Between the Shadow and the Soul

by Susanne Winnacker

  Nela froze in the doorway. On the screen was a courtroom of the Brotherhood. The symbol of the Brotherhood – a shield with a red cross on the front and behind it two swords were crossed and dripping blood – hung on the wall over the head of the judge, a Grand Master of the Brotherhood. The symbol was based on the crest of the crusaders – and it made sense. Both the Brotherhood and the crusaders tried to destroy what didn’t fit into their tight corset of beliefs and their passion was bloodshed. They were one and the same. A twinge of unease filled Nela at her traitorous thoughts. If the Brotherhood knew what she was thinking…but her thoughts were still her own, even if her magic and life weren’t. Her tattoo didn’t flare up.

  The judge wasn’t Grand Master Claudius, so the trial wasn’t taking place in Cologne. When the judge finally spoke, Nela realized it was in English. The US flag was pushed into a corner of the courtroom like an afterthought. The Brotherhood didn’t really care about countries, they only cared about one thing: what they believed to be true and right.

  Nela couldn’t remember living in the States. She had been too small when her parents had moved to Cologne because her dad had to help run the old family business that her grandparents had built after his uncle died without an heir. Maybe they had also hoped that people would be less hostile toward witches in Germany – sadly that wasn’t the case. The Brotherhood ruled with an iron fist. But her parents still had a satellite dish so they could watch what was happening in the US and sometimes Nela wondered if they were homesick.

  The camera swung around to the defendant, a middle aged woman with steel-gray hair and pale blue eyes whose hands and feet were shackled, and who was deathly pale. Her shirt had been cut open in the back, revealing the tattoo Nela carried as well, but it was surrounded by dark red lines; the ink had spread and covered the witch’s skin like vines of ivy. A sure sign of her guilt. She bowed her head when the judge delivered his judgement. Death by burning at the stake for Maleficium – for casting an evil spell. That could mean anything. It was a term the Brotherhood loved to use in their judgements. Sickness pooled in Nela’s stomach. She tried to pretend witch burnings weren’t still happening.

  “What did she do?” Nela whispered when the courtroom disappeared from the screen and was replaced by an anchor with perfect white teeth in a news studio. Her father’s knuckles turned white and the newspaper crinkled in his tight grip, but he didn’t look up.

  Her mother put down the spatula, picked up the pan and discarded the burned pancakes in the trashcan. Nela wondered if her mother was doing it to hide her expression and compose herself, but when she finally turned around, her face was blank. “She’s been working as a healer and tried to heal a young boy who had a brain tumor. But when the boy’s parents asked her for help, the boy was already too far along and she couldn’t help him. The boy died and the parents told the Brotherhood about the woman’s healing business.” Her voice was toneless.

  “They betrayed her?” Nela asked. How could anyone do that knowing what the consequences would be for the witch? Or maybe they wanted the woman to die after she couldn’t save their son.

  “They abided by the law and so should have the woman,” her father cut in, putting down his newspaper. Dark circles were under his eyes as if he had spent all night lying awake, though Nela knew that wasn’t the case – unless he’d pretended to be asleep. “Magic is forbidden to us for a good reason.”

  For what reason, Nela wanted to ask, but she kept her silence. Her father wouldn’t elaborate no matter how much she prodded. If she didn’t know better, she wouldn’t have believed he was a wizard. He could have been a priest of the Brotherhood if you judged him by his words.

  “How can you say that?” Nela said. “The woman tried to help. She didn’t mean any harm and it wasn’t her fault the boy died. She doesn’t deserve to burn.”

  Her father rose abruptly. His chair tumbled to the ground. “I won’t allow you to talk like this. We trust in the law and we abide by the law. End of discussion.”

  Nela couldn’t believe what he was saying. She glanced at her mother for support, but she was clutching the counter in a tight grip, a tired look on her face. He peered down at his watch before he walked out without another word, not bothering to pick up the chair he’d thrown over. In jerky motions her mother righted the chair.

