Stories from the Demons of Fire and Night World

by C. N. Crawford

  “It’s a hidden land, connected to England.”

  Her jaw dropped. “We’re going to England? But my mother needs me. The storm, and the witch attacks. She’ll be frantic. She can’t look after herself.” What she didn’t say was, and you people scare the crap out of me.

  “What do you mean? Is she sick?”

  How could she explain it? There had never been a proper diagnosis. “She’s just a strange person. When my brother died, she lost her mind. She believes in—magic, which I guess is real. So that’s not the problem, but she needs me to make her meals, and….” She trailed off. This wasn’t sounding urgent, and maybe she needed to reevaluate Mom’s sanity anyway. “Are auras real?”

  “Yes. They’re created when magic is conducted. The more powerful the magic, the stronger the aura.”

  A weight on her chest began to lift. It all made sense. Isolde had been been zoning out, muttering in that strange language, when Mom had burned her skin. Isolde must have retained some of the old spells she knew, deep in her subconscious. Her mother had only been protecting her from the terrifying world of magic.

  She yanked up her sleeve. “So when my mom burned off the aura, she wasn’t just being crazy. She was burning the evil away.”

  Lir stared at her wrist, and when his eyes darkened again, the hair rose on the back of her neck. He rose and sat next to her on the bed. At the swirling darkness in his eyes, her skin raised into goose bumps, and she wanted to run. But he reached out, gently raising her wrist, his fingers warm and soft.

  She swallowed hard. What is he doing?

  Lir closed his eyes, muttering in the strange language that had so enraged her mom. A tattooed hand hovered over her arm. As the puckered, pink skin smoothed over to porcelain, she gaped at her arm.

  He was a witch, but at his gentle touch, she felt a little bit of the ice in her chest begin to thaw. “You healed me.”

  He let her wrist fall. “You can’t burn an aura off with fire. Maybe your mother was right about some things, but lighting youf arm on fire wasn’t one of them. You’re a witch, and you’ll always be a witch. Only death will stop that.”

  She shivered. “But I’m not like you. In your eyes, I can see something—not human.”

  “No. You’re not like me. The sea-witches have Dagon’s power. You’re just an ordinary, human witch. I’m tainted by a demon. At least, that’s what your mother would say.”

  She sighed. “When we were younger, she’d take me to the shore. We’d swim through the sea foam, past the breaking waves. We spoke magical words and transformed into seals. I thought it was a game.” She could remember other things now, too: A spell for lighting candles, one for growing flowers, and one for tidying rooms. “And then my brother drowned in the harbor. And she started talking about a blood god. She said we were impure, that the gods would kill us.”

  “Your mother converted. She became a follower of Blodrial—the one god who hates magic. The witch-hunters burn the impure. They ruled the land centuries ago, but they’ve lost power over the years. Until now. After the witch attacks in Boston, they could rise again.”

  “My mother doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

  “I’ll admit I don’t know a lot about mothers. But from what I understand, mothers are supposed to take care of their children, and not the other way around.”

  Chapter 5

  Cool, salty air rippled over Isolde’s bare legs as she leaned on the boat’s starboard gunnel, staring at the moonlight that glinted off the water. Lir had said you couldn’t burn the demons away. He’d said that her mom might have been right about the existence of magic, but that didn’t make her sane. So who was Isolde supposed to trust?

  All she knew was that she was sick of being responsible. She gripped the pewter cup of warm black strap, taking a long slug. It burned her throat going down, and it had a sweet, herbal aftertaste—almost medicinal.

  Lir had said mothers were supposed to take care of their children, not the other way around. But that hadn’t been the case for Isolde. Even before Gil had died, he’d always been sick. Vomiting, fatigue, the endless hospital visits, the perplexed doctors…. Mom had to spend spent countless hours in the hospital, moving from one doctor to the next to try to get a real diagnosis. Even then, Isolde had to take care of herself.

  After Gil had died, Isolde would come home to find her mother drinking champagne at four in the afternoon, hammering away on the baby grand piano. Once, Isolde had returned from school to find that flames from one of the iron candelabra had ignited the old drapes. Though the room filled with smoke, Mom had just lain on the chaise lounge, painting her toenails red.

