by S. L. Prater
This little girl was no demon hostage.
She was possessed.
“Spirits have no power here,” the demon said. “Leave now and I won’t eat you.” It chomped at the air.
Marnie held her ground. “If they had no power here, you wouldn’t be trying so hard to avoid a fight.”
The ink on her chest warmed her skin and darkened in color; the guidance spell was working again, nudging at her. She remembered the mirror at the constabulary, the one she cracked with the knife. The demon hissed, tongue slicing at the air. The smell of hot decay slapped Marnie in the face, and in a moment of clarity, she knew what to do.
Outside, Doyle pounded the door. He was chanting something she could not hear.
The demon bit at Marnie. She snatched ahold of the serpentine tongue. Its spit burned her hand, but she did not let go, crying out in pain. She slashed at it with the demon knife, severing it. The demon screamed, and green blood bubbled from its mouth. The girl crumpled off the counter, onto the floor.
The blade in Marnie’s blistered fist vibrated violently. The ruby in the hilt grew in size and glinted, though no light shone upon it. Marnie sprinted back to the sitting room and threw the writhing tongue into the overturned lamp’s blue fire. It sizzled, and puffs of green smoke fogged upward, staining the ceiling the color of autumn leaves. She held the blade in the smoke, gritting her teeth as the smog turned to steam and scalded her fist.
Faceless was back in the mirror, bellowing curse words at her, and it wasn’t alone. A second demon with vibrant red skin, wrinkled like dried fruit, and enormous yellow eyes crowded the frame. It was hairless with slits for a nose, like a snake.
“Let me out,” the red demon shrieked in its high voice. It struck the glass with its fist, shattering it. Marnie could see them hitting one another in mirror fragments scattered on the floor. They drowned each other out with their screaming.
The door fell open, slamming against the wall. Doyle stormed inside in a cloud of burning incense. The demons vanished from the glass moments too late. The priest’s eyes were wide.
“Marnie!” His eyes were streaming, and he coughed. He waved his hands to chase away the incense.
“Help her!” She pointed at the still body of the little girl. Her face was pressed into a pool of green blood. Marnie’s heart thudded so hard it hurt her ribs. The ruby in the knife hilt glimmered angrily, and she shoved it down into her boot with her good hand, ignoring how it squirmed in protest.
Doyle bent low and scooped the girl up. “Her skin is ice.”
He carried her to the torn sofa and laid her down tenderly. She seemed younger there, more fragile. Her brown hair had been hacked short and uneven around her head, and her clothing was filthy.
Marnie, careful of her burns, brought out handfuls of acorns and the bottle of wine. Doyle hurriedly began to pray to Soshua, drawing spirit runes in the air with his hands. He traced more on her skin with the tips of his fingers.
Adding natural magic to the mix, Marnie placed a nut under Addie’s tongue, another under her chin, and a third balanced on her forehead. She chanted a prayer to Tortua, and the lamp fire grew into a controlled blaze. Doyle prayed to Soshua for healing and Sidra for guidance.
As Marnie’s heart slowed, the pain in her hand became noticeable. It stung, like thousands of pinpricks. It was swelling, but she wouldn’t stop chanting to tend to it. When she needed a break, she prayed to Arseno with a song, anything to keep magic up in the house.
Addie cried out. She sat up, coughed green blood, and clung to Doyle. Her hands, like little claws, gripped his shoulders. A black scarred lump was all that was left of her repaired tongue, and Marnie’s gut pinched with guilt. The girl said something, but it was impossible to make out her garbled words.
“Be still, child, be still,” Doyle soothed. He was sweating. The priest took off his stole, unfolding it, and laid it over Addie’s torso. “Sleep, sleep.”
Marnie opened the jar of goat tumors and threw one into the fire, creating a gust of organic magic. Doyle chanted a prayer to Diridge, and the child calmed, blinking heavily. Addie looked at Marnie and tried to tell her something. She jabbed a little finger at her boot where the demon knife wriggled. It writhed again, pressing hard into her ankle, and Marnie clamped a hand down on it to stifle the provoked demons.
