by Anne Bishop
She held out her hand to the ghost. "I am the Gatherer of Souls. Come."
The ghost floated over to her. "Are you going to take Mama, too?"
"Is she in the other circle of light?"
The ghost nodded.
Morag smiled gently. "Yes. I'll guide you both to the Shadowed Veil so that you can go on to the Summerland."
The ghost stared at the four wisps of spirit now clinging to Morag's dress. "I heard a child crying. But they weren't children anymore. They were the bad things." She sighed. "They didn't get my girl, my Breanna. I didn't let them get my girl."
As she led the ghost to the other circle of light, Morag fought against revulsion, fought against the desire to fling those four wisps of spirit as far away from her as she could. Children. Bad things. Something that could tatter a spirit after the body died. Something that had consumed almost all of the spirit within itself.
She'd known since her first encounter with them that there was nothing inside a nighthunter for her to gather, which was why her gift did nothing more than stun them. But she hadn't realized there had been a spirit residing in that flesh once—a spirit the creature had consumed as it changed.
Children. The Inquisitors had done this to children. Mother's mercy.
"Mama!"
The ghost of an older woman stepped out of the other circle of light and opened her arms. The short-haired ghost ran to her, held on to her.
Morag mounted the dark horse, who had followed behind her, then held out her hand. "Come."
The ghosts floated over to her, floated up behind her. The fog cleared for a moment, showing her a stone bridge that spanned the brook she could hear but not see. As she turned the dark horse toward it, the older ghost said, "Can you take them, too?"
She looked at the spot the ghost pointed to and saw the Small Folk standing on the bank, watching her. "Come. I'll take you up to the Shadowed Veil."
After she crossed the bridge, she paused a moment before turning the dark horse toward the field, riding slowly as she followed Death's summons. When she reached the field that climbed to a low rise, she guided the dark horse around it, keeping behind the trees that bordered it. Then she opened the road that led to the Shadowed Veil and took the ghosts as far as she could on their journey to the Summerland.
With eyes filled with pity, the older ghost gathered up the four wisps of spirit and cradled them in one arm. Taking her daughter's hand, she walked through the Veil. The Small Folk raised their hands in farewell, then followed the witches.
Morag rode back down the road and through the trees until she reached the big field on the other side of the rise. In whispers, in pleas, in cries, Death called her.
She rode into the field and began gathering the spirits of the dead—and the spirits of the men who, wounded and suffering, wanted to leave the world of the living.
"Master Adolfo!"
Adolfo finished pouring wine into a glass and settled himself on the blanket-padded bench inside his tent before he said, "You may enter."
A young Inquisitor almost leaped through the tent's opening, his face shining with excitement. Two guards came in behind him, dragging a bound, bridled man.
"Master," the Inquisitor said. "We caught this witch-lover."
"Any man who fights against us is a witch-lover," Adolfo replied in the tone he used as a mild scold—and warning. "What makes this one special?"
"Remember the nest of witches we cleaned out from that estate along the Una River?"
Of course he remembered. He'd drained some of those old women while learning to create nighthunters at will. "What of it?"
The Inquisitor fairly danced with excitement. "We didn't know what had happened to the young ones in the nest."
"I'm aware of that." The Inquisitor's excitement stirred his interest, but Adolfo took care not to let it show.
"This is one of them. His name is Rory. One of the men who came from a village near there recognized him. We think they ran to this Old Place to escape us."
Which meant the man was known to the bitches who lived in this Old Place. Was, perhaps, even kin to them. Which made him perfect.
Draining the wine glass, Adolfo set it aside and stood. "Bring him."
The Inquisitor looked crestfallen. "Don't you want to question him about the witches, Master?"
Adolfo smiled. "I have a better use for him."
There were so many. Morag lost count of the number of spirits she had taken up the road to the Shadowed Veil, and there were still so many. She couldn't keep going. She was tired. The dark horse was tired. She'd ridden all day to reach the Old Place and had been gathering spirits for hours now. Time to stop. Time to rest. She needed to make her way back to the Old Place and find Ashk.
This would be her last trip up the road to the Shadowed Veil. She would open the road right here and let the spirits nearby follow her to the Veil.
Just as she opened the road, she saw a ghost moving toward her. He smiled and raised a hand in greeting.
"Merry meet, Gatherer."
Tears pricked her eyes. "Sheridan," she whispered, then held out her hand. "Come."
As he floated up to her, he said, "Tell Ashk I've gone to the Summerland, and"—regret filled his face for a moment—"tell Morphia I hope to meet her again one day."
"I'll tell them."
She couldn't talk anymore. She'd recognized some of the men she'd gathered, but Sheridan had been a friend, as well as her sister's lover. She wondered if he'd moved away from his body as a kindness to her, so she wouldn't have to see how he'd died.
"Don't grieve, Morag," Sheridan said. "The Summerland has sweet skies for a falcon to soar in."
Hearing what he didn't say, she was even more grateful that he'd spared her the sight of his body. So she didn't grieve for him or any of the others she'd taken up the road to the Shadowed Veil. She grieved for the loved ones left behind.
