by Ethan Proud
“She has been arrested before, but she always escapes. If we can’t hold her, what is the point of incarceration?” Mayor Kerrick asked.
“Holding a woman as powerful as she? That is tomfoolery. I believe that the laws of Northgate mandate the death penalty for witchcraft,” Swain said slyly.
“We would have to hold a trial…” the mayor said, tugging at his beard.
The hair on the back of Swain’s neck prickled. He stood to his feet and crossed the room to stand before the window. On the street below him, Hugh stalked. His hair was matted from the rain and blood ran from his jaws, while he dragged the corpse of a commoner behind him. Steam rose from the wolf’s back as the storm intensified. His entire body was covered in mud, and icicles hung from his chin as the rain shifted to sleet.
Swain motioned for the mayor to join him by the window.
“Have you ever seen a wolf like that?” he asked. Swain gauged the mayor’s terrified expression. He would do whatever Swain urged him to. The Ramek smiled. “Damn a trial. Northgate is long overdue for a hanging.”
The mayor blanched as the werewolf began devouring its victim.
“You are sure Artemisia is to blame for this?” Kerrick asked waveringly.
“Who else?” Swain asked, and the mayor didn’t challenge his assertion.
“I shall summon the sheriff then,” Kerrick said with a sigh and turned from the ghastly sight at his doorstep.
“You must have the warrant written and signed in order for it to be official and documented. I suggest you call your bed-warmer Beatrice over.” Swain smirked.
“Right, right. I’ll have it delivered to him tomorrow,” the mayor murmured.
“No tonight, after the party,” Swain said as he polished off his whiskey and turned to leave.
“What party?” Mayor Kerrick asked in surprise.
“The party you are having tonight, such short notice. I advise you add invitations to Beatrice’s to-do list.” The door swung shut behind the sound of Swain descending the stairs.
Chapter Thirty-seven
A puddle formed underneath the chair Vahrun sat on, his cloak was soaked clean through. The elements of the first plane wouldn’t hinder a demon. It was said that the beings of the first plane were the only mortals, natural deaths didn’t come to the higher beings. One clever demon had disguised himself as a king and ruled across the sea for three hundred years and conquered most of the continent before his timely assassination.
Vahrun’s scrying bowl was placed on the table, filled with the seed pods from beneath the Tree of the Morning.
“You didn’t take any of the blossoms?” he asked.
“Immortality does not appeal to me. Death gives life and each moment meaning. It’s poetic to perish.” Artemisia snorted.
“In that case, one day I hope to give your life meaning,” Vahrun said and he poured the botanical capsules on the floor and crushed them with a booted foot.
“You only ever needed the basin,” Artemisia said crossly and placed her hands on her hips.
“I’m surprised that the binding allowed me to dupe you.” Vahrun bit down on the meat on his thumb until blood filled his mouth. He spat into the bowl and allowed the wound to dribble until the bottom of the basin was an opaque layer of red.
“What is the name of the young man you seek?” Vahrun demanded. Suddenly he pushed the bowl a good foot in front of him and stared at Artemisia with fiery eyes. “Where is Volker? I would very much like to see my brother.”
“That is not up to me,” Artemisia answered. “When he wishes to see you, he will reveal himself. He is near, though.”
“I will not find the vulkodlak until I have seen my brother,” Vahrun said ostentatiously.
Immediately his spine began to tingle with a burning sensation that raced along each of his nerves. The sage crown dropped from his head and fastened around his throat while the cloak wrapped him like a constrictor. He writhed on the floor, the veins in his face and neck bulging while his lips purpled. Artemisia watched passively for a moment before waving her hand, and the enchanted garments returned to their positions and the pain subsided. Vahrun choked for a moment and retched an awful green fluid.
“You will clean that mess up, just as you will fulfill your oath.” Artemisia winced as the demon scooped up the ichor and held it up to his mouth. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and rose to sit in the chair. Artemisia slid the scrying bowl back to him and he placed his hands on either side of it. He shook his head as if clearing the trauma from his mind.
“My previous question, this boy’s name?” He raised an eyebrow to accentuate his point.
