by Ethan Proud
“Do not.” It was a command, and the sheriff halted but did not withdraw his hand.
“It is evidence. I have to take it.” Ruckstead made to brush Artemisia’s ring laden hand away but she only tightened her grip.
“If you touch it, you will be cursed. If you take it, you will never be rid of it,” the witch warned.
The sheriff straightened. “The wolfskin? That is only an old wives’ tale.” Yet he did not make any other attempt to pick up the pelt.
“We are in the middle of an old wives’ tale. Don’t be a fool, if you so much as touch it I will no longer offer my help.” Artemisia’s threat was dire. Just as she finished, beautiful music played on a lute floated on the breeze into the den. It was so faint it could have been their imagination. The skin prickled across their scalps down their entire bodies as every hair stood on end. Artemisia said through a dry mouth, “The magic is still strong in here. We should leave.”
Ruckstead assented without complaint. Outside the air was crisp and clean. The sheriff’s shirt stuck to his back and he realized he had been sweating while in the cave. Watching them from a nearby ponderosa, seven barred owls stared darkly before taking flight.
Chapter Five
Magpies, crows, and ravens squabbled over the offal discarded behind the butcher shop. Mission casually stepped over the meat scraps and kicked one of the birds that wasn’t paying enough attention. The small animal puffed up its feathers in an attempt to look intimidating and let out the loudest hiss it could muster. Mission’s pierced lip broke out into a wry grin. Crow pie wasn’t so bad. The butcher exited his shop with another pail and tossed it into the mass of greedy birds. They shrieked with excitement. The butcher was a large man, as all butchers should be, bald, and wearing a white smock stained with blood. He glowered at Mission and the young man returned the stare from beneath the cowl of his riding cloak. Except he didn’t have a horse, so it was more of a walking cloak.
With the butcher behind him, Mission continued towards his older cousin’s cabin. He had a few more customers for her and they were not looking for the usual tinctures and salves. He had their list of requests in the pocket of his mud-stained breeches. Looking skyward, he prayed that the clouds would not let loose any rain today. Or hail for that matter. Three days ago, a storm had forced everyone inside after eyeball sized chunks of ice began raining from the sky. No dark ominous clouds announced its coming either. The sky was as blue as it got in Northgate and there was no preluding rain. Just hail.
Once he was out of town, Mission headed north down the cobblestone road. Along its margin he spotted a few puffballs and plucked them from the earth. Like a good forager, he left a third of the mushrooms to spread their spores. His long legs made quick time and soon he was among the brambles and pines. The well-worn trail to Artemisia’s cabin had been traveled by many, even though most were reluctant to admit it. A quarter-mile later, he found himself staring at Newt and a strange horse in the paddock. Wineae and Ruckstead were no stranger to Mission, but it was strange to see either of them at Artemisia’s homestead. The young man stalked to the door and listened intently before opening it. They were conversing mildly, which was enough to cue Mission into whatever weirdness was going on. He pushed the door open without bothering to knock.
The sheriff’s face darkened, and Artemisia said, “Ruckstead, I think it is time you took your leave.”
“I’d hate to have to arrest you, I was thinking that perhaps I had judged you prematurely,” Ruckstead said as he eyed Mission. If Artemisia and the sheriff didn’t see eye to eye often, then he and Mission were archenemies.
“I’d only have to escape again. But as I said, your leave.” Her reply was curt, but not hostile.
“If our hunt ends well, you will have to let me know how you did it.” The sheriff tipped his hat and stepped across the threshold. The door closed behind him and Mission turned to his cousin.
“Why was he here?”
“Werewolves have taken up residence in Northgate,” Artemisia answered as if it were a daily occurrence. “Now why are you here?”
“I found a few more customers for you,” Mission said as he pulled his hood back. His dark, sallow skin stood in contrast to Artemisia’s porcelain complexion. Dirtying the bloodline had never concerned her family. Legend had it, her grandmother had sired their parents with a demon brood. Most dismissed it as legend.
