by Alma Katsu
He sat up and leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees, oblivious to the thoughts I was battling. “It’s hard to explain, but ever since Robin and Terry arrived, I’ve had the feeling that something—strange—is going on. I’ve had no one to discuss it with, but now you’re here, I thought . . .” He shook his head, impatient with himself.
To be honest, I was annoyed that he’d brought up the girls. I felt as though I’d been doused with cold water, though it was undoubtedly for the best. I quickly regained my composure. “What is it?” I asked, pushing the cards aside. “Out with it. You can tell me.”
“All right. Just remember—you asked for it.” He hesitated. “The story of how we met, me and the girls, all that was true. They turned up on my doorstep, just as they said, but at the time, I sensed that there was something familiar about them. From the moment I met them, I knew that I’d seen them before. And then it dawned on me”—he flicked an unsteady glance my way a second time to make sure I was still following him—“they reminded me of a pair of sisters I knew centuries ago.”
“So? It was déjà vu; they reminded you of someone else. That’s not uncommon.”
“There’s more to it than that. You see, these sisters were witches.” He rushed the words out of his mouth as though he was embarrassed to say such a thing. “Their names were Penthy and Bronwyn. Robin is very much like Penthy. They have the same blond hair, both high-strung and flighty. Terry is just like Bronwyn, bossy and headstrong. They lived in the English fens land, out in the woods”—here he hesitated, avoiding my gaze—“in a giant tree. They admitted to being witches right away. They said they’d come from a long line of witches, and had been banished to the forest by the townsfolk, who had been afraid of their mother. They were something, those sisters. Beautiful, but a touch mad, I think. You could see it in their eyes.
“That night, I stumbled through the fens wood in the dark, lost, sure I was going to fall into a bog and never be heard from again, when I heard them call me. Like sirens, they were. They wanted me to come down from my horse and spend the night with them. They tried to enchant me, feeding me wormwood tea and poppy-seed cake, and salads of nasturtiums and morning glories. You know me, Lanore; you know I have a strong constitution, but after a meal like that, I was stoned out of my mind and tame as a house cat. They waited until we were in bed to tell me that they were witches. I’d never been around women magic-handlers before. The great alchemists I’d met had all been men.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I grant you, there might have been a few female alchemists back then, though I would imagine that they’d have hidden their interest, as it wouldn’t have been to their advantage to be discovered, but more than one or two? I doubt it. And if there were, this very practice of keeping apart from other practitioners, the great practitioners, would have been their undoing. Because that is how you become great. Alchemy is not something you can master on your own. You must learn from the discoveries of others.
“I found the witch sisters’ magic disconcerting at first, but got used to it soon enough. Adepts called it ‘kitchen magic,’ the kind that’s passed from one generation to the next without formal training; it’s roundly thought of as primitive. The sisters didn’t want to hear that, of course. They were proud, and didn’t want to be judged or looked down on, but I had something they desperately wanted: a book of spells. That’s like the holy grail to them, and once they found out I had one on me, they came up with a plan to rob me. They tied me up, but I managed to escape.”
I settled close to him on the pillows, to share his sunny spot. “You couldn’t have been too pleased about that.”
“I didn’t appreciate it, no. I let my anger get the better of me, I’m afraid. I destroyed their home,” he admitted sheepishly. That sounded like the Adair of old, the Adair I knew, with a temper as explosive as a nuclear warhead. “And they swore to take revenge on me one day.”
“And you think these two girls are Penthy and Bronwyn, come back to make good on their threat?” I asked, dubious. “Reincarnation?”
I felt his weight shift restlessly beside me. “Maybe . . . why not? There’s something about this island that makes things happen. This place has a magical history, but I think there’s more to it than that. I think there’s a strong magical force here. That’s why Crowley’s disciple came here, that’s what drew me here. That force could have enabled the witch sisters to come back.”
“I suppose anything is possible,” I said, trying not to sound as uncertain as I felt. “Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that it’s true, that these witches have come back through Robin and Terry. Have they done anything to you, done anything malicious?”
