Blood Winter (Horngate Witches)

by Francis, Diana Pharaoh

  Alexander did not reply.

  “Do you know what I think?” Thor pushed.

  “I am guessing you will tell me.”

  “I think you’re going to hate yourself a whole lot when you wake up and realize you let the woman you love go to her death without fighting for her. I think you’re going to want to kill yourself when that happens, which means Sterling or his little demon buddy win on both ends. If you ask me, you ought to be fighting harder to get back what’s yours and not letting them take it away because it seems easier. The Alexander I know is too damned tough for that and too much in love with Max to let them get away with stealing his soul.” He stood up. “Think about it.”

  Thor left Alexander to ponder his words. They circled in his head, snapping at one another. The trouble was, he knew something was missing, and Thor was right; he had been content to let it go without a fight because it was easier. But the wrongness of it was beginning to wear on him.

  The day dribbled past as Alexander wrestled with himself. He knew with iron certainty that the key to breaking the spell on his emotions, whether it had been imposed by Sterling and his demon or whether he had done it to himself, was simply to want them back. It meant inviting pain back. That soul-devouring, heart-grinding pain. It meant letting go of his control and giving in to his emotions—emotions that Max did not fully share. Why would he want to do that to himself?

  He remembered that first moment of glorious freedom when he had ceased to feel the torment.

  He remembered the ecstasy of her touch and the taste of her on his lips.

  He remembered the devastation when he thought she had died.

  He could not feel that again. He could not.

  Pain drilled through his head, and pressure built in his chest.

  MAX STOOD AT THE BOTTOM OF A ROCKY KNOB. At the top was something that looked like a Greek temple. It was made of magic and glowed with gold light. It was breathtaking. Leading downward from it was a wide triangular path, its point arrowing into the doorway of the temple. Lining it were stakes with bodies in various levels of death and decay. They were naked. The stakes had been sharpened and greased. The victims had been sat on top. Gravity and their weight had impaled them slowly, the stakes sliding up into their bodies, killing them slowly.

  Too many were still alive. They moaned and keened with marrow-chilling desperation. They reached out with shaking hands, begging for rescue, for death, for relief. Others were rotting, birds picking at their flesh. Max panicked, searching for Kyle, Tory, Carrie, and Giselle. Relief rolled through her. They weren’t there.

  Not yet.

  But her relief was short-lived.

  “Did you see? Look carefully,” Daffy whispered, the demon’s breath warm against her skin.

  Max groped the air for it, but it just laughed.

  Sterling stood at the base of a long set of steps leading up into the temple. She couldn’t see much else. The glow was too bright. She squinted. There were shapes—

  Fury and fear ribboned through her, twisting together into a tangle of knots.

  Standing up in a line like statues were Kyle, Giselle, Tris, Bambi, Liam, Geoff Brewer, Doris Lydman, Tory, and Carrie Lydman. They were all glassy-eyed and stiff. Max wasn’t even sure they were aware of where they were or what was going on. How had Daffy found Tris? Alexander and Thor had hidden them.

  All of them were bruised and bloody, like they had put up a fight. Only Giselle was without a mark. But then, Max had watched Daffy steal her, and the demon had used magic. It looked as if the others had been taken by Sterling’s minions.

  “I told you I would get those you loved. I will let Sterling kill them all. He does enjoy it so. You will watch. And then I will open your stomach and spill your guts on the ground and let the birds eat you alive.” Daffy stroked an invisible hand down her back. “This is the price.”

  For what? Max desperately wanted to ask just what her crime was. But her mouth remained sealed.

  Her fear and panic tightened as she gathered herself. Everything narrowed down into one single need: get Daffy into the abyss. She turned, trying to find the demon. There was nothing behind her. It wasn’t there. Except that it was. She could smell it.

  “Don’t turn your back on Sterling,” the demon whispered, and it had moved around behind her again. “He doesn’t like it. He will make you pay for insults.”

  What happened to no one but Daffy touching her? She wanted to ask, to prod at the demon until it took solid form. Her mouth worked, but she still couldn’t get her lips open. She screamed, her neck tenting with the effort.

  Laughter.

