by Riley London
It’s the hardest thing possible for me to do. But some part of me trusts him to do the right thing. And that trust pays off.
“Listen Max, what I’m about to tell you goes no further than this room. Do you understand me?” But before I can answer he continues. “Don’t disclose this to anyone here at Salem Academy. When you see Micah, keep this to yourself. Only use this information for your own safety, please.”
There’s an almost fearful emphasis on the word please.
He just confirmed again that Micah is alive. I just nod, because I don’t want him to stop talking. “You have my word, Erik. Thank you for trusting me.”
It’s a little bit of a low blow. He’s a big values guy and I’m talking his language. But I mean it too, and that counts for something.
He starts by repeating some of the information that Serena gave me on that first night I arrived at Salem Academy. Loretta Stancroft Ryder was from one of Salem’s oldest established witch families. For all intents and purposes, she was married off to the wealthy son of a business icon whose family line also contains old witch blood. Her only purpose was to bear children, something that was exponentially more difficult because she hated her husband and rumor has it her husband preferred men.
But all things being equal, Loretta had three children. The eldest was a boy that died tragically in an accident before he started school. That left two daughters. The eldest was born almost 15 years before the youngest.
Despite her storied lineage, the elder daughter had no capacity for magic. Her father focused on her social standing and made an excellent marriage for her to a banking family in San Francisco.
Rumor has it that Mr. Ryder went out of his way to help his older daughter build the life that would get her out from under the clutches of her mother. But then, a late life surprise brought them young Cassandra. Cassandra was sweet, beautiful, and energetic. Her father was pleased for the relief around the house. Her mother became obsessed with the child when she showed interest and aptitude for magic. The girl’s day became long and grueling, extended magical testing and relentless magical practice.
But at the cost of a happy childhood, one of the most gifted witches that Salem has ever seen – and some people would go on to say the world – stepped into the full potential of her power.
In a way, Loretta’s goal has been achieved. But success is rarely that straightforward. Cassandra found herself trapped with the mother who was obsessed with her, using her to prove status among Salem’s magical elite. But her mother also hated her, both for the talents that surpassed her own and for some perceived limitations in what Loretta demanded be a limitless mastery of all disciplines of magic.
Lovers came and went. Husbands came and went. In time, Cassandra had a son Micah, and then years later a daughter. While little is known about what went wrong, the contentious relationship between Larissa and Cassandra turned deadly.
Erik dragged a huge hand over his jaw and up into his short military cut hair. I notice it’s something he does when he’s nervous, so I expect whatever comes next is the meat of the story.
He stands up and comes to stand in front of me. We are not touching but the heat from his body rolls off in waves.
“Listen, Max. Years later Micah told me he believed Loretta tried to kill you. Not once, not by accident, but on multiple occasions. When Cassandra caught her, she confronted her. Micah overheard the entire thing, and just a couple of days later, your mother was dead in an accident. His old father had died not long before that in an accident. Loretta blamed her failing health and lack of grace. For reasons that could only be magical in their influence, no one dug deep. You can’t go in there unprotected, Max,” he sounds desperate.
“Hey, big guy. Listen up. I hear you. She is obviously not planning a family reunion, and I am not sitting around for five hours to see what she has in store – whether it’s poisoned meatloaf or tearful apologies. If she has any information whatsoever that could lead us to Father Gabriel, I’m going there now,” I say defiantly.
“Then I’ll get the weapons and meet you downstairs.”
It’s interesting that Erik doesn’t think that his backup is enough protection against my grandmother. That actually does give me pause.
I seize the last of the weapons off my bed, including the longsword strapped to my back and slide it into place. There’s hardly an inch of my body that’s not covered in weapons. My eyes go to the tiny silver dagger that Ari gave me. It’s just laying on my desk.
No sense tempting fate. I slide the blade into my last free pocket and quickly close the zipper.
Word travels fast. Tristan stands by the door, outfitted in finery that would be worthy of the best dinner party. Noah looks ready to rumble, dressed down and packing his strange assortment of magical items and other trinkets.
A few minutes later, Erik joins us carrying a mobile armory of edged weapons and guns.
So much for midnight. We’re going now.
I don’t really know what enemy we will face, but we are prepared for an apocalypse.
Walking down the hill and through the crowded streets of Salem, into the streets filled with tourists taking in which city during atmospheric October days, seems like a bad idea. Erik grabs the keys to the SUV and we pile in. It’s just a short five-minute drive to my grandmother’s house. We grab the last open street parking and sit in silence.
“Now what?” demands Noah, directing his bark at me.
I turn as much as I can in the front passenger seat with the huge sword strapped to my back, and give him a huge grin. “I think it’s time for a dinner party. I can’t wait to see what Loretta says when she realizes that I brought a Brewster-Crane.”
Look who is coming to dinner, Nana.
At that, Noah grants me a rare smile. The conflict between the Ryders and the Brewster Crane clan goes way back.
She should be furious.
I’m delighted, happy for the chance to return the favor.
