The two rose and strode past a few shops and houses. Those on the porches did not offer the customary greeting or even a nod of the head. One woman hissed at them and some clutched the silver crosses that hung about their necks. They continued on and strode past the Apothecary where Old Lady Burns sat in front of her shop. She knitted a wool blanket for her newly-born grandson. The child was born a month prior, with knotted stumps for legs. It was the second such birth for that family. There were tears in the old woman’s eyes.
Paine stepped on to the wooden porch and the faint smell of mothballs tickled his nose.
“Good morning, Mrs. Burns.” He liked the old woman. She had always been kindly to him.
She sucked in her breath at the sight of Lya, an occurrence not uncommon among the townsfolk. She covered it with a feigned yawn.
“Interesting sermon this morning,” she said.
Lya grunted.
“I thought it was a pile of horse shit,” Paine said as he looked over to the Church. The Reverend spoke with a broad-shouldered stranger. Whether he was with the Confederation, or if he was just another traveler heading south to the ruins of ancient Dallas, it was hard to tell. The pepper-haired stranger glanced in Paine’s direction for a fraction of a moment.
Old Lady Burns continued knitting. “The Reverend is not here to make friends. He is here to convert others to his way of thinking.”
“He spews garbage from that cesspit of a mouth,” Paine muttered.
“Not everyone follows him gladly.” She offered him a timid smile, but one with enough reassurance to ease his anger.
Old Lady Burns had been accused of witchcraft countless times, especially after the birth of her grandson. It was common knowledge she did not get along with her son’s wife. Yet few believed she was capable of such an atrocity. Paine had seen true witchcraft, and its power was beyond anything an innocent mind like Old Lady Burns could conjure.
He nodded. “We better get moving. Have a pleasant afternoon, Mrs. Burns.”
“Thank you, dear.”
The two then wandered towards the cemetery, almost directly across from the Apothecary. It sat behind the old chapel.
They strolled through the maze of haphazard tombstones to the oldest part of the cemetery. Upon one of the newer monuments sat a mourning dove. It cooed and barely masked the croak of an unseen raven.
Lya always kept Paine silent company on the trips to the cemetery, although she had her own notions about this place. She had mentioned several times she wanted to come into town at night to call forth the souls that resided there. It was an intriguing notion, but some things were better left undisturbed.
At least for now.
Usually when Paine called upon the dead, more than one emerged. And commanding one to do your bidding was challenge enough; commanding an entire cemetery was begging for a permanent possession.
Paine shuddered at the thought. Two towns over, a man invited a legion of souls unto himself. The man went insane and threw himself off a cliff, squealing like a pig.
Paine’s feet led him, as if by rote, to stand before a statue of an angel whose wings had long crumbled to dust. He could barely make out the words etched into the base.
In remembrance of Catherine and her beloved Ben.
The dates were no longer legible. He then moved on to the others.
The mourning dove cooed again and they ambled towards the old chapel. Paine gazed through a crack in the boarded window. Three shafts of light pierced the battered cedar roof and lit the pews. Fresh prints disturbed the neat carpet of dust that covered the floor; prints that appeared as if someone had let a cow loose in the derelict structure.
“Odd,” he commented, and walked up to the double wooden doors.
Lya was at his side. “What’s going on?”
“There’s footprints inside.”
She shrugged. “So?”
“Hoof prints.”
She shoved past him to peer through the cracks in the doorframe. “What are you talking about?”
Paine examined the doors and found no sign of forced entry. He pulled on the iron handles. They were locked.
He was about to go back to the boarded window, but noticed the stranger watching them from the Apothecary. Paine swallowed the lump in his throat, but stared the man down.
“What was that about?” Lya asked, poking him with a thin, iron finger. “Do you know him, or has someone else in this little spit of a village caught your eye?”
He shook his head and turned. “No, I do not know him.”
As they walked back towards the Church, the dove cooed a third time.
***
Within his cell, Friar John hummed; there was little else to do. His imprisonment was now at four days — four days of praying and meditation. Oddly, he found little to complain of. The feather bed was comfortable, if a little musty, and not quite long enough for his lanky frame, and his captors were as good to him as their conscience allowed them to be.
His punishment for heresy was a little severe, but his musings were not well tolerated. He wondered when they might release him. The Iberian monastery was a prison, placed at the southern tip of God's wilderness, where few would hear his truth.
Not my truth, he corrected himself, the truth.
