Soul Ink

by J. C. Nelson

  “Four hundred years, at least. And we got a bottle of fae ink with it.” Cheryl held up a brown glass bottle. The contents crawled up the walls on their own, forming fractal patterns which dared me to lose myself in them. “The thorns will pierce anything. And they don’t hurt at all. If you hadn’t been such a wimp, I’d have used regular needles.”

  Liam took the bottle and shook it. “How do you replenish the ink?”

  “Oh . . .” Cheryl looked toward the door like she wanted to run. “Most folks who get tattooed with this stuff come back wanting it gone. They say it brings bad luck. The thorns are hollow, and I swear, the ink is drawn to them. It siphons out into the knob at the bottom, then we pump it back into the bottle. Doesn’t hurt a bit.”

  My memory said the thorns hurt in ways she couldn’t possibly imagine. “We’re going to have to confiscate these. You either hand them over, or I bring in the Kingdom police. I’m guessing that isn’t incense I smell.”

  Cheryl cursed in several ways I hadn’t heard before, insulting my lineage (fine by me), my mother (equally fine), and an innocent goat. Ari took out her phone to take notes. Ari considered herself a journeyman curser, but she had aspirations of becoming a master.

  I took a thorn and tentatively jabbed it at my wrist. Anytime someone says “it doesn’t hurt,” they are lying. It hurt. And worse yet, the ink remained under my skin. “Hey,” I shouted, interrupting Cheryl’s tirade. “It’s not working.”

  She studied my arm a moment, then shook her head. “It wasn’t this size when I did it. Trust me, you wouldn’t hold still long enough. Maybe knead the skin?”

  As we exited the shop, Grimm waited in the “Check yourself out!” mirror. “Ladies, I have good news and bad. Which would you prefer first?”

  “Bad,” said Ari and I. We’d spent enough time with Grimm to know the good almost never outweighed the bad.

  Grimm nodded. “The good news is, as his witness, Haniel is not allowed to directly harm you. That is the purpose of the witness. To spread word of what happened.”

  Liam blew out a ring of smoke. “And the bad news?”

  “The bad news,” said Grimm, “is that no archangel in history has succeeded in retaining his power when corrupted. At the completion of the ritual, he will go on a rampage. While Marissa and Arianna may be safe, no one else may count themselves so fortunate.”

  Ten

  Crazy archangels killing people for fun was new, even in my book. After seven years in the Agency business, that said a lot. Still, the key thing about working with the Fairy Godfather was, he always had a plan. Always. “All right, Grimm. You slaughtered some bunnies and came up with a way to avoid a massacre?”

  “Not exactly.” Not exactly was the closest Grimm ever came to saying he didn’t know. “I’ve determined what your roles as witness must be. Marissa, you must bring an offering. The usual accepted one is a human head from an unwilling victim. Arianna, you will ring bells at the midnight chapel to celebrate the transformation.”

  “Why do I have to be the bell ringer?” Ari’s tone came dangerously close to whining.

  “Fine,” I said. “You get to carry the head.”

  Grimm nodded. “There are no bells at the midnight chapel, which will make fulfilling that requirement difficult. I’d prefer that any risk be conferred on Marissa.”

  Liam growled, a rumble which matched my opinion, then spoke. “Bells are easy to make. I don’t do much casting but that doesn’t mean I can’t.”

  “It isn’t a question of capability, but material,” said Grimm. “The midnight chapel’s original bell wasn’t accidentally lost. It was destroyed to make it a place of dark magic. Any replacement would need similar qualities to the original.”

  “You find the metal, I’ll make the bell,” said Liam. “Listen, this rampage sounds like it’s going to make a real mess out of the city. I just got my studio rebuilt from the last fire, and I’m fairly certain my insurance doesn’t cover ‘acts of archangels.’ At least, not without a large deductible. Any ideas on how to stop the ritual?”

  Grimm shook his head. “The part which matters is not a ‘speak now or forever accept your damnation.’ It’s the inscription of Inferno’s creed on the angel’s skin. He will use the souls given him to stain himself forever.”