“You should not fraternize with people like that,” she tsked. She knew what kind of customers he meant. If they had needed a sleeping draught or a bone-mend remedy he would have said it.
“You are people like that,” he protested.
“I stand by my words. What do they need?” She turned and faced a bookcase easily two feet taller than her and laden with books. The spines were adorned with words like: Herbs and Animism, Occult Secrets, Woodland Foragers, and some that were written in runes and strange languages. She pushed the bookcase aside as if only turning a page. The runners beneath allowed it to slide easily and the grease on the wheels ensured it did not squeak. Behind the bookcase was a stairwell leading to a root cellar, containing the witch’s darker secrets. If only the sheriff knew that he only had to brush the bookcase to give him enough evidence to hang the witch.
“They want a little bit of everything. Say they need to summon a demon,” Mission answered. “They paid handsomely.”
The witch slid the bookcase back in place. “We’ll give them enough to scare them.” She smiled devilishly.
She drifted over to a shelf laden with jars containing herbs. She pressed a finger to her lips before unscrewing one lid. “Henbane.”
She opened two more. “Mugwort, valerian root.”
Musing for a moment more, she found a jar of salt gathered from the coast twenty miles east.
“And a final touch.” She pushed the bookcase back open and disappeared into the cellar for a moment before emerging with a vial of red liquid. “Blood of a virgin.”
“Isn’t that your own blood?” Mission asked wryly.
Artemisia lightly smacked him on the arm. “It matters not where it came from. If they do it right, they’ll project their astral travelers into the second plane.” She put the plant matter in a small burlap sack and handed it to her cousin.
“Any chance they’ll get stuck?” Mission asked.
“A traveler is only as limited as the imagination of the individual. If they get trapped in a plane it is only a result of their lack of ingenuity,” Artemisia said, though she didn’t sound too concerned. “However, I would not sample this batch. Henbane and valerian root promise for violent hallucinations.”
“Not interested in return customers?”
“Not the kind who want to summon a demon. But if a brush with fiends is what they want, they’ll come back,” she assured him.
“I found these.” Mission changed the subject and proffered the mushrooms.
Artemisia’s eyes alighted. “Go pick some vegetables and greens from the garden, I will get the stove going.”
***
An hour later the vegetables and mushrooms had been sautéed and laid out on a bed of dandelion, chicory, and lambs-quarter. A reduction made of raspberry and red wine was drizzled over the top, complementing the meaty flavor and aroma of the fungi with a subtle sweetness. Mission devoured his plate in a manner that only a young man could, while Artemisia delicately ate her portion. She lived a refined lifestyle despite dwelling in the woods.
Had his appetite been weaker, the specimens preserved in jars would have turned Mission’s stomach. However, his food had been wolfed down in a matter of seconds. Living on Raven’s Barrow, Mission had seen his fair share of disturbing events and humans. Volker purred and weaved his way between Mission’s boots. He wiped his mouth and bid his cousin farewell, but not before she had given him an armful of potions to sell to his fellow urchins. He was a traveling apothecary for the poor, and his reputation had been bolstered because of his relation to the witch.
Upon Mission’s
departure, Artemisia blew out a sigh and ran a hand through her silvery blonde hair. Werewolves in Northgate. How they got here or what had drawn them in, she had no clue. It did not bode well for the citizens of the town. Without a doubt the Cronleys would have to sell their meager farm or scrape enough money together to buy another herd. Hopefully Ruckstead would help them wrangle up the prodigal cattle who had escaped into the forest. If not, another generational family would be forced to bow to the businessmen’s will.
Her mind traveled to the sheriff. He must have been desperate to enlist her aid. Especially in a public matter. Artemisia couldn’t count on one hand how many times she had been arrested. She had eluded incarceration a number of times because Ruckstead had some sort of conscience and released her at the edge of the forest. He had made her walk back, though. Artemisia snorted at the recollection. He had probably only released her due to her numerous successful escapes. It had probably been more out of pride than a guilty conscience. Ruckstead was bound by the law and he had little time for the gray matter between black and white. The witch, on the other hand, dwelled there and seldom ventured from it. The irony of the two pairing together was not lost on her.