The four of us stomp up to the front door. Tristan rings the bell, but I pound on the door. Long seconds later, the door swings open to moderate indignations from Wilkins.
“Why Miss Ryder, what a pleasure to see you. But I am afraid that you are early,” says Wilkins. His eyes track around our little band of dinner party invaders. “And at the risk of being indelicate ma’am, your grandmother issued an invitation for one person.”
Without waiting, I push past him into the big house’s front hall.
Something about it hits me as so familiar, that I have to fight down the ache to stay focused on what’s in front of me.
“Well, Wilkins, here’s the good news. Everyone keeps telling me that the Ryders are known for their hospitality. Please inform my grandmother that I am here, early, and would like to speak to her at her earliest convenience. If you could also let her know that my guests include Tristan Seelie, Erik Gunnarsson, and Noah Brewster-Crane,” I say, indicating the room next to us. “We’ll wait in there.”
Wilkins looks panicked. “I am afraid that will not be possible ma’am. That is a private room reserved for family members only.” The words aren’t out of his mouth before he realizes his error.
I give him my brightest grin. “See, there’s that brilliant hospitality I’ve heard so much about.” I don’t wait for him to leave to march into the room next door and deliberately take a seat in the biggest chair.
Her chair, I think as my eyes lock on the huge oil painting of the woman on the wall. It’s gorgeously painted and vivid colors. She must have been stunningly beautiful once, but even in the painting she has aged to be tight, severe, unhappy.
Erik circles the room, looking closely at every detail. It’s easy to imagine what he’s like on a Special Forces mission gathering intel on an enemy. Each room is a grid search and every discovery a possible clue to the enemies he’s facing.
Noah has taken a seat on the couch not far from where I sit. His eyes are closed, his lips moving silently.
Tristan watches
him for a few minutes and then whispers, “He is tracking the magical signatures of the place. Probably trying to get a sense of any recent workings or any magical ingredients of interest on the property.”
His dark eyes meet mine. “Tell me Max. What do you sense?”
The first and most uncomfortable thing that I’ve noticed is how well I remember the layout of this house. All those early memories, of my brother, my mother, myself just playing and enjoying being a little kid. Those all happened here. All these years later, I can’t say I feel any deep attachment to the house, but it is a little disconcerting.
“It’s kind of like there’s a layer of old magic that went stagnant and is just stuck here,” I say. It’s hard to find precise words for the vague impression that I get.
Tristan looks around with the renewed interest. “Good job Max. What else are you sensing?”
My other abilities are kicking in, the ones that used to get me into trouble as a kid. The ones that I have tried not to talk too much about during my time at Salem Academy. I can feel that there are ghosts here. Real sentient ghosts and also just the kind of sad lingering energy of a house that’s known too much sadness.
I close my eyes. Dig deeper.
My eyes fly open, at exactly the same moment Noah’s do the same. “I sense demons. Lots of demons. Ancient, dangerous demons. Here. Nearby. Maybe in the house?” I speak so fast, trying to get so much information into just a few sentences.
Noah speaks over me. “There is a coven of witches doing an active working here. From what I can tell it’s some sort of transportation magic, and it may have something to do with an interdimensional transferal.”
My demon’s sight isn’t even open, and I’m beginning to see the tendrils of their power seeping up through the floor.
“Basement,” I point and everyone looks down, as I rise to my feet. But I’m unsure if they can see it.
Erik has pulled a large gun from the bag strapped to his back, and he moves very close beside me.
“I think we should get out of here,” I start to say. At the same time Tristan says, “This is a trap. Something is very wrong. But there’s too much obfuscation to be able to really decode…”
“Let’s get out of here guys, now. We don’t have much time,” says Noah, heading for the door.
Normally, I’d fight. But I don’t even know what we’re fighting. If we can get outside, regroup, we might have a chance to take whatever this is.
Erik mutters a curse, probably just for something to say. And that’s when it happens.
A door in the room where we stand flies open, and Wilkins comes running out looking terrified. Something is clutched in each of his hands and when he approaches us – we stand together in a little cluster by the door, because we’ve almost made it out – he hurls some kind of powder.
Dark.
Iridescent.
Drifting down through the air.
For long, awkward seconds absolutely nothing happens. Noah sneezes. I watch as the dust settles all the curls of Tristan’s hair. There is the sound like a sub-sonic boom, a strange sucking sensation that begin at my feet, climbing up my legs, soon enveloping my entire body.
Someone – I think it’s Erik – reaches out and grabs my arm with an iron grip.
I don’t know where we’re going, but I can tell you that we’re going together.
The world fades to black for some immutable period of time. Matter shifts, separates, realigns and reconfigures itself in entirely new ways. Body and consciousness separate, merging again in a way that will forever change our understanding of the relationship between our bodies and minds. Everything screams in pain.
The darkness explodes into light, every dampened sense on high alert.
We crash into wherever we’ve been transported. Erik still clings to me, holding on to make sure we land at the same place. Noah blinks and Tristan follows. There’s just a second before ear-splitting screams seem to dominate the entire landscape, slightly reminiscent of Earth but obliterated by fire, famine, and everything terrible.
