Witchwood and Seabound

by Ethan Proud

  After hours of scrying for the vulkodlak she gave up. Another being was interfering with her search. She scrunched her face, certain she knew the culprit. Nonetheless, she had a devil to call.

  The witch focused on the demon she was seeking as she pulled a bag of knuckle bones from a drawer. The bones had belonged to a human, one who had not understood the severity of the word ‘no’. Artemisia had to teach him to respect her answer and he had never gotten past the attempt to touch her. She smirked at the idea of explaining the obviously human bones to Ruckstead. A man bound by law did not understand the intricacies of the gray matter between right and wrong. The gray matter was where life occurred. Pulling the nine bones from the bag, she breathed life into them and petitioned their help. The nine bones belonged to the index, middle, ring fingers and one thumb of her ill-fated harasser.

  Shaking them in her hands she cast them across her table. She surveyed their placement and fetched a deck of cards. She correlated the cards to the bones on the table. Three in one heap, she dealt three cards. The third turned face up. The next grouping of bones was two. She lay down two cards, the second face up. The last bone pile was a clump of four, and the fourth card was face up. She surveyed the cards, they could be deceptive. Many tarot readers had found that the cards had not obeyed their interpretations and found the results fatal. The cards before her were the Knight of Swords, the Tower reversed, and the Empress.

  The meaning was obvious to her. The Knight of Swords represented a hasty young man, who sowed dissension in his wake and was a master manipulator. He was the demon Vahrun. The Tower reversed was the fourth plane, the most devastated and wasted of the planes. The Empress was Artemisia. Or at least she liked to think so. She believed that intention ruled the cards and trusting your instincts allowed them to guide you.

  She started a pot of mugwort and valerian root tea. She excluded henbane, which she often sold her customers who wished to travel the planes. It increased hallucinations and inexperienced travelers would believe that they had seen many more planes than they had been to. In reality, it was difficult to get past the second plane. The second plane was nearly identical to the first and mimicked the realm humans were used to. The third realm was where lost spirits went to rest, and the fourth was defended by demons and the ilk of the gods. The fifth plane was the gateway to the sixth plane and was a labyrinth. The sixth and seventh planes were occupied by the gods, the lesser of which lived on the sixth. The seventh was the most difficult to access by mortals, unless summoned.

  Artemisia downed the drought in one smooth mouthful and waited for its effects to take hold. Serenely, she felt her soul split from her body, though her intangible form still flirted with the boundaries of her physical body. As the brew took effect her astral traveler grew so distant that it no longer felt her physical body. Unlike Mission, who had to travel from plane to plane by doors, Artemisia could travel like flipping pages in a book. Vahrun was on the fourth plane so she focused on that damned landscape.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and willed her ethereal form into that realm. She opened her eyes and smiled at her achievement. Despite feeling pleasure at her success, the fourth plane was not a pleasant place to be. As far as Artemisia could tell, she was within a body. Wandering within a larger organism. The vein laced ground pulsed with blue rivers as broad as her shoulders, while the ground was a reddish brown that shifted and burped with every flow of the varicose rivers. A yellowish fluid a foot deep coated the ground, the smell of it reminding her strongly of vinegar. Trees comprised of bones stood in stark contrast to the ground. The trees were white, dry, and brittle while the ground was very much alive, moist and moving. The skeletal growths swayed in an imaginary breeze, while mammatus clouds of lipids reached from the angry sky of veins and fluid sacs and touched the ground. Blackened blebs rained from the sky and broke apart in seas of spider as they touched the acrid water covering the ground. Nettle cloak and sage crown in hand, Artemisia focused on the demon she needed. Without a doubt, Vahrun had already sensed her presence and was crossing the boundaries of the fourth plane to find her.

  She felt tremors through the bulbous and bloated skein beneath her feet. She smiled grimly. Opening her eyes, she greeted the incoming demon. He walked casually, the urgency to capture Mission and hold him prisoner did not apply to Artemisia. The witch splayed her hands in an ironic gesture of welcome. The demon mimicked her two-fold with four hands waving welcome. The three-eyed cat demon smiled sickly.

