Followed by Fire

by McKenzie Austin

  A muscle twitched in Elias’ jaw as he stared at Balvonak, trying to keep his traditional calm. He switched his gaze to Esven, at first reaching an arm out to touch her, but drawing it back at the last minute. “Esven… I am incredibly happy to see you, have no doubts about that. I do think it might be a bit dangerous for you to be running about town at the moment.” He stole a quick glimpse of Balvonak before he turned back to the witch, lowering his voice. “De’Savaria is still rabid in his efforts to keep Brigovia… pure,” he uttered, unable to sweep away the small tinge of contempt in his voice. “Please, join me in the church. I will otherwise spend all day worrying for your safety.”

  Balvonak stepped forward. He couldn’t allow this priest to soil what little progress he’d made with Esven. Time was too short. Vahldod could be lurking around any corner, waiting for the right moment to swoop in and stab him in the back. The demon placed himself within inches of Elias’ face, though he was careful not to touch his body. “She’s not in any danger, Father.” He eyed the man up and down, his jaw set. “Not while she’s in my company.”

  Despite the reserves of willpower that Elias had, he still could not stop the edges of his lips from hardening. “I beg to differ.”

  From inside the small room, Esven sighed. “I appreciate your concern, Elias, but I’m capable of handling myself around Balvo. And De’Savaria,” she added, though the man, and all members of the Brotherhood, still struck a paralyzing combination of fear and anger in her. “I’ll keep a keen eye. I promise.”

  Elias turned away from Balvonak, placing his palms together as he found the witch’s gaze. “Esven, please. I will beg if I have to.”

  A chuckle left Balvonak’s throat as he reached out and grabbed Esven’s cloaked arm. “Much as I’d like to see that,” he muttered, pulling her out of the room, “we’ve got places to be.”

  The reaction was quick. Elias reached out, his hand placed squarely on Balvonak’s chest. He’d only meant to stop him. It was not gentlemanly for a man to pull a lady along by the arm. Esven would have shrugged out of Balvonak’s grasp herself, had she not been distracted by the scent of charred flesh.

  Balvonak shrieked at the priest’s touch. He dropped Esven’s arm, and pressed himself quickly into the darkness of the inn’s room, panting.

  The sound of agony had earned them several glances from curious onlookers. Passersby turned to tilt their heads in curiosity at the priest who stood outside the doors of The Slumbering Rabbit.

  Esven stared at the gawkers, her jaw struggling to find words. “Th-thank you, Father Deverell,” she announced, a bit too loudly to sound genuinely convincing. “I will abandon my sinful ways, and cease my illegitimate relationship with this heathen, and return to the church’s good graces at once.”

  The people seemed to buy it. A few left lingering gazes on the priest and the young woman, but eventually, they carried on with their daily activities without so much as a second thought.

  Elias’ shoulders dropped. He stared through Esven, into the dark room where Balvonak clutched his chest and heaved. There was only one creature who would produce such a reaction from the touch of a holy man. His gaze flicked to Esven and he lowered his voice into an intense whisper. “He’s a demon, Esven!”

  “Yes.” She winced, stealing a glimpse of Balvonak. “I know.”

  “You know?” In an attempt to compose himself, Elias sucked in a slow breath. “Esven… I cannot say that your mother would approve.”

  “I would have thought the same thing.” The witch turned to Elias, her expression unreadable. “But he has told me stories of Amadeia’s life… before she had me. Elias, I cannot speak for whether or not they are true just yet, but…” Her eyes flickered with a strange mixture of uncertainty and hope. “I do believe my mother may have walked within the Netherworld.”

  Her confession caused Elias to freeze. He felt worry everywhere. It engulfed him, unforgiving in its onslaught. Father Asher’s stories filtered through his brain. The priest closed his eyes, unsure of what to do next. “Please, tread lightly into this terrain, Esven. If your mother didn’t tell you of her historic endeavors, consider that there may have been a good reason for it.”

  Esven’s eyes narrowed. Though part of her wished to see if Balvonak was all right, she could not remove herself from Elias’ proximity. “Do you know something, Elias?” She tried to study his face, but he kept his eyes closed. “What have you been keeping from me about my mother?”