Addie resisted rest at first, throwing her arms and kicking her legs, and when sleep finally took hold, her expression remained grim. Doyle sighed heavily, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.
Marnie panted and wheezed.
“You trapped the demon,” Doyle said breathily. “You trapped it in that knife. There were two of them? I’ve never seen anyone manage such a thing.” He pointed at her boot where the blade suddenly stilled.
Marnie gaped, speechless.
“Why did you leave me outside?”
“I didn’t mean to,” she said, feeling exposed, like he read her mind and could see she was a street witch—one who dealt with demons. Dangerous. Tears pricked her eyes.
“She was possessed,” he said matter-of-factly.
Marnie did not confirm it, but she didn’t have to. How strange of the priest to work hard to save the child, only so she could be executed later.
“The constabulary need not know that,” he whispered. He tapped his nose and winked at her. “By trapping those things, you saved her life. She would not have survived the exorcism, as small as she is.”
Her fear was swallowed up by a rush of relief. She wanted to hug him but then thought better of it. Her injured hand was blistered red and twice its usual size. She spat on it, and it sizzled.
“Shit!” Marnie held her burnt hand aloft.
The priest rushed to his knapsack, mumbling a spirit chant in a foreign tongue, an Achean language Marnie recognized. He retrieved some shabby scraps of linen and handed them over. Marnie dipped them each into the wine bottles, shaking them vigorously in turn. They dripped dry in her fingers before she wrapped them around her hand. The magic burned hotter at first, and she hissed through her teeth. Doyle prayed to Soshua for healing, and she joined him on the verses she knew. In the end, they were both so tapped, the healing rite, combined with her use of natural magics, barely took out the sting. It continued its repair work slowly, painfully tightening her skin.
The furniture began to float. Marnie shoved a dining chair out of her face. Doyle ripped boards from the windows, letting in sunlight and fresh air to help dissipate some of the stronger enchantments. Marnie’s stomach rumbled loudly.
“Take your armband,” Doyle said. “You’ve more than earned it. I need to stay with the girl a bit longer, but please see to my horse.” Then he smiled. “And see to your stomach.”
She retrieved the armband. The silver seemed to have dulled in the chaos, or her longing for it certainly had. She slipped it onto her uninjured wrist, glad it was all over and the girl was safe.
Doyle stopped her at the door. “That knife,” he said warily.
“I know. I’m going to destroy it . . . just as soon as I figure out how.”
“Sooner would be far better than later.” His tone was scolding, but there was kind concern in his eyes. “Consult Jack. He is known for having a gift for spell work. Consult any witch friend you trust, maybe one of your professors from the academy if that is possible. You ask your friends, and I’ll ask mine. Together, we will think of something.”
To add to the air and sunlight in the parsonage, she left the door open at her back.
Marnie walked up the path into the center of Glint, stumbling as she went. It took a moment for her sluggish mind to recognize she was magic drunk, extremely so. Her feet caught every divot and ditch along the way. Vision watery, she fell twice on her way to the priest’s horse, scratching up her palms and tearing a hole in the knee of her trousers.
“Should I help you with the cart?” the Glint boy offered, looking her over with a nervous frown.
She burped when she opened her mouth to reply. “No ca
rt,” she slurred.
He assisted her with the mount after she slipped several times. Under normal circumstances, Marnie was a practiced rider and accustomed to mounting bareback. The LaFontaine Estate tended several horses, but her ability to balance had abandoned her. Immediately after she made it onto Donala’s back from the left side, she slopped heavily onto the ground from her right.
“Uff,” Marnie gasped, the air blasted from her lungs on impact. Donala stomped her back hoof impatiently.
Marnie awoke later, surprised she had fallen asleep in the mud. Someone had covered her in a goat fleece blanket. The sun was in a different place in the sky, much closer to the horizon, and the salt and pepper mare chewed contentedly at a mound of oats on the other side of the path.
The Glint boy hovered over her. “I thought maybe you had died, but then you started snoring. Should I get the priest?”
The nap had been impromptu, but she felt a little better. Getting to her feet was a struggle. Dried mud rolled down her back and crumbled around her boots. Her vision had cleared, and she had more control of her faculties. Her burnt hand was less swollen but still tender.
