Stories from the Demons of Fire and Night World

by C. N. Crawford

  Below, her mom screamed “Isolde!” The sound of her voice made Isolde’s stomach heave. Murderer.

  “What’s happening?” Isolde shouted over the storm, slipping out of Lir’s grasp to climb alongside him. She clung tightly to the ropes.

  “I cut through the Purgator’s rope and we jumped into the sea to wash off the dust. That gave us our powers back. Nod’s trying to drown the Purgators. But you need to stay clear of the deck.”

  They reached the top of the mainmast, and she pulled herself into the crow’s nest, clinging hard to its edge as the ship pitched.

  Lightning speared the dark sky. Below, Mom was holding out her chalice, chanting in Latin while flanked by the two other Purgators. The two pirates’ bodies trembled, but Nod chanted a spell of his own. Despite being soaking wet, the pirates’ clothes were smoking, and the smell of burning hair filled the air. Mom is going to incinerate them.

  “Stop!” Isolde shouted. Rage boiled away her fear, and she no longer cared that she was about to die. Mom never loved anyone. Lir put his had to her mouth and pointed out to sea—an enormous wave rolled toward them, ten stories high. “Lir,” she screamed.

  “Hold on.”

  The wave slammed into the ship, and Isolde gripped the edge of the crow’s nest. The ship swayed so far the side they were almost parallel to the water, but Lir’s arms encircled her, holding her tight to the mast. Below her, seawater crashed over the deck, knocking the Purgators off their feet. Her mother’s head smacked against a cleat, and Isolde watched in horrified fascination as the wave dragged her mother into the dark sea.

  Isolde’s body trembled, and she gaped at the sight of her mom flailing in the churning waters. At least she was conscious. Though, with a jolt of horror, Isolde realized that part of her wished Mom was drifting into the murky sea to face Dagon. She murdered Gil. She offered him up to the sea god in the hopes of gaining power.

  The ship’s violent swaying began to still, and the ocean grew calmer. Isolde bent over, dry heaving.

  “Are you all right?” Lir asked.

  Isolde nodded.

  “Let’s get back down to the deck. We’ll decide what we need to do with the Purgators.”

  With Nod no longer chanting, the storm had abated, and they climbed down the shrouds with relative ease. On the deck she followed Lir to the mainmast, her legs trembling. Nod and Jacques eyed her, both still catching their breath.

  Lir draped an arm around her, and she curled into his warm body.

  “Two of the Purgators are dead,” said Nod.

  “Is my mom one of them?” A tendril of dread curled through her. Maybe she wanted her mom dead. Mom had murdered Gil, and she'd murder her daughter, too. She’d never loved her children.

  Dagon had forced Isolde to remember everything she wanted to forget. All these years, her mother had been playing her—feigning insanity just to get attention, so Isolde would take care of her.

  Nod shook his head. “We spared your mother. She's swimming back to her boat. She'll be able to radio the coast guard.”

  Isolde exhaled with relief. As the morning sun escaped the clouds, staining the sky crimson, she squinted, just catching a glimpse of her mother swimming toward a yacht. Isolde's entire body ached, and she stumbled below deck to curl up in a bed and sleep.

  When she awoke, Lir was bringing a mug of hot tea into the room. She blinked her bleary eyes, trying to clear her head.

  "You swallowed a lot of water earlier. Lungwort tea will help soothe your pipes.”

  She sat up. “I was worried you’d burn."

  "I was worried you'd drown."

  "Dagon saved me.”

  He smiled, sitting next to her on the bed. “That wasn’t Dagon. Dagon is significantly more terrifying.”

  “What do you mean? Dagon was there, with his horrible slimy arms.”

  Lir cocked an eyebrow. “That was my familiar, Batharos. I won’t tell him what you said about him.”

  “But he showed me all the things I didn’t want to remember. He showed me my mom murdering my brother. I remember everything now. She held him under, and then she lapped up all the attention at his funeral.”

  Lir’s golden complexion paled, and he shook his head. “Those were your memories. If you’d faced the sea god, you’d either be dead, or demonic.”

  She wasn’t demonic. She didn’t feel any stronger. But she did feel different—free. “Tell Batharos I said thanks.”

  “Do you still plan to return to Innsworth?”

  A ray of milky sunlight gleamed through the window, and she took a sip of her drink. “Tell me again about Mount Acidale.”

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