by Riley London
He starts to move as he lectures, circling me where I stand. He’s not dressed to fight, and there wasn’t actually a class name on the schedule. Just “Meet Ari in the Solarium.”
“Perfection is an illusion,” he says, as he begins to circle. “The perfection of the self. The perfection of the other. The idea that perfection is even necessary to take action, to accomplish our goals.”
I can’t help it. I sigh.
He stops short. “Problem, Max?”
“Look, Ari, I get that you’re a gentleman and a philosopher.”
He smiles.
“But I don’t see how this helps me get Father Gabriel back.”
Now his grin turns wolfish. “And that, Max, is exactly what I’m saying. You’re so focused on the pursuit of the perfect, fast-track training that you imagine will prepare you for what’s ahead that you’re failing to miss what’s on offer. Failing to perceive what you actually need to know.”
That brings me up short.
“Because you’ve decided what perfect, lethal demon-hunter in Hell Max looks like, you’re failing to see three possibilities.”
Three?
“First, that you even understand what the perfect state of a demon-hunter looks like. No offense, Max, but you’re not even close to knowing what that looks like.”
Now I’m growing angry, shifting from foot to foot.
“Second, that you have any capacity to understand what a perfect training program looks like to prepare a woman that’s barely more than a child what she’ll need to know to stay alive in Lucifer’s realm. Tell me Max, how do you prepare a frail, barely formed human to face the darkest foe immortal foe that man has ever known?”
Practically a child? I growl.
“Third, that you’re so rigidly set that there’s just one way to get where you’re going, that you’re already so confident in the clarity of who you are, that you’re missing the biggest possibility of all. Your greatest perfection may be something you never contemplated before, little half-witch Max.”
Rage again, that familiar companion. “Ari, I don’t have time to waste on this mindset stuff.”
He moves, so blindingly fast, that I almost don’t perceive it. What the hell?
He’s close, so close, that I can feel his breath hot on my skin. But his face is intense, the features contorted into something that I might describe as anger.
“No, Max. What you don’t have time is for your own limited point of view, rigid pride and perfectionist tendencies slowing you down. Getting in your way. Getting in my way. Every minute you waste, throwing a tantrum that you know better than everyone else, is another minute that Father Gabriel is being flayed alive.”
I stumble back, bile rising in the back of my throat.
“Every minute you demand answers and tell me how good you are is another second when the life force of Gabriel drains into the stones of hell with another drop of his blood. Tell me Max, if you’re so good, then why is Gabriel there in the first place?”
Grief, rage, and a bottomless pit of self loathing that I’d managed to cap off, compartmentalize, promise myself I’d deal with later, rips open. I try to speak, but the noise that comes out sounds like a wounded animal.
“Every second that you decide there can only be perfection or there can’t be progress is another second that Gabriel screams your name into the void, begging for help, begging to die, wondering why he’s so inexorably alone.”
He’s not just saying the words. He’s putting the clear, vivid, horrifying images in my mind. At least, I think he is.
Fighting the images, fighting them back, fighting to keep on my feet. I just can’t. I hit my knees, the old hardwood unforgivingly smashing into my shins.
“Maximiliana Ryder,” roars Ari, suddenly on the other side of the room. “Defend yourself!”
It’s a command. Part of me wants to drag myself to my feet, fly through the air, and rip his eyes out of his face while he screams into a dark void.
But his hands are coming up, gathering power. I can see it there, at the edges of the room, coalescing at his fingertips. He’s moving slowly, but he’s moving.
Somewhere, from behind me, over my shoulder comes Ari’s voice. Gentle. Calm. Polished. Not screaming, not contorted by rage, not saying the horrific things that have tears running down my cheeks.
“Put up your hands and say Protegas,” says calm Ari.
I do.
I throw my hands up and scream the word, uncomprehending. Every bit of rage, of fear, of feeling goes into it, and several balls of light explode from the hands of the Ari standing across the room. Evil Ari. They rocket through space, directly at me like small, lethal meteorites. But they get about a foot from my body, and they just stop.
Hit some invisible wall.
And slide slowly to the floor, extinguishing before the light touches the oak boards beneath.
I look up, across the room at Evil Ari, but he’s not there.
A gentle hand touches my shoulder. I twist, still on my knees, up to look at him.
“What?”
“Just an illusion, Max. Just for training.” His voice is gentle.
I try to speak again.
“Father Gabriel, I…..” And a sob wretches from my mouth, before I clamp it down.
Ari slides down into a sitting position, his back against one of the strange narrow walls, and pulls me down next to him. At first I don’t resist, but when my back touches the wall I slide a little away. I’m shaking. I don’t want to touch Ari and he doesn’t say anything as I move.
That handsome face looks troubled before the professional, calm, polished mask slips back into place.
“I’m sorry, Max,” he says, his voice very quiet. “As I said, there’s no perfect way.”
I hiccup.