“The vulkodlak is called Hugh,” Artemisia answered in a steely tone.
“That should be sufficient to locate him,” Vahrun said flexing his fingers.
“He will exude the only aura like his for many miles in any direction. Knowing he is a vulkodlak should be enough,” Artemisia hissed.
“Very well,” Vahrun said and placed his hands against the basin and closed his eyes. Steam rose from the blood and the smell of iron and sulfur filled the air. Spiders crawled from the corners of the cottage and spilled over the demon’s hands, past the lip of the bowl and into the now boiling blood. Artemisia ignored the arachnids, she was certain that most of them had not been natural beings.
Vahrun let go of the basin and the scent of heat began to subside. The blood stopped roiling and bubbling and turned a glassy black. An image formed in the middle and opened like a blooming flower. The vulkodlak Hugh was coated in blood and mud from head to toe, but he wasn’t finished hunting. He stood in the middle of Raven’s Barrow near Oyster Shell block.
“If I’m not mistaken, doesn’t Mission live…” Vahrun began before pointing to a window, “…right there?”
“Go kill that creature right now,” Artemisia commanded.
Vahrun felt the oath compel him, it was an odd sensation. Another will was overriding his own, and he could feel it deep in his bones. His very essence pleaded with him to obey the witch.
“That is not wise. The people of Northgate will see one horror consumed by another. When I leave this plane, it will be apparent who summoned me and you will face the wrath of the townsfolk,” Vahrun said, holding up a finger to stay Artemisia. He could see the rage in her eyes.
“Then you suggest we let the beast kill who it will, and find its den once it has been satisfied?” Artemisia asked incredulously.
“Precisely,” Vahrun said and smiled smugly.
“I agree, we will locate its den and slay it outside of the town. But we will not just wait idly. You will go and drive it from the town without revealing your true form. And you will do so now.”
The force Artemisia had used to command the demon left no room for question. He felt his limbs moving on their own accord as he scooted his chair from the table and stepped out into the sleet and hail.
Vahrun, no matter how compelled he was, would not be walking into town in the current weather. He headed to the stables, and Newt nickered at him gently and regarded him with a wary eye. Vahrun grabbed a fistful of mane and pulled himself onto the horse. He spurred Newt and in a flurry of mud they departed Artemisia’s homestead.
Artemisia’s horse was surefooted and navigated the washed-out road with ease. He neither slipped nor stumbled, and all the while he watched Vahrun with one large, brown eye. Vahrun began to wonder where Artemisia had found such a horse and whether or not he was truly just a horse. It wouldn’t have surprised him if the animal’s origin hadn’t been from a higher plane.
***
Beatrice Axel cowered in the alley that intersected Raven’s Barrow near the Oyster Shell block. A bundle of invitations to a last-minute party were clutched under her arm in a leather bag. The hulking wolf in the street was digging through an overturned carriage, devouring one of the invitation recipients. The horses were still tethered to the tug buckle and could not escape. One of the creatures’ eyes rolled wildly, a tibia sharply
exposed while it struggled in the mud. The driver was crushed underneath the vehicle, drowning and suffocating at the same time as more rain and sleet turned the street into a slurry of freezing, cold mud.
Hugh threw his bloodstained maw into the air and let out a howl worthy of the underworld. He turned his snout up and took several deep breaths before turning his eye to the alley, his ravenous gaze locking onto the mayor’s secretary. Ignoring the horses, the vulkodlak loped over to Beatrice and stood mere feet before her, his putrid breath washing over her in waves. She trembled in fear and could only muster a tiny squeak, let alone a full-fledged scream.
She heard the sloshing gallop of someone riding down the street and prayed it would be Ruckstead, Kerfield, or anyone with a gun. The werewolf paid little heed to this new interloper and crouched down to spring. Beatrice closed her eyes in anticipation of the teeth, when she heard a disgruntled yip from Hugh. A white horse barreled into the side of the creature and knocked him from his feet. Astride the steed was a man of kingly magnificence whose cloak and crown of sage seemed unaffected by the ill weather. His horse wore no tack, and no reins directed the beast, yet the man had expert control of it. He raised both hands and spoke in a foreign tongue. The words were harsh sounding and sent chills running down Beatrice’s spine. The werewolf cowered, tail between its legs, but did not relent. It snapped its teeth and growled at the same time that it was whining. Her rescuer slide from the saddle and calmly approached the werewolf who began to tremble, much as Beatrice had only moments before.