  Then a sharp shove in her back. She fell onto her stomach in the mud. The gathered cultists roared with appreciation.

  “Show Sterling some respect,” Daffy said. “He is the hand of God, after all.” More laughter.

  Daffy knew full well that Sterling was a witch. If there was a god and Sterling was his instrument, then the world was pretty fucked.

  She started to climb to her feet, but a force struck her in the back, driving her down again.

  “Call your dogs, why don’t you?” Daffy asked next to her ear, almost as if the demon was lying beside her. “Why don’t they come to help you? Maybe they found something more interesting, like salamanders. Clever trick, that. Don’t you think? Now you are all alone.”

  Another laugh. It wanted to brag. It wanted her to know what it had done, how it was beating her.

  She started pushing herself up again, and once more the demon struck her down. Max squirmed across the ground on her belly, the burn of Daffy’s mark flaming along her chest.

  She came to the steps. Sterling stood just above her, watching her. She lifted her head to look at him.

  “Beg for mercy,” he told her, and suddenly her mouth could open. “Beg me,” he said with oily eagerness.

  “Please have mercy,” Max said, deciding the better part of valor was to hurry things along. The faster she dealt with Sterling, the faster she might be able to grab Daffy and take its magic out of the equation.

  “You can do better.” He put a foot on her head and shoved. “Try again.”

  “Please,” Max said. “Please have mercy on me. I beg you.” The words came sideways out of her mouth.

  “Not good enough.”

  “It’s all you’re getting,” she said, leaping to her feet before Daffy could knock her down again. “If you want more, you’re going to have to make me.”

  She swung around, talking to the emptiness where Daffy might have been. “As for you, why don’t you tell me just what it is you think I’ve done? I’d like to know why you’re trying to kill me and my covenstead.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Sterling demanded.

  But it was Daffy who answered. The demon’s shape uncurled out of thin air. Gasps ran around among the watchers, and Max stepped to the side so she could see both the demon and Sterling. The cult leader watched with a kind of awe and pride. Which meant that he did know about Daffy and had, or thought he had, control over the demon.

  She wasn’t expecting Sterling to drop to his knees. “Oh, Lord Almighty! Thank you! Thank you for sending one of your own angels to us. You bless us with your generosity and goodness! In this time when Satan floods the earth with minions of evil, you send us a beacon in the darkness. Praise your name! Hallelujah!”

  “Hallelujahs” echoed around the gathered crowd, growing stronger with each person. Max hardly heard. She was caught up in staring at Daffy. An angel? Was it possible? It had wings, but so did birds, dragons, and bats. Wings didn’t make it angelic. She knew better than to think that angels were creatures of goodness and light. Tutresiel and Xaphan were neither. What were the odds that another would show up? The Guardians had sent Xaphan and Tutresiel to destroy Horngate, and through a trick of death and logic, they had bound themselves to Horngate and freed themselves from their Guardian masters. Both seemed to prefer the trade-off.

  But Daffy?

  The creature loo
ked at her, nothing more than a cartoon outline of what an angel might look like. Then, slowly, color filtered down, shading it—him—in. Hair sprouted from his head. It was gold. His eyes were crimson, the same as Xaphan’s and Tutresiel’s. His wings were crimson edged in gold. The feathers were unsettlingly unformed, like smoke. His body was white as bone, and he was dressed in white pants and a white blousy shirt with lace at the cuffs and neck. It was open to his waist. He was barefoot.

  Just like the other two angels, he was beautiful and deadly.

  Max let out a slow breath. She felt stupid. Daffy had a lot of powers that Xaphan and Tutresiel didn’t have—or hadn’t shown her—but she should still have seen what he was.

  He leaped into the air, gliding to the top of the steps. He turned, his wings stretching wide. His hair gleamed in the gold light of the temple.

  “I am Shoftiel,” he declared, and the air shook. It rattled against Max’s eardrums and thrummed in her chest. All around, the Last Standers fell to their knees, weeping. “I am Judgment. I have come to see that justice is done.”

  He rose in the air. His wings boiled like smoke, but he did not flap them. Neat trick. He pointed at Max.