  He did not answer. He couldn’t. Elias feared if he opened his eyes, and saw the confusion and hurt in hers, he would utter something he wished he hadn’t. Just when the priest thought he had collected his thoughts enough to offer an obscure statement, a familiar voice sounded behind him.

  “Father Deverell. I thought I’d find you here.”

  When Esven peeled her eyes away from Elias long enough to spy De’Savaria crossing the street behind him, she slammed the door in the priest’s face. A panic she didn’t expect attacked her without warning.

  Esven spun around and pressed her back against the door, a hand on her lips. She had not seen that man’s face since he grinned in the glow of her mother’s burning corpse. Elias warned her that De’Savaria was around. She thought she could stomach the sight of him.

  She was wrong.

  “No rest for the wicked, is there?” De’Savaria clapped his hand down onto Elias’ shoulder. “I must admit, it’s admirable that you drag yourself out here nearly every day to bring the Lord’s light to these people. If anyone can tear them out of the sinful hole they’ve dug for themselves, it’s Brigovia’s creator.”

  Elias feared his heart might explode inside his chest. He let out a sound that was half a laugh, half a breathless gasp, as he attempted to steady his pulse. “De’Savaria. You are never far from reach, are you?”

  The Brotherhood’s leader smirked. “The closer I am to Pinesguard’s priest, the closer I am to our God. And I strive to be as close to Him as I am able.” His expression softened. “And, perhaps, I do feel rather remorseful for my outburst at yesterday’s dinner. I’ve been… overwhelmed, lately. Do forgive me.”

  A nod followed as Elias took hold over his nerves. “Yes. Yes, of course,” he replied, clearing his throat. He needed to pull De’Savaria away. Get him as far from Esven as he could. Though leaving her in the clutches of a Netherworld demon plagued him, Elias genuinely did not know which fate would be worse for the young witch. Staying where she was, or landing under the determined eyes of the man who might recognize her as the strange woman who vanished the night he burned her mother. “Come along, my friend. Let us return to Pinesguard’s market. I heard the baker has exotic flours brought in from the east, that make fine loaves of bread.”

  From the small slit in the window, Esven watched as Elias encouraged De’Savaria to accompany him elsewhere. The farther the man walked from her sight, the more her tension rose. She thought his retreat would have brought her comfort, but no. She mouthed a ‘thank you’ to Elias for his sacrifice, and turned her eyes to the floor.

  De’Savaria. He made her blood boil to this day. Time did not heal the wound he had burned in her heart. If the Brotherhood’s leader was the epitome of all men, she would have leapt at Balvonak’s opportunity to open the Netherworld’s gates…

  Oh. Right. Balvo.

  Eager to leap at anything that would tear the memories of her mother’s demise from her thoughts, Esven crossed the distance over to the fire demon. He stood, one arm pressed against the wall to brace himself, as his head bowed toward the floor. His breathing was heavy. His hand remained clutched over his chest, where Elias had touched him.

  The witch had never witnessed the effect of a holy man’s touch on a demon. She knew, from some of the books her mother allowed her to read, that priests commanded a power over creatures from the Netherworld. Infused with the holy light of the Angel Lord, any being who dwelled in the realm of His brother, the Demon Lord, found agony under the touch of His lighted warriors.

>   And priests—Elias—were warriors of the Angel Lord.

  “Let me see it,” Esven said, reaching out to touch him.

  “Leave it.” Balvo swatted her arm, turning away. “I just need a minute…”

  With a hand on her hip, Esven frowned. “I can help. I’m skilled in the art of healing.”

  “Are you, now?” Balvo glared at her, anger in his tone. He slid his hand off of his chest, though it took some mental convincing. “Go on then,” he goaded, his voice dark. “Heal it.”

  Esven lowered her gaze from his to look upon his injury. It couldn’t have been that bad. It was only a touch.

  When his hand finished sliding down to unveil the damage, Esven gasped. She saw the imprint of Elias’ fingers burned into Balvonak’s chest. It had eaten through his shirt, the edges of the clothing still smoldering at the edges. Charred skin sizzled on his chest, in the perfect shape of a human hand.