Adolfo wasn't pleased to have torches around the small clearing, but the fog and the cover of trees swallowed up too much of the moonlight for him to see without the extra light.
"Put the tether stake in the center and tie the prisoner to it," he said, pointing. "Keep him bound and bridled. There's no telling what abilities a man born of a witch might have."
He smiled grimly as he watched the guards obey his orders— as he thought of the witch who had been his mother, who had betrayed her son's love and trust in order to keep her own power a secret. He thought of the monster his father became when, spurred by his wife's accusations, he tried to beat the magic out of the boy to regain his wife's affection. Most likely, the man had been grateful when the boy, by then a youth, had run away to try to survive in the world on his own.
He hoped his mother's spirit spent a hundred years drowning in one of the Summerland's cesspools—if the Summerland had such places. He hoped his father's spirit was also in a cesspool—a place made from the foul thoughts and feelings the man had harbored for his own flesh and blood. But not the same one. No, he didn't want them to have the comfort of being together for any reason, even torment.
When the prisoner was in position, guards brought the witch into the clearing and bound her to the stool. Her wits hadn't returned at all, and her body, despite being so young, was starting to fail. She would be no use to him after he channeled the magic through her this time, but she might live long enough for some of the men to use her. After all, being passed around from man to man was a fitting end for a witch.
"Leave now," he ordered. "Stay away from the clearing. I am shaping a weapon to set against the enemy, and this clearing will be a dangerous place."
He waited until the guards were gone, waited until he couldn't hear even a muffled footstep. Then, using the witch as his channel, he began to draw the magic out of the land.
Morag signaled the dark horse to stop, no longer certain she was moving in the right direction. But Death was out there, ahead of her, whispering. Not the kind of whisper she was used to. This was almost wary, almost a warning.
What would Death be warning her about?
She dismounted and moved forward, letting the dark horse follow on his own. Guided by Death's whisper, she walked until she saw flickers of light among the trees. As she moved closer, feelings scraped along her skin. A prickle of warning. A prickle of fear.
Still moving closer, she saw the small clearing lit by torches, saw the shape of a man at the other end of the space, heard the struggling efforts of someone on the ground between her and the man.
She moved through the trees, circling toward the man. Power swirled in the clearing, but it didn't feel right somehow.
Then the fog tore, and she saw the man clearly. She heard the voice she'd heard once before at the dock at Rivercross. In a moment of pity, and in the hope that mercy shown might produce a seed of mercy inside him, she had let the Master Inquisitor live, leaving him with a dead arm to remind him that there were powers in the world that were stronger than his.
He lifted his right hand, aiming it at the person on the ground.
"Twist and change. Change and twist."
She saw the faint glow of a circle of power. What was he—?
Children. Bad things. No. No!
"Become what I would make of thee."
Rage blinded her as she charged out of the trees, straight toward him.
"As I will—"
Little flashes of fire in the clearing. The sound of leather snapping as a man hurled himself out of the circle.
"so mote it—"
She was almost on the Master Inquisitor. His head whipped around.
"—beeee."
He screamed the word as she slammed into him, knocking them both into the circle. His right hand closed on her arm. She screamed as the power he unleashed ripped through her body. He screamed as the power ripped through him as well. The circle crackled with it while they rolled over and over. She tried to gather him, but she couldn't find his spirit in the storm of power.
Then the power was gone. She rolled away from the Witch's Hammer, clawed and scrabbled until she regained her feet and stumbled toward the trees. She almost fell on the man who had hurled himself out of the circle. Grabbing his arm, she helped him to his feet.
"Come on," she gasped, her voice scraped raw from screaming. "We have to get away from here."
The dark horse waited for her at the edge of the clearing. The rope that had bound the man's feet had burned through, so he was able to mount by himself and was aware enough to kick one foot out of the stirrups to make it easier for her to swing up behind him.
She brushed her heels against the dark horse's sides. "Get us away from here. Go anywhere, as long as it's away from here."
He turned back into the trees and cantered away from the clearing.
She clung to the saddle as the horse wove through the trees, adding speed whenever he came to some open ground. Pain seared her. The power continued to slash through her, ripping her apart inside.
She had to find Ashk.
It was the last clear thought she had before she felt herself leaning sideways, felt the horse slow, felt the man try to grab her as she slid to the ground.
Adolfo rolled over onto his side, gasping as pain lanced through him.
Bitch. Thrice-cursed bitch. Not only had her interference deprived him of a valuable weapon, she'd hurt him. Hurt him worse than when she'd turned his arm into dead meat.
A mewling sound at one end of the clearing caught his attention. Made his mouth water.
Moving slowly, he managed to push himself up to his knees.
Bitch. She'd tried to gather him. He had felt her try. But his power had been stronger than hers, and he'd won.
More mewling noises. And an unpleasant smell. The useless witch must have soiled herself.
He got to his feet, swaying with the effort to stand.
He'd fought against the Gatherer . . . and he'd won.