  “Artemisia, to what do I owe this pleasure? If it can even be called such a thing,” the demon Vahrun said.

  “A house-call, nothing more. I only wished to check in on your good health.” Artemisia smiled, though there was no warmth in her eyes.

  “You might as well call me a fool now if you think for a second I will believe you.” The demon’s third eye blinked closed, though the other two remained trained on the witch. “How is my brother?”

  “He is well, though he wished you would stop inquiring after him. Alas, this visit is not for him, it is you that I need.” Artemisia’s expression turned hard.

  “I would rather let Detrita devour me whole and rend my existence to pieces,” Vahrun answered sourly. A growth of teeth near his clavicle gnashed angrily.

  “Be careful. A goddess as powerful as her can hear you speak ill here,” the witch warned.

  Vahrun snorted in response. “You know that shredding you limb from limb wouldn’t be a fate worth your vileness. You must have more to offer me than mere conversation.” Vahrun’s third eye opened with a sick squelching sound.

  “It is true that I need your help, but I have little to offer,” the witch started.

  “Your cousin would be ample payment,” the demon said as he turned and strode off. “He will try to travel the planes again, and the next time I will catch him.”

  Artemisia laughed a lilting sound and cast the cloak of nettles over the demon’s shoulders. With a cry he sank to his knees and the witch gently set the crown of sage across his brow.

  “Vahrun, you should know better than to underestimate me. I may have nothing to offer you, but you have everything I need. With the binding power of the urtica, and the banishing power of the sage, I have you just where I want you.” She waved sarcastically and bowed to the bound demon. Closing her eyes, she focused on returning to the first plane. Above her, the varicose and lipid dotted sky collapsed to her feet.

  ***

  With a shudder, Artemisia returned to the first plane. Her skin felt clammy and warm at once, as if a lukewarm slime had been placed over her entire body. To clear her mind, she drank a potion of rosemary and osha. She stood, and stretching, touched her toes before spreading her arms, straightening her back and raising her hands to bring them to a close directly above her head. She flexed each finger individually and clenched each successive muscle. Cracking her neck, she felt a cool fluid flood from her brain down to her shoulders, though it could have been her imagination.

  On her window sill, Volker mewled plaintively with a vole in his mouth.

  “Stay in the garden and you will be fine,” she said as she searched her cupboard for chalk made from calcium and limestone. Once she located that tool, she pushed the bookcase and descended into her cellar. Artemisia emerged and drew the required symbols to summon Vahrun. When she had finished, she wiped a chalk laden hand across her face and took a deep breath. A knock at the door made her curse the sheriff. He truly had the worst timing.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Artemisia warned.

  Ruckstead looked past the witch at the chalk pentagram drawn behind her. At each of the star’s points, a rune was drawn. Between the runes were the pickled feet of a frog, a salamander, a rat, a rabbit, and a crow.

  “I have seen enough monsters lately. One more won’t scare me,” Ruckstead said adamantly.

  “You have only seen a taste of what the planes have to offer.” Artemisia’s resolve was just as strong as the sheriff’s.


  “Summon your demon. I am not leaving,” the sheriff answered. He noted the lack of salt around the summoning circle. In all the lore and superstition he had heard, a ring of salt prevented a demon from entering the mundane world. He was discovering just how magical the human realm was. “No salt?”

  Artemisia smiled grimly. “My dear sheriff, a ring of salt would prevent Vahrun from entering our plane. We need his help to slay the vulkodlak.”

  “Is that wise?” the sheriff asked, debating his decision to stay.

  “It is either call the demon here or return to the fourth plane and release his bonds. I would much rather treat with the demon in our realm and its familiar rules.” Artemisia’s steely gaze implied that she would not wish to return to free the demon from his bonds.

  “If you insist that we cannot kill Hugh’s returned form without the demon’s help, I will trust you,” Sheriff Ruckstead said and the witch nearly fainted.

