu stir-fry,” Kemisi says.

  Otmar puckers his mouth up as if he just tasted a lemon. “Better suited for a cow. A man needs red meat.”

  “First off, it wasn’t for you. That was my lunch,” Kemisi says. “And second, if you don’t like what I cook, get off your lazy ass and use the damn stove.”

  Otmar shrugs and shoves a large forkful into his mouth, chewing it noisily.

  “Eat up. You’ll need your strength.” Kemisi smiles, and her attention darts back and forth between Otmar and me. “I’m in need of two assistants.”

  “She means training dummies,” Otmar says, scooping up another mouthful.

  After breakfast, Kemisi has Otmar and me move the black lacquered coffee table from the center of the front parlor, and the lesson begins.

  “Knives are light, easy to control. Because of your size, once trained, you should be quick,” Kemisi says. The golden blade of her dagger gleams as she removes it from a leather sheath concealed by a flowing blouse. She balances the hilt on her finger, just an inch from the blade. “The balancing point. This is where you want to grip your knife. That way it will fit relaxed in your hand. We’ll focus on the underhand thrust,” she instructs as she demonstrates. “An overhand strike is perfect as long as your opponent is smaller. But since most of your rivals will be closer to Otmar’s size, you’ll only want to use it after you’ve taken them to the ground.”

  Leah stares up at the Viking’s considerable height, comparing their size difference. She glances at Kemisi with a quizzical frown. “You can take him to the ground?”

  Kemisi reaches up and grabs Otmar by the shoulder. With a pendulum swing of her leg, she kicks him along the calf, knocking him off balance. His back hits the floor, pushing air from his lungs in a sudden burst.

  “Size doesn’t matter as much as technique,” she says with a smile. “Gravity always wins.”