  “Oh.” Esven wrinkled her nose. “The smell.” It was a hard one to forget.

  Balvonak scowled. “What? Smell a bit too familiar?”

  His bitter statement earned him a heated glare. She knew what he implied. The last time the scent of burning flesh touched Esven’s nostrils, was the last day she saw De’Savaria’s face, as well.

  Until today.

  “Don’t play the part of an ass,” she chastised, rolling up her sleeves. “It’s not my fault this happened to you.”

  As Esven laid her hands on his chest to heal the wound, she found herself frowning. He was warm. No. Hot. She remembered feeling the heat that came off of his body before, but now, with no clothing between them to stave off the intensity, it almost felt as though her flesh was melting. She pulled her hands away immediately, cradling them in her chest. The tips of her fingers throbbed where she had touched his skin. “You’re—you’re—”

  “Too hot to handle?” He snorted at his own word play, though she still sensed the animosity in his tone. “Exactly why I told you to leave it.”

  Esven rubbed her fingers together, hoping to sooth the sting inside them. “I thought I could help…”

  “Oh, you can.” Balvonak slid his vest off, letting it drop to the floor. He peeled his tunic from his body, switching it around so the burned handprint sat at his back instead of his front. When he restored his vest to his torso, it covered the wreckage that the priest had left on his clothes. “You can accompany me to our next destination.” He strode over to the door, his ego throbbing as much as the burn in his chest. “As soon as you realize these people are the scum of Brigovia… you’ll become the greatest helper of all.”

  She watched him approach the door with purposeful strides. Esven bunched her fingers around the material of her skirt, hoping the coolness that still clung to the fabric would ease the sting in her skin. “They don’t deserve it,” she said, her words only filled with fragments of conviction. “Not all of them, anyway…”

  Balvo was quick to spin around. He captured her eyes with his own. The once spirited orbs lacked the charisma they once held. Instead, they showed only anger. “Oh, yeah? Then would you care to tell me who that man was that showed up behind the priest?” He lifted a finger to point at her face. “Eyes don’t lie, Esven, and yours wore the same vile thoughts that Marumon’s do when he speaks of people. You hate that man. Who is he?”

  Esven felt the swirl of acid in her stomach. It climbed up through her body, and pushed at her throat.

  De’Savaria. The name alone still pulled on her nerves, and left a bitter taste on her tongue. So much so, that she feared Balvo may have been right. Perhaps she did hate him. “He is the man who killed my mother,” she admitted, her words simultaneously soft and sharp.

  Balvo’s expression remained unchanged, but his jaw clenched tighter. “I hate to break it to you, Esven, but it was not one man who killed your mother. It was every man, woman, and child who watched her burn on that pyre, and bit their tongues to keep silent.” He bent his elbows and held up his hands, fingers splayed. “Humanity as a whole wears her blood on their hands, and they do not even care enough to find a stream to wash it off in. They were given voices. They were given choices.” His brows shadowed his eyes as his tone turned harsh. “They used neither. Marumon and Agesh—” The name caught in his throat. He pinched his eyes shut and grasped his neck. He was so flustered, he nearly named Brigovia’s Angel Lord. He could not utter the word without feeling the surge of its power. Balvonak swallowed, clearing as much of the sting from his mouth as he could. “Marumon and His brother,” he finished, “They gave life to these beings, and what do they do with it? They spit on the honor that is living each day they open their eyes. They do not even acknowledge the value of what was given to them. That is why they don’t deserve it.”

  Esven watched him with calculating perception. There was passion in his voice. She would have believed him, had she not remembered the object in her pocket. “Do you truly believe that?” she asked. “All people?” Sliding her fingers within, she pulled the locket free. The pendant swung like a pendulum, as she held it out. “What about the woman who gave you this? She couldn’t have been all bad, for her to have blessed you with a gift.”

  As soon as his heated glare fell on the golden object, his madness faded to something else. Guilt? Shame? Esven couldn’t tell. “No,” Balvonak muttered, his former intensity fraying. “She wasn’t. But she’s already dead.” He turned away, glancing once more out the window, to be sure the priest and De’Savaria were gone, before he opened the door. “Come on. We’re wasting time.”