  I barely managed to contain my version of “That’s stupid.” Because the archangel wasn’t the only one to draw on himself in permanent marker. Instead, I decided to tackle something I could actually help with. “I’m going to go chop off a head.”

  “Marissa!” Ari’s tone matched what I called her “about to smack Marissa” state.

  “Chill,” I said, nodding to the frost forming around her. “I’ve got a plan.”

  • • •

  While Liam went back to his studio to build a casting mold, and Grimm consulted the auguries to determine a location of magic metal, Ari and I took a trip across Kingdom. When I arrived at the museum, I headed straight for the ticket-booth door.

  “He’s still dead,” said the other ticket taker.

  “Good,” said Ari. “We need his head for an unholy ritual.”

  The young ticket taker shot to his feet and pounded on the glass. “No way in hell would Fred agree to that.”

  “Perfect. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I looked around for a chainsaw and came up blank. Ditto on pocket knives, and in fact, butter knives. With one hand, I dragged the deceased ticket taker out of the booth and flopped him in the museum lobby.

  And an idea occurred to me.

  I met the gaze of the terrified ticket taker, now huddling in his booth. “Is the exhibit on battle axes still in the west wing? If so, I’ll take three tickets, please.”

  • • •

  A few minutes later, while the fire alarm blared on one end of the museum, I helped Ari stuff the body back in the ticket booth.

  “He’s missing his head,” shouted the young man. “Don’t you think people will notice?”

  Ari carefully put the museum uniform hat in place atop the bloody shoulders. “There we go. Just tell folks he’s dozing and put his head down for a nap. On the floor.”

  She caught up to me on the street, and folded a set of museum passes into her purse. “Next week is Gwendolyn’s birthday. I’m hoping she dies of boredom.”

  Gwendolyn, Ari’s stepmother, ranked near the top of people I’d rather see in a ticket booth without a head. She’d kicked Ari out of the family, and if it weren’t for Grimm, Ari wouldn’t even be allowed to set foot in Kingdom.

  Speaking of Grimm, I called him from a nearby window. “I’ve got the housewarming present. Any idea on bells?”

  Grimm nodded. “I do, but you’re not going to like it. I’ve located a source of suitable metal to cast a new bell for the chapel, but doing so may destroy the only way to remove your tattoo.”

  “Aiyn’s Press?” I asked.

  “Indeed. The brass from which it is carved is blessed, and will serve perfectly for a new bell.”

  Ari gasped, and bolt of static electricity jumped from her hand to me. “I know what to do!”

  “Bell ringers pull the rope,” I said. “People have managed it for years.”

  Ari actually had a fairly decent “assistant stare,” when she worked at it. “No. I know how we can remove that stupid tattoo and still deliver the bell.”

  Grimm raised one eyebrow. “Well?”

  “Let’s see.” Ari stopped and leaned up against a building, her lips moving in soundless words. “If it’s the metal that makes that fork work, shouldn’t a bell made from it have the same properties?”

  “Perhaps,” said Grimm. “I can’t really say. The press is effective due to proximity. A bell would not be. And in order to avoid damage to Marissa’s arm, the process of removing the tattoo would take hours we don’t have. Master Stone should be casting now if he is to have it ready
by midnight.”

  “Do it,” I said. “I picked up something from the tattoo shop which should make extracting the fae ink possible, but the ink isn’t cooperating.”

  Grimm nodded. “I’m sure it’s clinging to you. When this over, I will find a way to break it down. Assuming you survive, my dear.”

  • • •

  We spent the rest of the day at Liam’s forge, while he worked. By the time Ari and I arrived, Liam had a large clay mold set up, and Aiyn’s Press glowed golden white in the forge.

  Grimm observed the work from a shaving mirror I’d brought from Liam’s bathroom. “Arianna, how would you feel about attempting a spell with my blessing?”

  Ari sat in the corner, flipping through a shopping catalogue, but at “spell” she sat up. “That didn’t go so well last time.”