  “I don’t get it,” Nela said in a thick voice. “How can he talk like that? How can you stand it?”

  Her mother sank down on the chair. “He’s right, you know?”

  Nela stared.

  “We have to abide by the law. He wants to make sure we’re safe, that’s all, especially now that people get killed by magic.” She nodded toward the newspaper on the table. Nela followed her gaze and read the headline. ‘Witches strike again – another innocent human killed by magic’. How could anyone be so stupid to kill on Imbolc?

  And worse: the newspaper made it sound as if all the witches had banded together and started killing off humans. That wouldn’t exactly make things easier for witches. People would probably start accusing witches of practicing witchcraft left and right. Suddenly, their nightly celebrations seemed like too much of a risk.

  Chapter 4

  Darko pulled his coat tighter around himself as he passed through the archway that led into the Melaten cemetery, the oldest cemetery in Cologne, and the only one where witches could be buried. Of course their graves weren’t allowed to be close to those of the humans – of the good and pure. Darko’s eyes narrowed at the beautifully kept graves in this part of the cemetery, at the man-high marble gravestones, the statues of weeping angels spreading their wings over their charges. The moon reflected off their polished white marble, gave them an eternal glow. He walked through the alley of towering beeches, now leafless and forlorn, lining the wide paved path, passing the gravestone of a kneeling woman with her caped arms spread and her desperate face peering down at the body of her dead husband. It was an old grave; the soldier had died during WW II and yet the sight of it sent a stab of emotion through Darko every time he saw it. Straight ahead a tall memorial of Jesus at the cross marked the spot where the pathway split into several smaller lanes. Darko ducked his head as he slipped past the statue with its doleful expression.

  His shoes crunched on the smooth asphalt but soon his steps were swallowed by trampled soil. The graves of the nameless and the poor flanked him; the most undesired site of the cemetery, a last barrier between the human and the witch side. Unpaved paths meandered through it and sometimes, after days of rain, your shoes would be sucked into the mud, and it would splatter everywhere – onto your closes, which you’d carefully chosen to pay your respect, and onto the gravestones, which should honor the dead. It was an undignified resting place, but so had been the deaths of many of the buried. Dignity was something witch-kind had forgone long ago.

  Slowly the gravestones became older, their rough stone surface covered with moss, the graves overgrown with ivy. He passed through another gate, much smaller than the first and covered by rust, to an even older part of the cemetery – the part where witches were buried.

  There were no weeping angels – not because the relatives didn’t want to spend that much money on the graves, but because the Brotherhood had decided that witches didn’t deserve angels guarding their dead bodies. After all, witches were the devil’s brood.

  High firs hemmed the trail, their crowns so close together that even during the summer sunlight didn’t reach the ground. Birches and beeches towered over the graves, their branches covered in snow. Darko was sure that the Brotherhood had ordered the cemetery to let the trees grow wild; it was difficult to keep the graves clean once the leaves started falling. There were too many trees. It was a constant struggle. Darko had lost count of the hours he’d spent sweeping away leaves and twigs. The gamekeeper who tended to the rest of the cemetery, never set foot on the witch part.

  Darko’s feet found the way without much thought. He’d walked it more times than any other path. He stopped and his ches
t tightened. Even after two years he still got the same sensation every time he faced the grave. He sank down to his knees, not caring that the snow soaked his pants. At least the ground was frozen; no mud today. A lone twig had fallen down on the grave. He picked it up and flung it away. On the small patch perched a gray boulder with his sister’s name engraved on it.

  Milena

  That was all he could afford back then. Too little. But the fees for the grave were already too much. Of course fees for witch graves were twice as high as the human ones. His sister hadn’t even been a witch. She hadn’t possessed a hint of magic. She had been innocent, only twelve. She’d suffered for him, for what he was.