  She crossed the room when her shock has subsided and pulled Occult Secrets from her bookshelf. She flipped to the appropriate page and began an incantation. The light from the sun waned, and the cabin became as dark as night. Candles at each of the pentagram’s point flared with green flames. The animal feet rattled against the ground, the sound they created like a herd of cattle thundering down an arroyo. At the center of the demonic sign, a black mist began pouring as the floor dissolved, pieces of board and nails falling into the swirling pit beneath. Artemisia’s chant grew louder, though the tongue was foreign to Ruckstead and sounded like gibberish. His skin grew pale at the thought of the demon that would soon emerge. From the interplanal tunnel, four hands reached up and gripped the floor that remained. Next a pair of ears emerged and a single eye, followed by two more orbs. The feline face crested the floor, followed by the massive chest and shoulders of the beast. Vahrun pushed himself from the portal and it sealed behind him as Artemisia stopped the spell. The demon still wore the sage crown and the nettle cloak, and his eyes burned with fury.

  “Welcome to the first plane,” Artemisia said pleasantly.

  Vahrun growled and turned towards Ruckstead. He eyed the sheriff up and down, and the man was proud that he didn’t quiver or cry in alarm at the sight of the being.

  “What is it that you want?” Vahrun addressed the witch.

  “Kill a vulkodlak and you may return home. Until the beast is dead, you will be trapped here.” The witch’s voice was steady and she stood tall in the face of the demon. Ruckstead was amazed by her fortitude. She must have had many dealings with monsters to be so brave. Not to mention commanding.

  “And I suppose you won’t free me from this ring either until I agree?” Vahrun seethed.

  “That is correct. But once you swear your oath, you are bound to the mission anyways. Either you remain in the pentagram until I grow tired of your company or you swear fealty to me and my quest.”

  “I will help you. When it’s complete, I will be bringing my brother home with me,” Vahrun said and spoke in the demonic tongue.

  Satisfied with the oath, Artemisia stepped forward and wiped her foot across one edge of the pentagram, opening a gate for the demon to cross.

  Ruckstead felt pressure build in his ears. The air became tangible around the demon, like a barrier he had to physically break. It coalesced around his body like a film and stretched and moaned as he crossed the planes. The sheriff’s ears popped as the air shimmered once last time around the demon. Vahrun was on the first plane.

  “I hope you know what you are doing…” Ruckstead said leerily as the demon eyed him up and down. One of the toothy growths clicked together as Vahrun weighed the sheriff in his mind.

  “I like this one,” the demon rumbled. “Before I return home, I will eat him.”

  “You will never return home unless I will it,” Artemisia said in a steely voice.

  “Arrogant as always. You humans always think of yourselves as the center of the universe. Hardly leaving your home plane,” the demon said derisively, but his stare had not left the sheriff.

  “And I am the exception to that rule. I have bartered with the gods and returned.” Her brown eyes bored holes into the side of the demon’s head, who still held his hungry gaze on the sheriff.

  “Don’t let them hear your blasphemy,” the demon countered. “One ill wish from them and this cottage will be buried.”

  “You are bound to me for the moment, and will look at me while I am speaking,” Artemisia commanded. With a crackling of vertebrae, Vahrun set his eyes upon her. Ruckstead was relieved that the demon’s abysmal eyes were no longer locked on his. Artemisia continued, “You look hideous. That form will hardly do for this plane.”

  Vahrun smiled grimly. “I suppose I should look like one of you.”

  Artemisia did not answer, but instead crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently. The demon bowed so low that Ruckstead thought the sage crown would fall to the ground, but it stayed put on his brow. Vahrun’s skin began to bubble and stretch and the teeth that jutted from his elbows, sternum, and all other unmentionable crannies receded back into his skeleton. His ears shrank, rounded and warped into shapes unmistakably human. His sharp teeth shrank and blunted, and his eyes turned from a yellow-green to a caramel color. His second pair of arms shriveled, deflated and wriggled back into his torso and his cat like paws stretched, twisted and became human.