  “Indeed,” said Grimm, “but I was thinking a less complex spell. One more in line with your nature, perhaps easier for you to fold and shape the magic.”

  “I’m game.” Ari stood. “What do I do?”

  “I’d like to improve the odds the metal retains its magic disrupting capabilities. To do so, when Mr. Stone casts the bell, you will bless it. It’s a minor spell, meant to enhance qualities which already exist. We’ll practice on Mr. Stone first.”

  “Try again,” I said. Practice on Liam was something I disagreed with, whether the practice was magic or medical. “Practice is what corpses are for. Malpractice is what Ari does with magic.”

  “Princess, let us discuss this in private,” said Grimm. He jumped to Ari’s compact and began to instruct her in whispers.

  Liam stirred the foundry pot where Aiyn’s Press had become Aiyn’s Puddle. After what felt like hours, he tested the metal and nodded. “It’s ready.”

  Ari stood and drew in power, but this time, it flowed toward her with purpose. She stared ahead, her eyes unfocused as her hands trembled. Light took shape on her fingertips, then sparked between her and Liam.

  “What did you just do?” I shot to my feet, standing between them.

  “Calm down, M,” said Liam. “That didn’t hurt a bit.”

  Easy for him to say—he didn’t wind up with ethanol poisoning from Ari’s last spell. “What did you do?”

  Ari looked to Grimm. “Did I do it right?”

  Grimm nodded. “She’s only enhanced his finer qualities. He was a calm, gentle man before. He is more so now. It should allow him better control of his curse.”

  Liam cast him a doubtful glance. “I can’t tell a difference, but if you two are done playing magic, I’ve got metal to work.”

  “Arianna, now is the time,” said Grimm. “Exactly as you did with Mr. Stone, but focus, and hold this thought: The bell disrupts magic. Not destroys. Disrupts. You must focus on this aspect.”

  A wind rose from nowhere, blowing from the corners toward Ari. Her hair rose, and the pile of papers on Liam’s desk scattered into the forge.

  Liam hefted the foundry pot and poured it slowly into the casting. Wax poured from the vent holes as the metal boiled in, until the last molten drop slipped out. Once Liam returned the foundry pot, he banked the forge and sat back, sweat pouring from his skin.

  And Ari continued to draw power, until her skin glowed an unhealthy white.

  “That’s more than enough, princess,” Grimm shouted over the gale.

  Where light grew on Ari’s hand before, it blasted this time, exploding out into the bell, shattering the casting vent, and soaking into the metal like rain in the desert.

  Ari took two steps forward and stumbled, landing on her knees. She gasped for breath, then looked up, a look of wild triumph on her face. “Ring it.”

  “Can’t,” said Liam. He broke the cast away from the bell, ignoring the fact that it was still hot enough to burn through the floor. “I need to fix the clapper in place, but we can’t ring it until the metal cools. That’ll take an hour at least, and if you rush it, it’ll crack.”

  Grimm tapped on his mirror for our attention, and waited. “Ladies, we have less than two hours to reach the midnight chapel. I must insist we leave now.”

  “I’m coming,” said Liam. “I’m sick of Marissa having all the fun.”

  “Very well,” said Grimm, “you may at least accompany Marissa to the chapel door.”

  Liam, escorting me to a church? It felt a bit sudden, but I could get used to the thought given time. We took a cab to Williamsburg and stopped in front of an abandoned sugar factory.

  “Ladies, you want to enter the basement, then the subbasement. You’ll find the chapel entrance at the back.” Grimm motioned from the side windows. “Mr. Stone, you may find the chapel will not admit you, because you are not considered a witness, and I doubt Haniel has you on his guest list.”

  “Seriously?” Liam pounded the factory door in frustration, accidentally knocking it out of the door frame. “Why don’t I ever get the fun parts?”

  “Because you are considered half of an endangered species,” said Grimm. “Marissa and Arianna cannot be harmed by the archangel while they bear witness, but even reaching the chapel door can involve facing horrors most men quail before.”

  “How’d they name this place?” Ari asked as we walked through abandoned factory lines.