“In another time, and another place, you would have years to learn what you just did,” he sounds very tired. “But we don’t have years, at least not now. The easiest way to access the raw power of magic, to tap into the Witch abilities that you have, is to access your emotions. And unfortunately, the strongest emotions you have access to now are fear, anger, horror and guilt.”
I stare straight ahead.
“Father Gabriel’s abduction is not your fault,” he says, his voice firm. “And while I’d encourage you not to dwell on the horrors, I’d also encourage you not to hide from them either.”
I do look at him then, a mix of hatred and something else tearing at my chest.
“That’s so fucking cruel.”
It surprises me when he nods. “Everything I said, about letting go of perfection. About believing that you know better. About letting yourself get caught up in unproductive mental loops. That’s all true. It takes a lifetime to master, Max. But it also takes time, and precious energy, and vital focus to spend energy convincing yourself things are not as they are. The world is cruel. And you’re a warrior, fighting the greatest forces of evil to get back the person you love the most.”
I run a hand over my face.
“Stop expecting to get everything right the first time. Stop expecting everyone else to be flawless in everything they do,” he says softly. “And stop willing things to be other than what they are. Wishes won’t change anything, Max. Only action. And you have just taken the first step toward using your defensive magic.”
There’s a sound of high heels on the stairs, and Ari rises. He offers me a hand, but I don’t take it when I stand.
Serena enters the room, today dressed in a red pantsuit and Mary Janes. Her eyes go back and forth from Ari to me, but she just smiles. Ari leaves without a word, pausing only when his feet hit the top of the stairs.
“I’ll see you back here tomorrow, Max, for part two.”
The fuck you will, I spit silently.
But as I watch his retreating form, I know I’ll be here.
Serena has a much calmer study plan for the day and teaches me a visualization for gathering power. Tomorrow, she says, we’ll start actually thr
owing spells. But practicing this as much as possible is vital to helping me be effective.
I don’t say that I’ve got enough power, enough rage, enough desperation gathering to throw a spell that’ll knock a hole in the side of this house.
I don’t say that this is stupid, and that I don’t have time to waste with her meditation.
In fact, I don’t say anything.
Instead, I listen and I practice as hard as I can until I’ve got a splitting headache.
Serena’s left.
I grab some water, go sit out in the paler afternoon light on the porch, and keep practicing.
At 3:30, the alarm on my phone shakes me out of my practice. I run up to my room, trading athletic shoes for boots and pulling on a leather jacket over my leggings and tank top. I’m almost out the door when I hear a deep voice behind me.
“Where are you going?”
It’s Erik, dressed in fatigues and looking like his mind was somewhere else until he saw me.
“To meet Fred,” I snap, relaxing my voice to add, “Father Gabriel’s assistant. She wanted to give me some things.”
“Where?”
“I’m meeting her at a coffee shop? The Witch’s Tip.”
My phone GPS says it’s maybe a quarter of a mile from the Academy, into old Salem. “I’ll drive you.”
He’s already moving to the door.
“Erik?” My voice is a question and that stops him short.
He looks down at me with an unreadable expression, and I hate the flush that crops into my cheeks. “If it’s not safe, that’s fine. But if it’s all the same, I’d really just like to take a walk alone. Clear my head. Get some fresh air.”
I hate to admit it. But the truth of it is that I’m desperate for a break.
Five minutes to myself sounds like the promise of eternity right now.
He nods, grabs my phone, and scrutinizes the GPS. “Directions are good. Take the drive straight to the bottom. Take a right, first left. It’s a couple of blocks down.”
He punches something into my phone.
“That’s my number. Call if you need anything.”
That’s easier than I expected, and I feel both relieved and oddly a little disappointed.
I’m almost out the door when he says, “Hey, Max?”
I look back. Maybe not so easy after all, but he just says, “Try the chocolate chip cookies.” Then he heads toward the staircase down to the basement level.
The walk down through the cool afternoon air is exactly what I need. The drive up to the Academy is private, and I’m starting to sense that it’s warded somehow. Not sure with what, exactly, although it makes sense that this particular group of people would have some protections in place.
But enough people have been demanding I pay attention to magical signatures that I’m looking – and this is so strong it’s hard to miss.
The Witch’s Tip is right where Erik said it would be, although it’s a little more tucked away than I expect. It’s empty, except for one man grabbing a coffee and Fred sitting at a table to the back. She has a pile of files in front of her, fingers anxiously tapping across her phone, and her bright orange hair blazes where it catches the late afternoon sun.
I grab two chocolate chip cookies and two cups of tea. But what Fred has to share kills my appetite.
A package came for me to the central office, delivered by a courier she didn’t catch. It’s addressed to me, and apparently included a second note warning that if it wasn’t delivered to me and to me alone, Father Gabriel would die.
“Did you show this to Brother Dominic?”
She shakes her head. “Max, I hope I did the right thing. Gabriel…” her voice breaks.
I look at Fred, really look at Fred, and see how wracked with grief she is. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think she had personal feelings for Father Gabriel. They’d worked together for years, but I’m not sure that I ever saw Father Gabriel give her more than a passing glance.