  “You stand here before me, a servant of witches. You are accused of enslaving angels, of trying to kill them and harvest their bodies. You are accused, and you are judged. Now you will be punished.”

  Max could only stare. This was all about Xaphan and Tutresiel? She hadn’t enslaved them. They had willingly joined Horngate to escape the chains of the Guardians. As for trying to kill them, they had done that to themselves. It had been a sacrifice. In an effort to save Horngate, they had folded themselves around the Fury after her birth and prevented her from destroying not just the covenstead but Missoula and everything else in about a hundred-mile radius.

  She didn’t think Daffy—Shoftiel—was going to believe her. She wouldn’t have. Angels weren’t the benevolent beings that people hoped they were. They were bloody, vengeful, angry, and merciless. In sacrificing themselves, Tutresiel and Xaphan had shown a side of themselves that Max hadn’t thought even existed. A human side.

  “You’re full of shit,” she told Shoftiel.

  Hisses of fury rose from the crowd, and more rocks were thrown at her. This time, they hit her. She stood firm.

  “You need to get your facts straight. Why don’t you ask them for yourself?”

  “How can I? Thanks to you, they lie on the verge of death.” With that, he gestured downward. Gold light flared and faded. Hovering over the steps were Tutresiel and Xaphan. The fire angel’s wings burned brilliantly. Tutresiel’s wings had gained back their brilliant silver shine. His long black hair hung down between his wings. Both were naked, their bodies white as marble.

  A knot rose in Max’s throat. She fought past it. She wondered what they would think of Shoftiel. If they would be glad of his vengeance or not.

  Somehow she doubted they would, if only because neither liked anyone else butting into his business. Just because they were angels didn’t mean they automatically liked each other. In fact, Xaphan and Tutresiel had spent a lot of time trying to kill each other on first meeting.

  Sterling had come to stand between the two comatose angels. He leaned over Xaphan and then Tutresiel. He fell to his knees before Shoftiel, tipping back his head, his arms falling wide.

  “Command me, angel of God. Let me serve you. Let me do the Almighty’s work. Let me distribute the justice of His judgment.”

  Shoftiel dropped down, settling on the steps above Sterling. “You shall,” he told the cult leader. “You will write my punishment in her flesh and bones. But first—”

  He lifted his hands high in the air. Magic seared downward in the shape of two golden lightning bolts. They fastened to his hands. The power was enough to knock Sterling down the stairs to sprawl beside Max. He remained where he’d fallen, staring in awe. Max stood her ground, but the heat and the force of the magic battering at her were immense. She could not hold out long.

  She took a step forward. It was like walking through a cement wall. Still, she managed a couple of inches. If she could reach Shoftiel, she could grab him. She hoped. He had taken on his real form. Hopefully that meant her hands wouldn’t pass through him. This was her chance.

  She managed another sliding step up to the bottom of the stairs.

  Shoftiel’s hands snapped downward, unleashing the bolts of magic into both angels. Watery light surrounded them. It grew brighter and brighter until Max was forced to look away. What was he doing?

  The flow of magic from the heavens continued for more than a minute. Max took advantage to lift a foot up onto the bottom step. She leaned her weight hard into it and tugged up her other leg. Her strength was dwindling rapidly. Her heart pounded with the effort, and she could feel the magic of the amulet sending roots down inside her, pulling on the spells that had created her. If she took it off, she’d fry. If she didn’t, it would kill her, and soon. She had to get to Shoftiel and get him into the abyss quickly, or she wouldn’t be able to do it at all.

  Suddenly, the brilliant bolts of magic vanished. Max blinked, trying to clear the streaks of white from her vision.

  Shoftiel was panting. His breaths were deep and rasping. He stood between the two prone angels. He glanced from one to the other as if waiting.

  Nobody else moved. Even Sterling seemed to be holding his breath.

  Xaphan’s chest fluttered. It moved up and down as he breathed in and out. Max let out a startled cry and jerked forward. Her feet refused to move. She looked at Tutresiel. His fingers twitched and then curled and flexed. His chest rose.

  Joy danced through her. She looked back at Shoftiel, wondering if he had any idea that the two angels would not appreciate his attacks on her or Giselle.