“We are in Hell,” says Tristan in a tight voice. Erik has already taken a battle stance.
Tristan wrenches the map from his backpack, shoving it to Noah who trying to connect what he’s seeing to what’s on the paper. Tristan has already begun to summon magic, his hands tracing sigils on the air while he speaks words I’ve never heard lightning fast.
For my part? My eyes scan the horizon, looking for the first demon that I get to kill.
I’ve never seen so much demonic energy in a single place.
15
People have a habit of saying they’re in Hell a lot.
But as I look around, I make a silent promise never to compare a mall parking lot on Christmas Eve to this chaos. To never confuse an unsupervised birthday party for toddlers to this nightmare. To never mistake a bad coworker or a tough day for the endless torture I see around me.
“I need intel,” barks Erik. “Tell me what you see.”
Demon signatures are everywhere.
It’s like scum above the surface of the plane that we’re on. In much the same way that my grandmother’s mansion had aging magical detritus over her place of residence.
We seem to have landed in the middle of a dungeon. Huge, muscular demons with lava lines snaking around their bodies and clawed fists holding pitchforks, whips and other implements of torture manage the place.
They must be the guards.
It looks like we’re in some sort of prison or holding cell area.
One of the demons turns to the other, rumbling, “It’s almost time. The witch they’re sending us will be here in an hour or two. We need to get this done. There are other things on our list.”
It’s all starting to come together. The dinner party was a ruse. My grandmother is clearly in league with the demons. Why? I’m not sure.
Apparently she planned to do a working to send me down to Hell. Talk about broken family dynamics.
Luckily, we’d arrived into the horrible prison Grand Central Station ahead of schedule. They weren’t ready.
Weren’t prepared.
Maybe, just maybe, that would be our advantage.
My mind flashes back to my training with Father Gabriel. “When you’re fighting demons, you need to take every advantage.”
My lessons with Erik. “Don’t get locked into one pattern, Max. Look for the openings and use those to your advantage.”
Magical instructions from Tristan: “Once you know how to read the magical patterns, you can see how they’re woven and you start to spot the opportunities that you can exploit to make them better.”
That’s what this is. The gap in the pattern, the opening, the advantage we need to come out swinging.
The four of us are close, but we’re not exactly inconspicuous. My skin starts to crawl when one of the guards methodically sweeps the space and our eyes meet. Unblinking lava orbs take us in, blink, and then he opens a hideous fang-filled maw and screams. That’s it.
It’s game on.
At the edge of my sight line, I see Tristan fly into motion. There’s something about the contrast between the man, so full of light and goodness, and this place, so drenched with devastation and horror, that casts the image into stark relief.
He’s inspiration in motion. Hope itself flying through the air.
He jumps up on top of a huge stone that I’m pretty sure is used to chain victims to for whipping, and even as he is in the air, before his feet make contact his hands move frenetically through a series of sigils. His lips silently form the words to a spell.
We’re in a kind-of long hallway, surrounded by open air cells. The good news is that there’s only one direction that the guards can come at us. The bad news is there’s only one way out.
Time to slay some demons.
Erik moves protectively in front of all of us and bashes the butt of his gun into the heads of forerunners in the onslaught of demons. They drop left and right, making tortured
sounds I don’t think I will forget anytime soon.
Noah moves in beside me, producing terrifying ice staves from little sticks in his magic kit.
Deadly icicles? Well, I have to admit it works. They seem lethal when they graze the skin of the demons.
He positions himself in front of Tristan, defending him while he does whatever it is he’s doing.
Trying to prepare for when the demons fight their way through Erik. They’re still coming, wave after unrelenting wave, and the sight fills me with horror.
With fury.
With purpose.
Tristan stands a head above us all, on that stone of horror, summoning power.
I scan the area to see if I can find Father Gabriel. The prisoners look awful, covered in bruises, bleeding whip stripes, and marks of violence that I can’t even identify. Most of them are bone thin, with the countenance you’d find in a developing nation after years of famine.
My gut twists in on itself.
I can’t wait any longer.
Father Gabriel’s not here, and the only way we’re getting to him is fighting our way to him.
The sounds of fighting, the sounds of screaming prisoners, the sounds of the demons uttering the curses that weave their awful magic.
Time to crush our enemies.
I pull my sword effortlessly out of its sheath and fight my way to the front next to Erik.
My newly expanded demon sight is helping me identify what I’m fighting. It’s easier to discern how powerful they are, to get a sense of what powers they’re using, and even to see light trails that help telegraph what they’re going to do. It works a little like this on the surface but not nearly with this level of precision.
I am so grateful to Erik, Noah, and Tristan for forcing me to learn.
So glad I stopped stupid and refusing to listen.
If I make it through this alive, I’m going to learn every damn thing I can.
And thank each and every one of them.
My sword slices through demon flesh like heated butter. Body after body after body after body fall to pieces at my feet.