That polite, distant, priestly affect that priests get really good at.
“Father Gabriel,” she corrects herself. “I’m sorry, Max. If I did the wrong thing, tell me and we can call Dominic now.”
But I shake my head. Opening the envelope, I see what’s inside and shove it back down. Fred’s eyes go wide.
“Max, what’s wrong?”
Fred’s a good woman. Efficient, smart, and not freaked out by the weirdness that comes with working for exorcists. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to show her what’s in the envelope.
“It’s nothing, Fred. Thank you so much. I really have to get back to the Academy and train. Don’t worry. I’m going to get him back.”
I walk out into the cold air and walk out of sight, intending to head back up to the Academy. The street is deserted, which seems odd since it had been so full of people moments before. I open the envelope again and what comes out is a piece of human skin, so ancient that it’s like parchment.
Not Father Gabriel’s then.
Thank god.
Words are scrawled across it in red ink. I look closer and fight down a wave of revulsion. Blood.
Max, accept your escort if you want to see Father Gabriel alive again, it reads.
Alive. Then he’s still alive.
That gives me hope.
Escort? I have no idea what that means. Shoving the creepy note back into the envelope and dropping the envelope into my bag, I start to walk.
My intention is to go back to Salem Academy.
To talk to Serena, or maybe Erik, about my visit with Fred.
But instead, my feet head in the other direction, away from the Academy.
Deeper into the heart of old Salem.
8
There’s something about the narrow, winding streets that feels so familiar.
That feels like home.
Ancient cobblestones still peek up from the road in spots, and the houses are set close together. Many of them are built in a colonial style, with a few even sporting old twelve-paned lead glass windows.
The road is made for small carts. Not for cars.
It definitely doesn’t help that the cars are double parked for Halloween either.
I have heard how busy Salem gets this type of year. But seeing the crush of bodies, the lines tourists waiting hours to get into Witch shops and attractions, surprises me.
Taking in the details of this part of the town, I am surprised at how much feels like a place I know.
I don’t really remember being here.
Yet on some level, I have that muscle memory that’s leading me effortlessly through its streets like I’ve walked them a hundred times.
This street, that bright blue house with the little garden in the front, the strange alleyway that makes its way between the houses.
The way everything looks in the darkening shadows of the late afternoon.
It’s familiar.
In a way, it’s like something calls to me. Just another step, Max. You’re almost there.
Almost where?
I’m heading deeper and deeper into the old heart of the town. Away from the tourist attractions. Away from the streets packed with visitors. Away from the safety of Salem Academy.
As I think of the Academy, it strikes me that I need to turn around.
Need to head back.
Need to get there in time for the post-dinner meeting that’s on my schedule with Serena.
That’s about the time I realize I’m being compelled.
A spell.
Recognizing that’s one thing. Breaking it? That’s another.
My feet work, moving forward under the compulsion, toward some destination I can’t imagine at first.
Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot.
Mindlessly moving forward, no matter how I fight it.
But as the modest little houses and cheerful neighborhoods give way to darker and more expansive Victorians, I get a sinking feeling.
I have an idea of what’s i
n store.
My eyes are on the horizon, everything feeling a little fuzzy. I am fighting to summon the energy that I gathered earlier.
However, I just feel tapped out.
Those powers, those connections to Witch energy or whatever it was, it’s just too raw.
Too new.
Too ephemeral for me to grasp.
I am lost in thought when a man steps into my path.
Actually, I correct myself. This is no man, but rather a teenage boy. He’s tall and bony, with light blond hair and an almost angelic face.
His clothes are nondescript.
Something about him reminds me of a choir boy.
When he speaks, his voice breaks a little like he’s stuck at that odd stage between a boy and a man. “Excuse me.”
That’s when I see his eyes.
At first glance they just look blue. But when I looked closer, the dark pupil is ringed by the thinnest circle of molten red.
He might look like a choir boy, but he’s a fucking demon.
Instinctively, my demon sight kicks into gear. It takes just a second to see the trails of demonic energy emanating from his body.
I can’t believe I let myself get so distracted, so vulnerable to the energies of this place.
Any other time and I would have known he was there before he approached.
Have slaughtered him dead before he opens his mouth.
But my mind goes back to the note.
The one written on human skin with blood. Accept your escort or you’ll never see Father Gabriel alive again.
The fiery ring around his pupils glows brighter, but his eyes are completely devoid of comprehension. He speaks again, voice still breaking with the strange notes of puberty, but the underlying voice is a monotone.
“Come with me and I will take you to the priest.”
There is some part of me primed to obey.
Half magical compulsion. Half ragged desperation.
“Never trust a demon Max,” Father Gabriel says.
We have been sparring for hours, and I’m so tired that all I want is a break. But he has been increasing the practice time lately.
“I am sorry Max,” he says, looking regretful. “Just another 30 minutes and then you can go do something fun. But if you want to come with me, you need to practice. You need to take your fighting and your study sessions seriously.”