“Not that comes to mind,” he admitted.
“What do you think they’d want from you?”
“I don’t know.” I could tell I’d vexed him by the dark look that clouded his face. “Look, I realize it sounds far-fetched, but I know how I feel and I think they’re Penthy and Bronwyn. But as to why they’ve come back . . . well, that part I don’t know yet, but whatever it is, it won’t be for the good,” he said, and sounded a bit slighted by my skepticism. “I grant you that I might have it all wrong. Maybe it’s just the island making me feel this way. There’s something uncanny about it, almost as if it has a will of its own. Perhaps the barrier between this world and the next is at its thinnest here . . . or it’s positioned at a special confluence of stars. Or it’s a combination of magnetic forces, or a balance of elements found nowhere else, as legend has it. You’ll have to take my word for it. I can feel it.”
I didn’t want to tell him, but I could feel it, too, just as I could see there was something peculiar about the British girls. When they were in high emotion, it seemed they could make the air crackle and pulse and practically warp around them in a way that made the hair at the back of my neck stand up. No, I didn’t think Adair’s hypothesis was incorrect, but I also couldn’t allow myself to agree with him for fear that it might be true.
“You look exhausted,” he said, perhaps trying to change the subject so we wouldn’t be at odds any longer. “Why don’t you try to take a nap? I’ll be right here while you rest.”
I’d been awake for more than two days straight. I was exhausted, though I was used to going without sleep for long stretches at a time; I’d often had bouts of insomnia, or perhaps it was just that in this strange immortal form, we didn’t need sleep the way mortals did. Still, I could tell I was on the brink of impairment, of falling into that surreal state where you couldn’t trust your senses and it was difficult to collect your thoughts. I did as Adair suggested, and snuggled under the arm he wrapped protectively around my shoulders.
It came within seconds of falling asleep, as though the dream had been hiding in the closet or floating along the ceiling, waiting for me to close my eyes in order to pounce. I had no sooner closed my eyes than I was dragged down, down, down into pitch blackness, quickly drawn along the now familiar stone passageway against my will.
I would’ve dug my heels in if I could, but it was impossible to resist, as though the dream had me by the arm and was pulling me forcibly to my destination. My head was clouded with the usual feelings of fear and dread, but beyond this I sensed something else was with me in the passage. There was a malevolent presence hovering over and around me, a spirit or spirits hurrying down the passage with me, excitedly feasting on my fear.
In a flash, I was at the hated door and it swung open at the slightest touch. I stepped inside and followed the same wandering torchlight from my earlier dreams. The room had been strangely reconfigured, furnished like a boudoir even though the walls were still made of the same filthy stone blocks and the floor was still packed dirt, loosely strewn with straw. Directly in front of me stood a handsome mahogany bed, one befitting a king’s bedchamber. Luxurious red-and-gold curtains hung from the four posters, the curtains drawn back to reveal gleaming white sheets betraying not a speck of dirt from the filthy surroundings. The sheets were rumpled: obviously, s
omeone had recently been sleeping there. A voluptuous chaise longue upholstered in red velvet sat at the foot of the bed, and off to the side was a folding screen, three large panels covered with silk painted with a river scene. Items of clothing had been thrown haphazardly atop the screen, as though someone had undressed hastily. All the pieces were men’s clothes from the period of my youth: breeches, an embroidered turquoise waistcoat and navy frock coat, a long white stock tie still pleated with wrinkles from when it had been wound around someone’s neck. No, not “someone’s” neck; I knew whose clothes these were. These clothes belonged to Jonathan.
I knew for certain, in that strange way of dreams, that Jonathan had been in this room not long ago. He had been in this bed, and he had been forced to undress. But where was he now? Then I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, a ripple of black disappearing behind the edge of the door. Jonathan; again, I knew with certainty that he was being taken somewhere. I knew this just the same as I knew I had to catch up to him, or lose him forever.