  He sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes. He let the silence surround him, let it fill him up, let the cold turn his body numb, hoping it would do the same with his heart. At night the graveyard was always empty. It was the only time he could visit her. The only time people weren’t staring. Somewhere a car honked and even farther away police sirens sounded. People were going on with their lives around him, but in these moments by his sister’s side, Darko always felt as if time had halted.

  Sleep tugged at his brain and he lowered his forehead to his palms that rested on his legs. He’d spent so many nights like this, trying for sleep, dreading it, longing for it. This place was more familiar to him than his own bed. Maybe the cold would claim him. He would have welcomed it before he met the Master, but now he couldn’t surrender to death. He could undo his wrongs, could make everything right. The Master had told him there was a way to bring her back to life. Ever since Darko had found out, he’d wanted to tell Milena. He didn’t often talk to her grave, he didn’t want to think that she was down there, covered by dank earth. But this news had felt so monumental that he’d wanted to tell her and yet childish fears had overcome him. Would it mean bad luck if he revealed their plan so soon? And what if he told her and then failed? The ritual required to give his Master the necessary power was difficult. Few wizards had risked it before, and fewer had succeeded. To bind a demon to a wizard broke nature’s laws, went against most of their basic rules, and he didn’t even consider the laws of the Brotherhood – they were of no concern for the Master and him. But their risk would be greatly rewarded if they succeeded. The Master would be immortal for as long as the creature was trapped inside his body.

  Immortality, it was too big a concept for Darko to grasp. For him, who counted the hours of every day, who wished for them to rush, living more than one lifetime seemed impossible. Several lifetimes – impossibly cruel. But immortality wasn’t his to claim anyway. Only Master Valentine was powerful enough to become a demon’s master, instead of becoming its slave. And yet their success hinged on Darko. He needed to find the medium, he needed to find a witch or wizard capable of Necromancy. Without that they didn’t even need to bother trying the ritual. Despair flared up in Darko. There were only very few Necromancers left and they’d learned to mask their talent.

  His eyes took in the too small grave and too small stone, miniscule compared to the guilt resting on his shoulders.

  “I won’t fail, sestrica.” His voice was like crumbling leaves. He pressed his lips together. Nothing should break the silence, least of all he.

  ***

  A bark ripped Darko from slumber. His head jerked up, his body frozen and stiff. He glanced around. An elderly woman entered the cemetery, a small dog on her leash. She didn’t look his way. He was grateful; it gave him a couple of minutes to gather himself. The sky was turning grey above his head, overhung with thick clouds. Soon the sun would be up. Darko struggled to his feet, clapped his legs to waken them. They were numb, all of him was, except for the part of his brain reliving the images of his nightmare, but he tried to ignore them. His movements were slow and rigid as he left the graveyard after sunrise.

  As so often, the noise and activity of the outside came as a shock. For a moment Darko watched the cars pass him by. There were fewer than on a workday. Tired drivers clutching their steering wheels, on their way to buy freshly baked rolls from one of the many bakeries in Cologne for a comfortable breakfast with their family.

  Darko hated them for their mundane life, for the fact that they had a family to come home to, for the fact that they were mere humans and yet thought they were better than him. He could have travelled by shadow, could have spared himself the flood of unwanted images, but it was a good reminder of what he’d lost.

  The smell of freshly brewed coffee followed him through the streets and eventually he caved. He bought himself a black coffee to go, not caring that he was probably the only customer that day who didn’t order something fancier like a caramel latte macchiato or a soy matcha latte. The heat of his drink seeped through the thin paper cup and into his cold fingers. He leaned against the wall of a bakery crowded by hungry customers and trained his eyes on the side entrance of the Cologne Cathedral.