“Brother Doyle?” Her mouth was so dry she coughed.
“The priest hasn’t returned yet. Just you.” The boy fetched her a wooden cup full of water without her asking. She drank deeply. Her stomach growled, and he brought her bread. It was crusty and a little stale. She ate greedily, and only then noticed the small village was deserted. The ferries were all docked. No one was fishing the water gardens.
“Where is everyone?” she asked with her mouth full.
“Hiding,” he said sheepishly.
“From what?”
As if in answer, the sound of desperate weeping echoed up from a copse of trees down the muddy hill, a stone’s throw away. The man howled so wildly, Marnie nearly mistook him for an animal.
“Who is that?” She narrowed her eyes on the trees, trying to see through them. There was something desperate and threatening in those cries. She didn’t dare turn her back on them.
The boy stared at his feet. “My father, the pastor of the Cloth.”
“Your father’s the pastor of Glint . . . then you live in the parsonage. Is the girl there your sister?”
He nodded. “Is Addie all right?” His face was earnest.
“She is. With time she will be even better.” Marnie stepped toward the trees carefully, checking her footing. The ground swayed beneath her, proving she wasn’t as recovered as she would have liked to be.
The boy caught up to her and grabbed her arm. “Don’t,” he whispered.
The wind turned. The trees swayed, carrying the crying howls of a devastated man and the stink of demon magic.
“I won’t let him hurt me,” Marnie said, teeth clenched.
“No. I don’t want you to hurt him.” He glanced at the spirit marking just below her collar.
Marnie digested his fear solemnly. Scaring others could have its advantages in dire situations. Like being magic drunk could also have its advantages. Marnie felt brave. Recklessly so. Much braver than she should have because the thick stink now in the air smelled as foul and powerful as any demon curse could, and she found herself walking toward it instead of running away from it.
“Go and hide,” she said sternly. The boy squeaked and hurriedly obeyed as Marnie marched for the trees.
The pastor of Glint howled up at the sky like a starving wolf looking for its pack. It did not take long to figure out what ailed him. The pastor, a tall thin man with thick brown hair, cried out in pain and panic, clutching a wooden prosthetic hand to his chest. Jutting out of his shoulder, through the cloth of his brown pastor’s stole, was a diseased hand, a demonic replacement likely offered in exchange during a demon deal. It was shriveled and undersized.
He stared at it with wide, horror-filled eyes. “Why, why, why, please, someone help me . . .”
Marnie shushed him. “You’re terrifying your family.”
The pastor paced and whimpered. There was spittle on his chin. He had the wild eyes of a recently violent man, but Marnie could not find it in herself to be afraid of him.
She was disgusted. Her temper bubbled within her. Her gut did somersaults.
“Was it worth it?” she taunted him, and he finally fell quiet.
His red-rimmed eyes were full of unshed tears. “It tricked me,” he moaned, more drool running down his chin. “I never deserved to lose my hand. I wanted it restored to me. This thing”—he waved at the diseased hand jutting out of his shoulder—“this is not what I asked for.”
“Of course it tricked you. Demons are liars, and you’re a fool for dealing with it.” Her fists balled up at her sides. She wanted to throw something at him, add to his pain. She wanted to hurl curses upon him.
“I didn’t let it possess me.” The shriveled hand twitched on his shoulder, and he winced, disgusted. “I’ve br-broken no laws.”
“Right, of course you didn’t,” Marnie snapped. “You were very careful not to break any laws.” She bent low and picked up a rock and one of the sticks there, a thick one as long as her leg. “You just convinced your poor witch daughter to make the deal for you.”
White-hot anger turned her stomach. She felt the heat of it prickling in her chest. She threw the rock at him and missed. He was lucky she was intoxicated. She had thrown it with enough force to concuss him. Her vision went hazy around the edges. She had to use the stick as a cane to steady herself.
His eyes popped wide when a second rock flew by. “You can’t hurt me,” he said, but his gaze landed on the lion badge at her chest, and he no longer seemed sure of himself. “I am the pastor here. Glint is mine. You can’t harm me. I deserve council and a trial with my priest.”