I hurried after them, Jonathan and his captor. I was led into a part of the passage I’d never been before, never having gone beyond the door in my previous dreams. The passage seemed to get narrower and narrower, until I could barely squeeze between the walls, and it twisted and turned so that I couldn’t see very far in front of me. Every once in a while I would turn a corner and see part of a figure—the point of an elbow, the heel of a foot—disappear as it turned a corner and was, once again, beyond my reach. The dream teased me, letting me get close enough to see a snippet of Jonathan, then it pulled him far away until all I could hear was the echo of footsteps up ahead. All the time, my chest squeezed tighter and tighter as I feared that if I awoke before catching up to him, I’d never have the chance to see or speak to him again, in this life or the next.
I spun around a corner in a headlong rush but somehow managed to have the presence of mind to realize that a shadow fell into the passage in front of me. Someone was coming for me, and I could tell by the gigantic form that it wasn’t Jonathan. Sensing great danger, I quickly stepped back and slipped around the corner, pressing up against the cold stone blocks and holding my breath, praying not to be detected.
I could tell by the sound of footsteps that whatever had been coming for me had paused in the passage directly ahead. I listened for breathing but heard nothing. What could it be? So far in my dreams, I’d seen only Jonathan and a woman’s hand, which I assumed belonged to the queen of the underworld. But by the size of my pursuer’s shadow, it seemed unlikely to be her. Still, who else could it be? As unnerving as the whole thing was, this was exactly what I’d hoped for, wasn’t it, to confront the queen and ask her to release Jonathan? Perhaps I didn’t need to ask Adair to send me to the underworld. Perhaps I could confront the queen in my dreams and find peace for Jonathan and for myself.
I drew in a deep breath and stuck my head around the corner—but only for a split second, before drawing it back in complete horror. It wasn’t the queen of the underworld waiting for me in the passage. And it wasn’t Jonathan.
It was a demon. It had to be a demon—what else would look like this? He stood seven feet if he stood an inch, so tall that he had to crouch in the tight passageway. He was so broad-shouldered and deep-chested that he might’ve been a bull standing on its hind legs. His face, too, was not unlike a bull’s, broad and snoutish and ugly beyond belief, and, to complete the bullish appearance, long horns protruded from the top of his head. The demon had a man’s arms, though massive as tree trunks; hands that were clawlike, with fingers ending in razor-sharp talons; and an animal’s legs, literally: thick, muscular hindquarters, huge sickle hocks of tendon and bone, fierce-looking cloven hooves. A long tail snaked behind him, twitching. He was all red flesh, as you’d imagine the devil to be, red flesh singed to blackness at the extremities, black legs up to his hocks like boots, black forearms as if gloved, black tail tufted at the tip. Red and black, except for his eyes, which were glittering topaz and had a vertical slit, like those of a reptile. His barrel chest heaved with every breath, as though he had been running or was sniffing the air to pick up a scent. My scent.
I turned and ran down the hall the way I’d come, as silently as I could, though my head clamored with the sound of my ragged breath, the thumping of my heart, blood sluicing in my ears. Don’t look back, I told myself over and over, sure that something terrible would happen to me if I did, that I’d turn to stone or salt, or would be sentenced to remain in the labyrinth forever. It’s only a dream, I also tried to tell myself. Yet I ran hard, sprinting down the passage, my soles barely touching the packed dirt floor.
When at last I thought I was a safe distance away, I stopped, panting heavily now, doubling over with my hands on my knees and nearly retching from the effort. In my dream state, I tried to recall what I’d seen exactly. The sight of the demon was already growing wispy. The residue of fear stayed with me, though. Dream or not, he was truly something to be afraid of; I felt it to my bones. However, as I stood there, doubled over and breathless, I berated myself. What kind of behavior was this? Did I honestly want to help Jonathan or not? I had to screw up my courage and go back down the corridor and face the creature. For Jonathan’s sake.