More pain lanced through him, but he embraced it now, celebrated it. He'd won.
He shuffled toward the mewling sounds coming from the female tied to the stool.
Now he needed rest. Needed something to drink.
Feast!
Something warm. No. Something hot. And something to eat. He was hungry. So very, very hungry.
Morag jerked awake. Her body felt battered, and little shivers of pain still lanced through her, making her limbs jerk. And there was a thick, unpleasant taste in her mouth.
She heard the dark horse snorting nearby, little fearful sounds.
Groaning with the effort, she pushed herself up to her hands and knees.
Mother's mercy. Her dress pinched the skin along her arms and sides, and her body didn't feel right. The power in the circle had made her sick. She'd seen some people who had swelled from a kind of sickness. She had to get out of this fog. If she couldn't make it back to the Old Place, she had to find a farmer's cottage, a barn, anyplace they could find shelter for a few hours. She had to find a place for herself, the dark horse, and—
Where was the man who had escaped from the Witch's Hammer? He'd come with her. She was certain he had. Where—?
He lay near her, the wounds on his neck and chest making her stomach churn. Something vicious and terrible had killed him. A fast kill. A recent kill.
Fear got her to her feet, got her stumbling toward the dark horse. He snorted. Took a step back as she approached, then, trembling, held his ground.
"Easy, boy. Easy." Why was he afraid of her?
She raised her hand to give him a caress and pat.
The hand that lifted out of the fog was dark, leathery, had sharp, blood-smeared talons at the ends of its fingers.
She wept silently as she stared at the hand of the enemy from her dreams.
Quiet conversations died in his wake as Adolfo walked through the camp and entered his tent, followed by fearful whispers.
He was still thirsty, but the wine held no appeal. And his sides itched, irritated by the cloth rubbing against it. He raised his hand to pull open the tunic's lacings . . . and stared, fascinated, at the skin that was turning darker, rougher, even as he watched. Stared at the nails folding in on themselves until they began to look like talons.
A hesitant scratching on the tent flap.
"What is it?" His voice sounded rough, raspy—not the smooth deep voice that had persuaded hundreds of men to help him reshape the world as he wanted it to be.
An Inquisitor stepped into the tent. "Master Adolfo? Is there something we can do for you? Is there something you need?"
Fresh meat. Hot blood. Everything he needed was standing within reach.
No. Not his own men. Not when there was prey close by. "Do we have other prisoners?"
"Yes, Master."
"Bring two of them to me. It doesn't matter which two." He turned around to face the Inquisitor. He smiled as he watched the man's face turn deathly pale. Deathly pale. The thought amused him. The fool had no idea how close to deathly pale he had been.
"Y-yes, Master," the Inquisitor stammered.
As the man fled from the tent, Adolfo looked at the glorious talons at the end of his right hand and laughed.
Two ghosts standing next to bodies still locked in the embrace of the fight that had killed them.
Morag slid off the dark horse, moved toward the ghosts, then stopped. No. She couldn't gather them, couldn't take them up the road to the Shadowed Veil. She was sick, hurt, exhausted. She had to find Ashk. Mother's mercy, she had to find Ashk, had to. . .
The meat was already spoiled from the heat of the day, the blood already too clotted and thick. But the best part of the feast remained.
Where were the ghosts? Where were the spirits she'd seen a moment ago?
She backed away from the bodies, shaking her head.
And realized she didn't feel quite so hungry, realized . . .
The wolf with the burned hind legs tried to drag itself away from the predator, tried to run, tried to hide. Screamed as fangs and talons ripped its flesh, as a tongue lapped at the fresh blood
while it died slowly, slowly.
It didn't like the taste of animal flesh, but It was too hungry to care. And the feast that rose from the animal flesh was a rich spirit, a strong spirit in the shape of the flesh It liked best.
It devoured—and still hungered.
. . . Morag dropped the reins, wrapped her arms around herself, and doubled over, gasping and weeping. She remembered the wolf, remembered the ghost that had risen from it. One of the western Fae who had ridden east with her and Ashk. She remembered him screaming her name. Remembered him screaming as she . . . as the thing inside her feasted on his spirit until nothing was left but wisps of memories.
She'd known him and still hadn't been able to stop It.
"Mother have mercy," she whispered. "Please, have mercy."
The dark horse trembled beneath her. Loyalty and courage. How many times could he have run away during the past few hours? He had more trust in her ability to protect him from the predator inside her than she did. Would the hour come when that loyalty would be repaid with talons slashing his throat open? Would courage be rewarded by dying in terror?
She slowly placed one hand on his neck, careful not to let the talons prick him. "I won't hurt you. I will fight with everything in me not to hurt you. That much I can promise."
She straightened up and looked around. The fog was lifting. The first, soft light of the day was pushing back the night. The dark horse had brought them close to a large stone house. The baron's house? She could . . .
Hunt!
. . . find food there . . . Flesh!
. . . and grain for the horse. Feast!
The Old Place was too far away. She had to find food now— before It got too hungry.