“You deserve the gallows!”
“She agreed to it! She said the words and made the vile deal, not me!”
“She’s a child!” Marnie shouted.
“She’s a street witch!”
Marnie reacted, fury had its hold on her so firmly. She lifted the stick and swung it like a sword. With all her strength, she hit the diseased hand. He crumpled to the ground, crying out. In a heap, he hugged his knees to his chest. Marnie raised her stick, ready to strike him again.
“Marnie, Marnie, where are you?” Doyle’s voice pulled her out of her rage. The blurry red haze circling her vision subsided somewhat.
She lowered the stick, blood pounding in her ears and throat. She wanted to kick this man. To shout at him. She wanted to end him, and the notion startled her.
Doyle was at her side, breathing heavily like he had been running. It wasn’t until his hand was on her shoulder that she realized she was crying. Fat hot tears slicked down her face. She choked on her words trying to tell him what she knew. The hiccups bent her over. She held her knees, dropping the stick, gulping air.
Marnie doubted he could make out most of what she said, but the scene before them did not take much explanation. Doyle glowered down at the shriveled hand, sticking out in such a grisly manner, the muddy prosthetic, and the contemptuous pile of a broken pastor at the center of it all.
“Give me your stole, you fool.” Doyle’s tone was level, but there was ire in his gritted teeth and set jaw.
“No, no,” the pastor chanted, hugging himself.
Doyle grasped the brown fabric and yanked, tearing it free, kicking at him when he tried to roll away.
“Stop,” the pastor wept. The diseased hand twitched and grasped at the air. His stole, the sign of his authority, was ripped into pieces. Doyle handed scraps to Marnie as he tore them free, shaming the man further. The priest’s face was purple with rage.
She held the brown fabric in shaking hands. Tears streamed down her face. She could smell the magic in them, tart like kiwi, and she knew she must still be terribly intoxicated on organic magic. Marnie wondered if she should help Doyle control himself, but the thought was an errant one. A priest didn’t have to deal with the effects of natural magics, so he was the most le
velheaded of either of them.
The pastor tried to crawl away from them. She put a boot in his back and held him still. He gave up after that, even when Doyle started on the rest of his clothing next, his shirt and his trousers, grunting with the effort to rip them beyond repair.
* * *
“Don’t worry about me,” Doyle said to her from the privacy of their shared motorcar. The mare Donala followed at a trot outside. His cart would need to be fetched on another day. They were both too exhausted to manage it.
The girl, Addie, had been sent off for further healing in a long steam carriage that could fit a gurney. She was accompanied by a nurse and her mother. Marnie wanted to go with her, but there wasn’t room and the priest had put her at ease. He knew the witches who would tend to her. They were quite skilled, he promised.
Doyle continued, “Even if he attempts to press assault charges against me for stripping him naked, I know the reputation of the man who will be investigating these events. He will have no patience for that disgusting piece of filth who calls himself a pastor. Constable Alec won’t be able to charge him for what he’s done, but I bet he’ll rip that filthy demon limb right off his shoulder, just for sport.”
“And then he’ll be returned to his post,” Marnie said gloomily. “He’ll go back to being the pastor of Glint because he wasn’t possessed by a demon and he’s not a magic user. They will see him as innocent.”
Doyle grunted discontentedly. He opened his knapsack and uncorked his wine. It sloshed in his trembling grasp as he brought it to his lips and drank deeply from it. Wiping his face, he offered Marnie the bottle.
“No, thanks.” She waved it away. Her stomach was a dry knot. She’d forgotten her hunger the moment she laid eyes on the pastor. “Will that man expose his daughter? If he tells Alec she was possessed—”
“Alec is one of the good ones,” Doyle said. “No child has seen the gallows since he was appointed constable. He is careful and thorough and knows how to keep the watchmen’s attention where it belongs. He’ll understand who is truly to blame. Alec won’t be able to charge the pastor, but he won’t see the girl harmed either. I sent a telegram to him first thing. Glint doesn’t have a clerk, so it took me a while to have one done. I apologize for leaving you alone for so long.”