Vahrun placed his palms on either side of the vulkodlak’s face and uttered a word of banishment. The monster let out a scream as it turned tail and fled. Newt snorted behind him and Vahrun felt Artemisia summoning him back through the horse. Swinging back onto the animal, Vahrun paid little heed to the woman in the alley, but she rushed up to him and gently grabbed his ankle.
“Sir, you can’t leave me here!” she exclaimed. “What if it comes back?”
“I can assure you it will not,” Vahrun said, disregarding Beatrice.
“How can you be certain?” she demanded,
“Milady, I approached it on foot and it fled at my mere touch. It will not be coming back anytime soon. Tonight, you can sleep in peace.”
“In that case, I should like to thank you,” Beatrice said, straightening up.
Vahrun saw that if he found humans attractive, that this one would be considered exceedingly so. A plan formed in his head. He had to do Artemisia’s bidding until the vulkodlak was dead, but after that he had no obligation to return to the demon realm.
Vahrun stooped and grasped Beatrice’s hand and raised it to his lips. “It is I who should be thanking you.”
Beatrice’s eyes fluttered for a moment, overcome by awe. “And why would you be thanking me? You saved my life.”
“And you graced me with your beauty, a far greater gift.” Vahrun grimaced once the words had left his mouth. Guile was his strong suit, but wooing was not. Nonetheless, Beatrice seemed pleased with the comment.
The witch’s spell sent a tremor of pain through Vahrun’s bones and he knew that she was watching him. If he didn’t return soon, she would shred him.
“Alas milady, I must be off,” Vahrun said and spurred Newt, leaving Beatrice standing in the mud and rain.
Chapter Thirty-eight
“What is the purpose of this party?” Gertrude asked as Ruckstead pulled a heavy sheepskin duster on over his dress clothes. Gertrude had opted not to attend as there was no reason to drag a small child across town in a rainstorm.
“Mayor Kerrick is as fickle as a fiddle. I’m sure he is simply lonely, and his ailing wife offers little company. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of our guests mistake her for a cushioned bench and sit on her while they polish the mud from their boots,” Ruckstead said as he adjusted the bolo tie around his neck one last time.
His lewd comment earned him a playful smack from Gertrude. He turned and kissed her, cradling her face in both his hands.
“I’ll try not to be too late.” He donned his hat and stepped out into the rain. He saddled Wineae and started across town. When he arrived at the mayor’s home, he could hear the live band playing above the sound of the pouring rain. Lights were on in every room and laughter could be heard drifting from the open windows. A servant took Wineae and led her to the barn which was bigger than Ruckstead’s house.
Inside, Bruna took his jacket and meekly said, “Looking dapper, Mr. Sheriff.”
Ruckstead nodded and complimented her as well out of politeness. She was pretty, but the sheriff had no business handing out kind words to women who weren’t his wife. A slew of coats nearly obscured Missus Kerrick’s prone form lying beneath the hooks they hung from.
“You do clean up nice, Wilder,” Beatrice said when he entered the kitchen. She was pouring herself a glass of wine.
“For the last time, woman, it is Sheriff Ruckstead to you,” he growled. “My wife is just as good a shot as I am.”
Beatrice blanched and stammered, “E-enjoy your e-evening,” as she scurried up the stairs.
Ruckstead poured himself a glass of brandy and took a swig before he headed to the study where the rest of the party goers were undoubtedly fellating their own egos.
Swain caught sight of Ruckstead first, his eyes smoldering smugly. The Ramek wore an olive-green tailcoat, tan trousers and a yellow ascot. The glass of whiskey in his hand was nigh empty. Ruckstead mused whether or not another loose tongue would cost the Ramek family another member.