  He knew he was too early. Service didn’t start until 9am, still more than one hour to go, but he had nowhere else to be and this was the perfect opportunity to watch the other witches parading around like humans, like lapdogs of the Brotherhood. At 8:15 the main doors were opened and a priest appeared in his long gray frock. A group of Asian tourists hurried toward him, probably hoping to catch a glimpse at the inside of the cathedral before service began, but the priest shook his head and eventually the tourists walked away and clustered at the edge of the small square where more foreigners had already gathered. Usually Darko avoided crowds but now they provided him with the perfect hiding place. He pushed off the wall, taking a sip of his coffee, which was cold by now, and walked closer to a group chatting animatedly in Italian. With his dark complexion, he didn’t stand out. Movement at the side entrance drew his eyes in. The smaller wooden door opened and two black-clad guards of the Brotherhood stepped out and positioned themselves to either side of the entrance. Darko’s fingers tightened around his paper cup. It was ridiculous that even the guards insisted on wearing frocks. The black color might have made them look intimidating, but the long fabric would definitely be distracting in a fight. He forced himself to train his eyes on the tip of the Cologne cathedral with an expression of awe on his face to blend in with the masses around him. It would do no good to gain the attention of the guards.

  A few minutes after the side entrance – the witch entrance – had been opened, the first witches and wizards arrived. It was easy to discern them from the humans. The witch families huddled closer together, as if they were seeking protection from what was around them. Their faces were lowered a tad more, their expressions full of deference as they approached the guards of the Brotherhood. Did they have no pride, no honor? How could they grovel in front of the feet of those men? Their enemies, murderers of their kind.

  Darko would have bet his right arm that each of the families had lost loved ones to the bloody swords of the Brotherhood and yet they bowed their heads as they waited for the guards to let them pass. The faces of the guards told Darko all he needed to know. Their expressions spoke of superiority and disgust. If they could, they would burn every family, children and all, right there on the spot.

  Darko stared down at the cup in his hands, at the black liquid, at his white knuckles. If he let his fury take control of himself, he’d be the one to burn.

  When his heartbeat had slowed, he allowed his gaze to return to the side door. The first family was still waiting to be granted access. More witch families had gathered behind them. Darko counted almost sixty witches and wizards. Their breath left their lips in puffs of fog as they spoke among themselves. From his spot it was difficult to get a good look at their faces. Scanning his surroundings, he spotted another tourist group, closer to the side entrance, and joined them. He let his eyes wander over the gathered witches, looking for the witch his Master had showed him. He couldn’t stop himself from wondering why his Master thought the girl was special. She looked ordinary, certainly not like one of the more powerful of his kind. Darko had a different image in mind when he thoug
ht of a mage strong enough to raise the dead.

  His gaze froze on a family of three who were waiting at the edge of the crowd. The girl had the same dark, almost black hair, fair skin, and fine-boned figure. He couldn’t see the color of her eyes, if they were amber as they’d been on his Master’s screen, but he was sure that it was the girl he was supposed to find. Now he merely needed to figure out if she was a Necromancer. If only he knew how to accomplish that task. She wouldn’t admit to anything to someone she barely knew, maybe not even if they were old friends.

  The church bells started ringing, announcing the full hour and the beginning of service. The sound reverberated in Darko’s bones, sent a chill down his spine. Finally the guards stepped back and allowed the gathered witches to stream into the cathedral. They started pushing, keen to get inside and sit on their reserved spots quickly. The priests of the Brotherhood wouldn’t appreciate it if witches disturbed the service because they were late – even if it was the fault of the guards. Darko moved even closer, sure that the commotion would distract from his presence. The chatter in Italian, Japanese and English faded around him; all that mattered was the girl. Was she the one?

  A small boy was separated from his witch family in the commotion and fell face first to the ground. The girl moved away from her parents to hurry toward him and helped him up. His palms were bloody and he was crying silently. Even the small boy knew better than to attract attention with noisy sobs. The girl knelt down in front of him, took his hands and started talking to him with a smile. His parents came up to them and the mother lifted the boy on her arms and smiled gratefully at the girl. The boy’s palms were smooth, no blood, no cuts.