  The transmogrification only took a matter of seconds before a man stood before them. His eyes were the lightest shade of brown possible, his skin a shade of brown so light and golden he gleamed in the cabin. His teeth were perfect, white, and straight… something few in Northgate could boast. His hair was a tawny brown that fell about his shoulders. About his head he wore a laurel of white gold hammered in the likeness of sage. Upon his shoulders was a cloak, pleated with the leaves of nettles around the collar and long corrugated striations inlaid with silver ran along its length. He wore a necklace of teeth, some belonging to humans, bears, and elk. The rest of his clothes were of the finest silk and felt, earthy tones were reflected throughout his attire.

  “Is this more to your liking?” he sneered in Artemisia’s direction.

  From the garden, Volker yowled.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Mission sat in his apartment on the Oyster Shell block. The room was lit by a single candle and the blinds were drawn. His apartment was a single room with molding walls and a single window, his bed positioned near the orifice so he could dispose of the contents of his chamber pot into the gutter of Raven’s Barrow. He had a ledger opened in front of him full of runes and sketches, he copied many of the figures into a journal of his own, practicing the careful strokes of incantations and diligently copying botanical sketches of herbs and plants containing cosmic powers. He didn’t rightfully understand how Artemisia showed such mastery of the natural world, but he was determined to find out.

  The apartment he rented was owned by the Weston Family and the price was extremely reasonable, if not downright cheap. For three silver pieces a month he could live in this shithole. He could afford more, he made more than a pretty penny selling second rate herbs and potions he altered and watered down from Artemisia’s own stores. In truth, he liked the dirty existence he led, and no one trusted a rich witch. Not that he was a witch, the male correspondence was a warlock, though he didn’t feel qualified to title himself as such. He was a cutpurse, a cheat, and a bottom feeder. Had his parents survived past his third birthday he would have been one of the richest men in Northgate. His father had been a native, or as native as one could get, and owned several businesses from blacksmithing to horse breeding. His mother had been the love child of a migrant worker and a widowed farm-wife who had inherited the homestead upon both of her parent’s deaths.

  An ashtray near overflowing began to rattle and Mission strode across the single room and opened the door. He had enchanted the tray to warn him of visitors, though it had taken him many months to perfect the ritual personification of the glass.

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sp; “De’lune,” he said pleasantly after he opened the door. She stepped listlessly into the apartment. He immediately felt conscious of the piles of clothes, plate of half-eaten food, and the brimming ashtray.

  “Mission.” She seemed troubled. Something was on her mind.

  “What can I do you for?” he asked, though he only wanted to do one thing for her.

  “I don’t need anything this time, though your company is always appreciated.” Her smile was bashful, but it only lasted a second. “If I give you information, can we keep its source between us?”

  “Anything for you…” he began lamely.

  She smiled tersely. “The Killdeers are dead.” Turning, she left Mission standing dumbfounded in his apartment.

  After he recovered from his shock, he figured it was best to ignore her warning. He sat back at his desk and started to copy the latest rune, one for healing, when he remembered his cousin’s alliance with the sheriff.

  “Dammit,” he swore and pulled a jacket free from a hook on the wall.

  ***

  Knocking on the door of the jail, Mission felt extremely uncomfortable. Not only did a voluntary visit to the sheriff skew his reputation, but he had also remained locked in the jail for mere days shy of a month.

  Deputy James Kerfield opened the door with a droll expression. “Come back for a visit?”

  “Very clever trick Artemisia had for escaping, don’t you think?” Mission said with equally dry humor.

  At that, Kerfield broke into a broad smile. “And I thought you had finally mastered the dark arts…”

  Mission snorted. “I’m not coming for a pleasant visit. Where is Ruckstead?”

  “Out. Whatever message you bear can be left with me,” James said as professionally as he could.

  Mission shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, before he decided to pass on the news and be rid of his responsibility.