  Even if Isolde had managed to make a friend at some point her life, she’d never have been able to invite them over to the dusty old mansion. Strange oil paintings covered the walls—chalices, a bleeding Roman soldier, a wolf. Old, matted seal pelts hung on the wall. Mom rarely changed out of her silky bathrobes, and if Isolde didn’t cook for her she’d consume nothing but coffee ice cream and wine.

  Isolde took another sip of the strong drink. Behind her, footsteps sounded on the deck, and she turned to see Captain Nod.

  He stared at the moon. “Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright.” He smelled of pipe-smoke.

  “Very pretty words.” Her head was spinning slightly. Waves lapped against the side of the vessel, and she looked up at the towering masts. The ship must’ve been at least a hundred years old. She took another sip, and the drink made her feel lighter. “It’s a gorgeous old ship.”

  “It is. And we live in beauty under the unchanging North Star.” He closed his eyes, muttering in the magical language. Fiddle music began filling the air—distant at first before it swelled.

  Nod pulled the drink from her hand, emptying it in one gulp. “I’ll get you another. Do you dance?”

  “No.”

  “Do you do anything fun?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “No. I’m not good with people.”

  “You don’t need to be good with people to dance.” He grabbed her hand, spinning her across the deck. She tried to keep up over the ship’s bobbing, tried not to think of the dark look in his eyes when he’d grabbed her necklace.

  When the music changed to a waltz, Jacques cut in. As he twirled her over the deck, Isolde’s head spun until the music slowed again.

  Lir stepped forward with a low bow, she could feel her cheeks flushing. Suddenly self-conscious, she tugged the hem of his shirt lower over her legs before slipping her hands into his.

  His warm hand rested on the small of her back, and he smelled of oak and salt. She smiled, for the first time in ages, as he led her across the deck, her bare feet skimming over the wooden boards.

  She danced until her legs ached, and then she dropped to the deck. Lir sat beside her, leaning back on his palms. She no longer really cared that they were sailing away from Innsworth. It no longer felt like home.

  “What is it you’re getting in Mount Acidale?” she asked.

  “Recruits for the Proserpine. Our crew has grown small. There’s just the three of us. Two others are sailing to Russia to find crew members.”

  She stared up at the starry sky. “I don’t imagine that it’s hard to find people to join you.”

  He frowned. “It’s not that simple. Most of our recruits don’t make it. Dagon claims their souls.”

  “My little brother drowned in the harbor. Is he with Dagon?”

  Lir gazed at her a moment before replying. “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

  “What would a god want with souls?”

  “The earthly gods are condemned to spend eternity in the seas, in the moon, in the fires in the center of the earth. They believe if they can harvest human souls, they can reduce their sentences. They’d be free again.”

  She rubbed her arms. “And you had to face Dagon to become a sea-witch?”

  “We all did. It isn’t pleasant. He shows you things you don’t want to see.”

>   She still didn’t understand where these sea-witches had come from. Why had she never heard of them? “Where are your parents?”

  “The sea-witch women live on an island. Atlantis. It’s glamoured, so ordinary people can’t find it. The women raise us until the age of five, and then we join a ship’s crew. Once we reach fourteen, we face Dagon. And if he lets us live, we gain his power.”

  Ah. That explained how Lir was able to move so quickly and breathe underwater. “I’d want to join, too, if I didn’t have to return home.”

  “I wouldn’t advise it. For every ten recruits, Dagon takes nine of their souls.”

  Those aren’t good odds.

  Lir lay on his back, folding his arms behind his head. “I don’t think you should return to Innsworth, either,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because your mother lit you on fire.”

  What else was she supposed to do? And anyway, it wasn’t Mom’s fault that tragedy had warped her mind. Isolde sighed. She didn’t want to think about any of that now.

  She glanced at Lir. With his full lips and strong body, he looked like a Greek god, and she tried not to stare. Tentatively, she lay next to him, her arm brushing his. Ever since he’d given her his shirt and a hot drink, all the terror she’d felt before had washed away. It was nice to have someone looking after her for once.