  Her gaze followed him out the door. Esven rubbed her fingertips together once more, whispering a spell beneath her breath to ease the affected area. The pain from touching the scalding skin of the fire demon faded from her hands.

  A pity she couldn’t bring the same relief to him.

  Esven gathered her thoughts and took in a deep breath. She trailed after him, unsure where he’d lead her this day. Given his current attitude, she couldn’t imagine he’d take her anywhere that would paint mankind in as unflattering of a light as he had in that shoddy, darkened room.

  Chapter Ten

  “A tavern?”

  Balvo’s stance, as he stood outside the nameless establishment, reflected his still-dampened attitude. “Not just a tavern,” he muttered, absentmindedly running his fingers over the burn that hid under his clothes. It already started to itch. “A tavern that opens with the rising sun.”

  Esven followed as the fire demon started for the pub. “What does that matter?” she asked, surveying the crumbling architecture of the building.

  The door squealed as Balvo opened it, as if the act itself brought the inanimate wood great pain. “Everyone thinks the monsters come out at night,” he explained. “But it’s those who are bold enough to show their depravities in the light of day, that you need to see.”

  He disappeared inside. Esven frowned, dipping her head as she entered the shadowy environment. How it managed to still look dim inside, when the sun was bright and fresh, made her wonder. It wasn’t until she discovered the thick layers of grime on the thin windows, that her curiosity found its answer.

  Cutting his way across the floor, Balvonak approached the bar. He pulled up a decrepit stool, likely fashioned from a local ironsmith, and sat upon it. His expression was frozen in sourness.

  Esven pulled up a seat beside him. None of them matched. Either they had been forged by a drunkard, or the establishment took no care in acquiring identical sets. She stole a glimpse of Balvo’s face from the corners of her eyes. He was irritable. Tetchy. Though she had only known him for a handful of days, Esven found herself preferring the company of the Balvo she knew before: the overconfident prick, who somehow managed to shine a ray of charm through the cracks in his personality.

  She glanced at the bartender. He busied himself by cleaning a glass with a filthy rag. Investigating the glass further, Esven thought his efforts to be in vain. That cup looked as though it would never be clean, regardless of how long the
man scrubbed at it.

  In the corner of the room, one individual had already passed out over an uneven, wooden table. The few others who filled the establishment were well on their way to joining him. Balvonak spread out an arm, lacking in enthusiasm. “Sit. Observe. Gaze upon the shit they’ve made with their lives, and weep at the waste you see before you.”

  His statement produced a dissatisfied look from a patron who sat three chairs down. “Hey,” he grumbled, the lone word filled with a bubbling heap of offense.

  Balvonak scowled. He leaned over, his eyes on the man as he mouthed, “I meant every word of it.”

  To Esven’s surprise, the man stood from his chair. He glared at Balvonak as he wiped the dribble of alcohol from his grizzled face. A sentence strung out of his lips, but it was too incoherent to decipher. His inaudible statement became clear when he planted his feet, and lifted his fists.

  Esven froze. “I… I think he intends to fight you.”

  Balvonak glowered. Before he could inhale a breath to speak, the aggressor’s focus fell from the fire demon. His body leaned to the right. Then he overcorrected, leaning to the left. At last, even further left. The pair watched as he tipped over, rattling the nearby stools as his intoxicated body fell to the ground.

  “Hm.” Balvo stared at the unconscious man, his bottom lip jutted out. “Guess he couldn’t hold his liquor.”

  Horrified, Esven jumped from her seat. “Should—should we help him?”

  Balvo snorted. “Why don’t you ask them?”

  The witch followed his hand gesture to the other patrons of the bar. Not a single individual rose to investigate. They scarcely even blinked. “They… don’t seem to be too alarmed,” Esven admitted, clutching her hand to her chest.

  The fire demon huffed. “Exactly. He could be dead, for all they care.”

  Esven studied the fallen man, squinting. No. He was not deceased. His chest still rose and fell with shallow breaths. She eased herself back into her seat, believing he’d be fine as soon as the hangover wore off.