  Tutresiel’s eyes opened first. He blinked and turned his head.

  “Shoftiel,” he said. The word was blank, without any feeling whatsoever. He turned his head to look on the other side of himself and then lifted it slightly to look down past his feet. Finally, he saw Max.

  His eyes narrowed at the blood and mud plastering her skin. His gaze hooked on Shoftiel’s still-bleeding mark.

  “What the fuck is going on?” he asked her.

  “I will tell you what’s going on,” Shoftiel said, stepping down between Tutresiel and Xaphan, turning to face the silver-winged angel. “I have brought you back from Ledrel. You have been kept prisoners of witches, no doubt in order to harvest the magic from your bodies. I have set you free. I have judged the guilty. I have pulled you out of Ledrel that you may witness the punishment of those who wronged you.”

  The way he said it was accusing and disgusted, as if Tutresiel and Xaphan had allowed themselves to be enslaved and used. As if no self-respecting angel would be caught dead bound to a covenstead. And maybe they had. They had actively helped Horngate. They had sacrificed themselves to protect the covenstead from the Fury, although Max was fairly certain Shoftiel didn’t know what had happened to put them in their comas.

  “Why can’t I move?” Tutresiel demanded.

  “The sleep leaves slowly. It will pass.”

  “What’s going on?” Xaphan said groggily.

  Max’s heart leaped. Shoftiel was blocking her view of the fire angel, but he was definitely alive and awake.

  “Shoftiel? What are you doing here? Where are we?” Arctic cold underlined his words. He did not like the red-winged angel. Max didn’t know if it was ordinary angel antagonism or something more personal.

  Shoftiel gave his speech again.

  “Who’s wronged us?” Xaphan asked, and Shoftiel’s wings flared wide.

  “The witches of this anneau,” Shoftiel said. “But more than them, this one is responsible for your chains.” His wings folded, and he turned, pointing an accusing finger at Max.

  Xaphan took in Max. “What have you done to her?” he asked Shoftiel in a dead voice. The flames on his wings flashed from orange to blue-white. It was the color of his rage.
<
br />   “Little, so far,” said Shoftiel. “But now that you are awake to bear witness, it is time to begin.”

  He glanced up at the sky. It was November, and the days were pretty short. Max figured it was about an hour before sunset.

  “No,” said Tutresiel. “I cannot move. I want to make her bleed myself.”

  Max’s eyes widened, but he was watching Shoftiel.

  “As do I,” Xaphan said. He had managed to wrench himself up a few inches. “I demand the right to punish her myself.”

  Shoftiel stared back and forth between them. Max couldn’t see his face, but the smoky red of his wings was agitated. Finally, he nodded. “I will wait for one hour for you to recover. Justice waits for no one.”

  He started up the steps. At the top, he turned. His gaze locked with Max’s, and his expression was no longer amused. It was cruel and promised pain beyond comprehension.

  Sterling rose and bowed low to each of the angels. All three ignored him, which clearly pissed him off. Good. Maybe he’d get into it with Shoftiel and make a distraction.

  The magic holding Max in place had vanished. But if she made a run at Shoftiel, he’d dodge. Or drop her before she got anywhere near him. But maybe she could make him come after her . . .

  “So all of this is about two winged mutants who call themselves angels?” she asked. “Please. If you three were really angels, you wouldn’t be down here on earth answering to witches. Even you, Daffy. You’re at Sterling’s beck and call, aren’t you? Might as well be a dog that fetches. Do you sit and heel, too? I bet you aren’t even housebroken.”

  The angel bristled. Tutresiel made a sound like suppressed laughter. Max darted a look at him. He gave a faint shake of his head. Don’t fuck with Shoftiel. But she had to. She didn’t know if Tutresiel and Xaphan could handle the other angel, and even if they could, she couldn’t risk that it would be too late before they finished defrosting.

  “I serve no one,” Shoftiel hissed.

  “Wow. Really? Seems like you’re all about the Last Standers.”

  “They serve me,” he said haughtily, gesturing at Sterling, who fell to his knees, bending until his forehead rested on the angel’s feet. Max couldn’t tell if it was the cult leader’s idea or if Shoftiel had used magic to drag him down.