I stood up and took another deep breath. The pounding of my heart began to slow. Courage. I’d just about gathered my wits and was about to head back the way I’d come when, suddenly, the demon appeared around the corner. He was closer now, and I could see him in more detail. He had an obscene air about him, due no doubt to the genitalia openly displayed between his legs, swaying heavily with each step. There was no mistaking his yellow eyes falling on me heavily, deliberately, and I thought I saw the corner of his brutish mouth turn upward. He is coming for me. My scream froze in my throat. I couldn’t move and it was only with great luck that before he could lay one of those large, maniacal claws on me, I lurched awake in Adair’s arms.
SIX
“It was a dream. Just a dream.”
Adair meant to be reassuring. I knew that he wanted me to blink my eyes and see that I was in his study and not the horrible dungeon of my dreams; to catch my breath and say with an embarrassed chuckle, “Oh, you’re right of course. I see that now.” But I didn’t.
I didn’t need him to tell me it had been a dream. I knew I was awake now and on the other side. However, wisps of the dream were still trapped in my head, making it hard to separate nightmare from reality. I could still see the demon’s rippling red haunches and shoulders, as well as the golden eyes that had sized me up with such calculation. I could still smell the monster’s ashy, earthen odor.
“It was more than a dream. I know it.” I shuddered against the memory.
He didn’t release me. Instead, he started to rub my back as you might to console a child. “It was a bad dream, I’ll give you that. You had me worried . . . you were making horrible noises in your sleep. I thought you were choking. I tried to wake you up, but it was as though you were in a trance. I called your name and I even shook you, but you didn’t respond.”
“That’s what I mean—if it had been a regular dream, you should’ve been able to wake me. Something’s going on, I can feel it.” I let him hold me for a long moment and buried my face against his chest, breathing in his once familiar scent.
After I’d had a minute to gather my wits, Adair gently pulled me to my feet. “We’ve been cooped up in here too long. We should get out of the room for a while. Clear our thoughts. I think the girls have made lunch. There’s something delicious in the air, mushroom soup, perhaps? Why don’t we see what they’re up to?” He was trying to take my mind off my fright, and was probably right about our needing a change of scene: I couldn’t hide in the study forever.
We followed the aroma down to the cavernous kitchen, where the two girls were huddled over a huge stockpot on the stove. They lifted their heads when we entered.
“Ah, look who’s here. Come to join us?” Terry asked, stepping to the worktable. She wiped her hands
on her apron before taking up a massive chef’s knife to mince parsley.
“Still among the living, are you? We thought maybe you’d died in there.” Robin’s rejoinder fell flat, like the taunt of an insecure young child.
“We’re catching up on old times,” Adair said. A wooden bowl held slices of rustic homemade bread. He fished one out.
“If you can bear to come up for air, you are welcome to join us for lunch,” Terry said briskly as she scooped up a handful of parsley and dropped it into the pot. “It’s just about ready.”
“It smells heavenly,” I offered, and then I thought of Adair’s description of the hallucinogenic meal the witch sisters had made for him and wondered where the mushrooms had come from, if they could’ve been gathered on the mystical island.
Robin danced up to me, and said, “I was about to go down to the wine cellar to get something to go with lunch. We’ve nothing suitable up here. Do you want to come with me? It’s quite impressive. I’ve never seen so many bottles in one place at one time before, except at a grocer’s.”
I’d been into the labyrinth belowstairs only once, the morning when I’d gotten hopelessly lost, and had resolved not to venture down again, but there didn’t seem to be any danger in going with Robin. “All right,” I said. “I’d like to make myself useful.”
She took me through a nondescript door at the rear of the kitchen, which opened onto a long set of stone steps descending into darkness. Robin didn’t seem intimidated by the cellar in the least; she knew where all the light pulls were, and what’s more, she kept up a stream of chatter as she led the way deeper and deeper under the fortress. The plaster walls eventually gave way to brick, and then stone. It felt as though we’d burrowed straight down toward the center of the earth, a strangely far distance from the living quarters for a wine cellar, but perhaps necessary due to the vicissitudes of the rock and creeping seawater. The halls here were very dark, with few overhead lights. I was starting to wish that she’d brought a flashlight.