Swain was conversing with Kerrick and Will Maybury, the town treasurer. The sheriff wanted no part in whatever conversation was taking place. He spotted the attorney, Jackson Stromville, and decided that he would offer the most engaging conversation. The sheriff and attorney rarely agreed upon the implementation or interpretation of the law, but they both had the best interest of Northgate at heart. The attorney saw Northgate as the town and its infrastructure, while the sheriff believed that the town was its people.
“Sheriff Ruckstead,” Jackson said amicably, and shook Ruckstead’s hand. “I hear your office has been busy lately.”
“Probably just as busy as yours is handling the settlements of the farmers and the businessmen,” Ruckstead said and the attorney laughed.
“An endless stream of paperwork and bickering,” Jackson said. “The rules and regulations of this town will throttle any new growth.”
“Some would say that is a good thing,” Ruckstead mused.
“Growth is good for both the economy of this town and our salaries,” Jackson said and took a sip of red wine.
“It also draws in plenty of criminals,” Ruckstead retorted.
“From the looks of the guest list here, we have no shortage of them,” Jackson said disapprovingly.
“And to think, I assumed all lawyers were crooks,” Ruckstead said, grinning.
“Most of us are. I don’t believe that the Law Firm of Johnson, Johnson, and Ferg have defended an innocent man since their licensure,” Jackson said loudly, despite the men in question being only a stone’s throw away. The sheriff and attorney laughed heartily at this, though the statement was hardly humorous.
Mayor Kerrick trundled over to the pair, obviously drunk. “Sheriff Ruckstead, once the party concludes I would like to have a word with you.”
“As you wish,” Ruckstead answered.
The Mayor nodded and teetered off to rub shoulders with someone with a larger bank account than the two town officials.
“And he might be the worst of them all.” Jackson took another sip before continuing, “To hold a party while your wife is dying in the coatroom is a grievous moral offense.”
“Sadly, there are no laws against marital negligence.”
***
The party dragged on until nearly midnight and finally most of the revelers had retired for the evening. Ruckstead was surprised when Beatrice showed herself to the door. Swain Ramek had a final conspiratorial word with the mayor before he too
left.
“This word you requested,” Ruckstead asked of the mayor once they were finally alone.
The mayor’s face was red from the blush of alcohol and it took him a moment before he remembered what he had wished to say. “Yes, yes. After the last few days’ incidents, I believe we have a suspect for these crimes,” Kerrick said and Ruckstead’s eyebrows shot up.
“I am most curious to hear who you have pinpointed for the crimes committed.”
“Artemisia,” Kerrick managed to slur out.
“You cannot be serious. Today a werewolf molested the town and you have the audacity to accuse a simple herbalist,” Ruckstead fumed.
“We both know that she is a witch and her arts run deeper than salves and tinctures,” Mayor Kerrick answered and produced the signed warrant from his coat pocket. “You have no choice other than to arrest her or terminate your contract.”
Ruckstead scanned the document. “This is foolhardy. We can hardly try someone who has a penchant for escaping incarceration.”
“That is why we are not going to try her. The penalty for witchcraft is death. She will be hung or burned at the stake upon her arrest,” the mayor said in all severity.
“I beg of you to reconsider,” Ruckstead said and the mayor couldn’t match his stare. “Swain put you up to this.”
Kerrick didn’t confirm or deny the accusation. “This is a direct order. You must comply or you will be in contempt of the law and your punishment will be similar to the witch’s.”
“It is my duty to uphold the law,” Ruckstead said as he drew his revolver. “It is reluctantly that I do so now.”
The mayor’s eyes grew wide as the gun was leveled at his chest. He opened his mouth to protest but the sound of the gunpowder cut him off. A vermillion bloom blossomed on his chest as he sank in his chair. Ruckstead snatched the warrant from the side table and fed it to the hearth. He turned to leave and saw Bruna’s shocked face in the doorway. The sheriff brushed by her, left the house and found Wineae saddled in the barn. He rode off into the night as sleet continued to drive from the clouds. No good would come from his actions tonight, he was certain. Before he headed home to his wife, he had one more stop to make and it wasn’t to warn the witch Artemisia.