  It took Grimm several minutes to find a place that could hold him. A green glass bottle outside the basement stairs caught his reflection well enough for him to answer. “Built in utter blackness, the sunlight can never shine. In this chapel, it is always midnight. Once, monks held services here to deprive darkness its home.”

  These sorts of stories didn’t end well, in my experience. “And?”

  “The usual. A bellboy betrayed them in return for a chance to see the sun again. He smashed the bell and threw open the chapel doors.” Grimm faded from the bottle as we entered the subbasement, but not before he added, “The carnage left their order much like the brothers. Ruined.”

  Subbasements, for the record, exist to house machinery which services other machinery. The rot of ages lay on the machinery, where roots had grown through the walls and hung in tangles from the ceiling. In the darkness, whispers of movements proved to be albino rats the length of my arm. With blind eyes, they fled even my penlight.

  “Be,” said Ari. A foxfire burst into existence, lighting the basement in pale green light.

  A familiar tug on my spirit said I was in for trouble. My blessings had apparently slept in, but the presence of free magic was like dangling a steak in front of a pair of bulldogs. “Blessing? Curse? Easy, now.”

  Speaking their names fed them in a different way, but I suspected it was the difference between dog food and steak. They might accept the names, but what they really wanted to do was tear Ari’s creation into screaming scraps of pure magic.

  At the back of the subbasement, behind a pile of burlap bags, lay a rusted door. At least, I told myself, it was rust, and not dried blood. With one kick, Liam broke the top hinge, with the second, he flattened the door completely.

  Darkness leaked beyond it, fouling the light, hissing, searing where my penlight swiped it like a blade. And to my surprise, Liam stepped through the door without problem. From beyond, he called, his voice muffled. “M, sweetheart, this is not good.”

  Taking a deep breath, I stepped through and walked down a tunnel of rock that pressed me lower and lower with each step. With the last step, I emerged into a cavern the size of a football stadium. And at last I understood Liam’s statement.

  Liam set down the bell gingerly, taking care to not let it ring, and took my hand. “How do you plan to deal with that?”

  It wasn’t the chapel. It was a chapel in name only, with dark spires that stabbed the inky ceiling, and walls washed in bloodred torches. Like the designer of a quaint country church went insane, and built his next creation from the bones of ancient creatures.

  I owned a time-share in
Jersey that was way worse.

  The line of horrific creatures waiting outside the chapel, on the other hand, constituted a problem. I opened my purse and flipped out my compact. “Grimm, you see this?”

  He surveyed the chapel, and whistled, long and low. “I see.”

  “And you have a plan for how to get in, right?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “I hate to interrupt,” said Liam, “but we’re not exactly drowning in time. And we’ve been spotted.”

  Eleven

  One by one, creatures composed mostly of eyes, or without any eyes, or composed of improbable geometry turned to look at us.

  “Magic?” I glanced to Ari. She had a habit of throwing the odd elemental blast on demand. And also the occasional shower of daisies.

  “No way. Not if you want me to be able to ring that thing when I get in.” Ari picked up the bell with both hands, grunting.

  “Mr. Stone?” Grimm flickered in my mirror. “I was wondering if this might meet your qualifications for fun. You should be aware, those serpentine creatures on the far side are ice drakes. You should avoid direct contact, or, in fact, any form of contact.”

  I’d never looked them up in the Beast Lexicon, but the ice drakes resembled silver anacondas with stumpy legs. Frost formed on the rocks around them.

  Liam wasn’t used to encountering anything that could harm him. While it was true that having the flu nearly burned down his house, in general, the bonuses outweighed the downsides. It wasn’t like men didn’t think with their primitive hindbrains most of the time anyway. The dragon portion of him just did it more often.

  “Okay,” said Liam. “Here’s how it works: When you see the signal, you run like hell for the doors.” He sauntered toward the line of creatures, rubbing his hands together.

  “You should have asked him what the signal was,” said Ari.

  I took the bell from her and handed her the bag with the head. “I have a feeling we won’t be able to miss it.”