  “You keep saying that I’m a selkie. What’s a selkie?”

  “Every witch has a familiar. It’s an animal that can speak to you in your mind, and help you on your journey of magical knowledge. Mine is an octopus who swims along with the Proserpine. Same for Nod. Yours is a seal.”

  “You’re telling me that somewhere out there, there’s a seal who can speak in my head?”

  “Exactly. And when you so desire, you can transform into her shape. Like you did today. That’s what a selkie is.”

  Isolde frowned. “Why have I never seen her?”

  “I don’t know. You don’t remember meeting one in the sea?”

  She could remember something, in the distant haze of her early memories. Swimming freely through the icy Atlantic, a creature by her side. But there was something about the memory that warned her away—something that sent a chill down her spine. “My mom put seal pelts on our wall,” she said, trying to change the subject. “Maybe a tribute.”

  “Your mother is a witch hunter. She may have…disposed of your familiars.”

  An image flashed in her mind—Mom grinning, her arms covered in blood. Isolde’s stomach turned a flip, and she pushed the thought under the surface.

  The smell of tobacco floated on the briny wind. On the other side of the deck, Nod smoked a pipe and laughed with Jacques.

  “I have nowhere else to go, except Innsworth.”

  “We can take you to Mount Acidale. I have a friend in a coven there. She’ll help you out. And we’ve got a bit of gold to spare.”

  She stared at him. “You’d do that for me?”

  “You saved my life.”

  It was a fairytale. She could never leave Mom, but she was happy to live with the dream for a few moments. Smiling, she lay down again, gazing at the unchanging North Star.

  After a time, she closed her eyes. When she slept, she dreamt of her mom, flinging gasoline at Isolde’s arm, lighting a match.

  But what she found when she awoke was even more horrifying.

  Chapter 6

  Someone gripped her arms. Another set of hands shoved a rag into her mouth, gagging her. The witches? Lir wouldn’t do this, would he?

  “Tie her to the mast.” It was a woman’s voice.

  Mom’s voice.

  As rough hands bound her to the mast, Mom stepped in front, heels clacking on the wood. Moonlight shone off her iron crown.

  Beyond her, Isolde could see the three sea-witches, bound to the mainmast, their skin covered in blood-red powder. They convulsed in agony. What the hell is happening?

  Mom edged closer, inspecting her daughter’s face. “And how did you find yourself on a ship full of witches? Practicing magic again, were you?” Her voice sounded different. Sharper.

  “I know she’s your daughter.” One of the men stepped to Mom’s side. He wore a black suit, and his white hair gleamed like a beacon in the night. “But Blodrial would want us to burn her, along with the ship.”

  Isolde’s heart thudded. Burn me?

  Mom cocked her head. “Let her speak first.”

  The white-haired man ripped the rag from her mouth, and Isolde gasped. “Mom! What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

  “The chalice pendant that you tossed into the sea. It allowed me to track you. Imagine my surprise when I discovered you among the very sea-witches I was trying to trap.” Moonlight danced in her eyes. “I’ve told you a million times, but you never listened. Blodrial gives me power. Dagon never did. I tried. I tried to appease the sea god, but it wasn’t enough.”

  “What are you talking about? What do you mean you tried to appease Dagon?” She usually tuned her mom out when she rambled about gods and magic, but even know, when Isolde knew these things were real, it still didn’t make sense.

  Her mother nodded briskly to the sea-witches. “Is one of those men your lover? He can’t fight for you now. Blodrial’s dust burns the evil from them.” She smiled. This cool, controlled woman seemed so different from the mother she knew.

  “I went out into the harbor for a swim,” said Isolde. “And the storm hit. I turned into a—” Something told her not to mention the seal thing. She would say whatever they wanted to hear, and they didn’t want to hear about magic. Anything to escape burning. “—I passed out in the water. When I awoke, the witches had kidnapped me. I’m so glad you came to rescue me.”