***
It came as no surprise to Mission that the sheriff was waiting for him at the city limits. Ruckstead had a cigar pursed between his lips, which he ashed to punctuate the arrival of the miscreant.
“Sheriff Ruckstead. What a surprise,” Mission said drolly.
“I wish it was a surprise every time I had to stop you from doing something stupid. What’s in the pack?” Ruckstead stuck out a hand but Mission was reluctant to acquiesce.
“Better alternatives to smoke than tobacco,” Mission retorted but stood fast.
“As if. I would never smoke any of your cousin’s wares.” The sheriff chuckled slightly, but his eyes were not kind. “You don’t want to involve yourself with the people you have.”
“Art tried to warn me the same thing,” Mission said with the defiance of youth, though he could no longer use age as an excuse, he was twenty-three after all. Still dumb enough to make mistakes.
“She doesn’t know who you rendezvoused with. I do. The upper-class is not to be trifled with.” His gray eyes simmered beneath his brow.
“You fancy yourself one of them, don’t you?” Mission challenged.
The sheriff only sighed. “The prostitutes who find their throats slit in the streets aren’t treating with the commoners. It’s the rich who obey their own rules. The rest of us must abide.”
“Very philosophical. Why do you care?” Mission asked, the interest the sheriff was showing out of character.
“I don’t care,” Ruckstead stated. “However, I need your cousin’s help. Which means it is in my best interest that I don’t have to arrest you or fish you from the gutter. I dislike you and your kin. But if you refuse to show me the contents of your bag, then I can only say I told you so.” He pulled on the reins and his horse trotted down the road.
Mission stood there dumbstruck. He pondered the entire exchange and wondered whether or not he should return to Artemisia’s and tell her of the conversation. He dismissed the idea. He had customers to see and it was getting late. Leaving those doorsteps would get him arrested without a second’s hesitation. Then again, with the sheriff needing Artemisia’s help, Mission practically had immunity. He smirked, devious thoughts running through his mind.
Chapter Six
With Wineae washed and contentedly munching oats and molasses, Ruckstead retired to his modest home. His wife’s garden boasted a fair harvest of tomatoes and corn, though the potatoes hadn’t done very well this year. The leaves were wilted and covered with a pale blight, which she had diligently prevented from spreading to the tomatoes. The two chickens she kept clucked as if to say hello as he approached the door. A stack of firewood was positioned on the south side of the house in preparation for winter’s arrival.
“I’m home,” he announced.
“Wilder! Was beginning to wonder if you’d ever come home,” Gertrude teased. She spirited over to his side and placed a hand on his chest while standing on her tiptoes to kiss him on the lips. She had hazel eyes and long, dark hair that cascaded down to her waist when she released it from her neat bun. Their two-year old son, Benjamin, tottered over as quickly as he could manage, squawking the closest word to Dad he could muster.
“I agree it was a long day,” Ruckstead said as he scooped Benjamin up in his arms. “We had a slew of murders last night.”
“Murder!” Benjamin squealed and Gertrude frowned.
“It’s just a word. He’ll learn more,” Wilder said in defense.
Gertrude laughed. “That’s not what upsets me. What’s going on in our little town? The last three years have seen some terrible crimes.”
“It comes with the growth. Once the businessmen grow tired, they will leave, and Northgate will be forgotten as another small, quiet town,” he assured her with a smile.
“Why doesn’t Mayor Kerrick let you kick them out then?” she asked.
“Because Mayor Kerrick makes money off them, and them leaving town is bad for the mayor.”
“And anything bad for the mayor is bad for you.” Gertrude laughed easily before changing the subject to one more dire. “Who did we lose last night?”
“The Hartschoffs and half of the Cronley’s cattle,” Ruckstead answered.
“The entire family?!” The disbelief was evident in her spread hands. “Who would do that?”
“Not a who, but a what. Er, two whats. You might want to sit down,” the sheriff warned his wife.
“Did you catch them?” she pressed.
“No… I had to… ask for some help.” Ruckstead was reluctant to let his wife know who he had asked for aid.
“Artemisia.” Gertrude raised her eyebrow. “You are too quick to dismiss her expertise and wisdom.”
“She is a criminal and witchcraft is an abomination. She is lucky to have avoided a hanging all these years,” he said firmly.
“And we are lucky to have our son. It is because of her that he is alive.” Gertrude’s hands went to her hips.
“I have never arrested her for being an herbalist. Only a witch.” Ruckstead raised his hands in defense. Gertrude snorted in response.
“Enough talking on the day’s work. You must be starving.”
Ruckstead smiled, Gertrude never spent much time arguing and often diffused a fight before voices had even been raised.
***
The morning sun rose, and the smell of eggs, toast, and sausage permeated the Ruckstead’s home. They spoke between mouthfuls and Gertrude was multitasking, eating with her left hand while cradling a breastfeeding Ben with the right. Wilder wiped his face with a napkin after he finished his meal, took his plate over to a wash bin, kissed Gertrude goodbye and headed to saddle Wineae. If Artemisia had been right, there would be no corpses waiting to be discovered this morning. Stepping into the stirrup and swinging his leg over, the sheriff settled into the saddle and cantered over to the jail. He hated that right in front of his workplace the gibbets swung in the wind, but it came with the profession.
Deputy James Kerfield was already in the office, reading the weekly newspaper, the Northgate Courant. The jail’s only current occupant, Jon Wells, spat profanities as the sheriff entered.
“You’ll be out in a few hours, Wells. Just stop passing out in the gutters, next time we won’t be as charitable to bring you in from the cold,” Ruckstead said wearily.
The man let out an exasperated sigh, he was probably still drunk. He was usually amiable enough, but after he had been in his drinks he turned meaner than sin.
“Good morning, Sheriff.” Kerfield on the other hand had an indomitably good attitude.
“Mornin’,” Ruckstead grunted. “Anyone request our service this morning?”
“No, it’s still early though. Think there’ll be any more bodies today?” James asked.
“Not for another month, I don’t think.”
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“Another month?! After yesterday’s showing, I think we have a serial killer on our hands.”
The deputy’s observation was astute, but he didn’t know the witch’s revelations and Ruckstead wasn’t sure he was willing to let the young man know. Nor was James privy to every going-on in Northgate. Some things came with the status of Town Sheriff. Besides, Ruckstead knew plenty of secrets that would turn the still green deputy’s stomach. He could afford to be idealistic for a few more years. His mentor, on the other hand, couldn’t shy away from the nitty gritty. Then again, werewolves had been mere folklore until two nights ago.
Ruckstead sat down at his desk and pulled out a map of the plats within the town limits. Both the Hartschoff Manor and Cronley Ranch were on the southern end of town and were to the north of the Coprinia Mountain Range. The Cronley’s land lay to the west while the manor dominated much of the land between the mountains and town. It didn’t make sense for the perpetrators to cross town, transform in the mountains, wreak havoc, return to the mountain cave, and cross town covered in blood and gore. The lycanthropes had to live on a lot near the destruction. One property lay between the Hartschoff and Cronley’s. The Miser family. As their name suggested, they were poor, uneducated, and had recently sold their farm and moved into town.
Ruckstead would have to search the town’s record hall to determine who had bought it, but if Artemisia was right and they had some level of control they would not attack the abutting properties. The sheriff began surveying the properties on the east side of the town. Many of the families had been permanent fixtures of Northgate for many years and did not fit the bill of recent additions. Three landowners struck Ruckstead as possible suspects: the Killdeers, Westons, and Rameks. The Killdeers were an odd family, they claimed to have been sailors on the continent’s east coast, though Ruckstead presumed they were retired pirates. The Westons and Rameks were both business families and neither were trusted within the tightknit community. Undoubtedly one of these three families would house the culprits. Finding out which one would prove difficult.