  Her mother reached around the back of her own neck, unfastening a chalice pendant. Steeping closer, she pushed it against Isolde’s cheek, just as Nod had done. “Let me ask you one more time. Did you join this ship willingly?”

  “No,” she breathed. “I was unconscious. They tied me to the bed, and I awoke here.”

  Glaring, her mother pulled the pendant from Isolde’s cheek. “Fine. Untie her. She comes with us. Burn the others.”

  Isolde’s knees nearly gave way. Her mother and the two psychotic men were going to incinerate the whole ship—the sea-witches with it. She glanced at Lir, and she saw a flash of metal. His knife. He was sawing through the ropes, but one of the Purgators was already stepping near, a flask in hand. When the man poured a clear liquid onto the sea-witches, the scent of gasoline wafted through the air.

  Isolde’s entire body shook. She turned, gripping her mother’s arm. “You can’t do this. Are you insane? They’re human beings.”

  Her mother wrenched away. “I beg to differ. They’re demons, Isolde. I’ve told you all this before, but you thought I was crazy. Honestly, you really never listen.”

  The white-haired man struck a match. Panicking, Isolde rushed him, knocking him to the ground.

  “Isolde!” Her mother shrieked.

  Something cracked the back of her head. Pain seared through her skull, and her vision went dark.

  Isolde opened her eyes, blinking in the murky water. Sinking. It was getting darker and she could feel the pressure building in her ears. Isolde tried to kick her legs, but something bound them. Her hands were tied, too, and a cloth gagged her mouth. Had her mother done this?

  Deep within the icy waters, there was something she didn’t want to face, something that made her stomach churn with dread. That day on Ten Guinea Island…. She thrashed, trying to free herself. With the gag in her mouth, she couldn’t speak the magic words that would transform her. She held her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs.

  Below, something moved in the depths—a flash of slick skin and long appendages. Primal fear shook her entire body and she thrashed wildly in her bonds. Get out of here.

  Dagon would dredge up everything she wanted to forget—Mom with a lit match, Gil’s little feet kicking in the water, the painful,
gnawing loneliness of waking up early and watching the sun rise while the rest of the world slept. Mom’s expression in the hospital, switching from grief-stricken to exultant as soon as the doctors had left the room. But why? Why would she have been happy in the hospital after Gil died?

  Dagon’s large, black eyes sent terror shooting through her. Gil’s feet kicking. Why did she remember Gil’s little feet kicking? He’d drowned in the harbor, hadn’t he? He would have been deep underwater. It had been an accident.

  Dagon drew closer, and she tried to rip herself free. She whimpered through the gag.

  Gil’s feet kicking. That day on Ten Guinea island. Mom had seemed different that day, on edge. Mom’s arms, holding him under while he kicked. It hadn’t been an accident. She'd been muttering about Dagon, about giving him a sacrifice to gain his power. Mom had held him under. She’d murdered him. The sacrifice hadn't worked, but at his funeral, she’d basked in the attention, secretly smiling when she thought no one was looking.

  For an instant, white hot rage flared through Isolde, but her body was losing the battle against the sea. She stopped thrashing, sinking into Dagon’s embrace. It was pitch black and completely still in the depths, like she was floating in a void. An arm slithered across her cheek. She clamped her eyes shut, water seeping around the gag and filling her lungs. Mom murdered Gil. She’d known it all along.

  With a long, slimy arm, Dagon tore the gag from her mouth. Isolde’s eyes snapped open, and she choked out the spell. As her body transformed with the snapping of bones and lurching of organs, she ripped through the remaining bindings. Dagon had freed her.

  She raced toward the surface. When her head breached the waves, she shifted into her human form again. The water around her seethed. Grasping for a rope ladder on the side of the boat, she coughed up a lungful of saltwater. The ship rolled. Lir appeared at the edge, reaching out to hoist her onto the deck.

  Gasping, she hacked up seawater, and Lir held her in a tight embrace. He was carrying her somewhere. The rain battered her face, and she coughed up another lungful of ocean. Gripping her in one arm, Lir scaled the rope ladder attached to the mainmast with an inhuman grace, carrying her along with him until she caught her breath again.