He continued to hum, a refrain from a hymn that always brought him comfort.
Crow's-feet lined his face, every one earned over the last forty-three years, as were the gray flecks in his mud-colored mane. He cinched the belt about his brown robes to suit his narrowing midsection. His appetite had waned of late.
The smile on his face was wry. He wondered when the cardinal would realize that shutting him away like a criminal would do little good. It was him the Pope wished to see. He laughed when they told him he was to remain in this dark pit of a cell, in the deepest reaches of the monastery. The ears of God's representative were not to be tainted by his words.
They were in for a surprise.
He sat in silence, watching as a cockroach scurried across the dirt floor, looking for the scraps of his morning gruel. He tossed some crumbs in its path, knowing even the lowliest of creatures needed to eat.
It was difficult to tell the passing of time in this place. A moist chill permeated the stone walls, unwavering — day or night. Yet the faded glint of torchlight seeping under the door gave him some indication that the noon hour had recently passed. His humming continued, but for only a few bars of Ave Maria before he was interrupted by a clamor outside the door — the sound of heavy panting and fingers fumbling with keys.
Miguel. The breathing was unmistakable.
John waited with the patience of Job as the man made attempts with numerous keys, but exasperation sighed from someone else in the hall.
“Hurry, man. The Pope doesn't have all day.”
The clanking of keys increased and after countless attempts, the door finally opened. Flickering torchlight danced its way into the cell and the cockroach scampered towards a crack in the stone wall.
“Good day to you, sirs,” John said. “You're a little late for our morning walk. The noon hour must have passed by now.”
Miguel, large as life, had a dejected look upon his round face. The morning walk had been cancelled, yet John knew fault did not lie at the feet of the good brother. Miguel had always been kindly to him and the only one to request that they not confine him to the dungeons.
Yet his frail voice of support was of little help. The cardinal always got his way.
Except this time, John thought, taking in the striped, billowing uniform and plumed helmet of the other man who stood in the entrance — a member of the Vatican Guard.
“Come with me, heretic. You are summoned to the Pope.” The guard pointed his spear at him. “Mind your tongue.”
John said nothing, knowing his words would be wasted on one such as this, and followed quietly, winking at Miguel as he stepped into the passageway.
Soft torchlight lit the moss-covered corridors, the sound of
the guard's polished black shoes clacking on the stone floor. Bells chimed in the distance, but their music was muted by the stone depths in which they walked. Numerous cells lay open, all with decaying wooden doors and empty since long before the Shift.
Only his was occupied.
They wound through the stone maze, John and the guard stooping often to avoid the sheer tapestries of spider web.
Finally, after climbing an aged stairwell, they reached ground level, and John covered his eyes from the bright glare of daylight.
He stopped to let the sun's rays warm his soul.
Something sharp poked him from behind.
“Keep moving.”
They continued, and when they reached the abbey Miguel and the guard knelt to gesture the sign of the cross before they turned and left him. The iron doors closed with a heavy clank.
John made no such signs of piety and strode amidst the rows of wooden pews towards the pulpit, the floorboards creaking with every step. The Pope waited for him, alone.
“Your Holiness,” John said, standing to face one of the most powerful leaders in the new world. He could imagine what she must have looked like in her youth. Even with white hair and the fine lines that adorned her face, she was stunning. She stood tall for a woman, almost rivaling him in stature. The Pope was garbed in a white robe, her hair spilling over it. She held out her hand to which he feigned a kiss, his lips not quite touching the emerald ring.
“I want to hear your heresy,” she said as he faced her. Her voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling. It was painted with vivid images of the Archangel Gabriel.
John gazed upon the wings that adorned the angel’s frame, pristine and white, and wondered how much more in this world he would discover was a lie.
“The cardinal seems to think it is not for your ears.”
Her round eyes hinted annoyance. “Cardinal Aloysius is an overambitious fool who cares for nothing but his own advancement.”
He reserved his opinion, yet his lips formed a smug curve.
“I am a politician, and have attained this position by learning how to read people and their motives. I am sure you have heard otherwise, but give me more credit than that. I am the second woman to sit in this position since the Shift ripped the world apart. It has not been an easy road. Now,” she said, sizing him up. “I want your truth.”
“Why have you come all this way? Cardinal Aloysius, in all his wisdom, saw fit to have me removed to this place where only some patient brethren would ignore my words. Then, when he knew you were coming to the very place he banished me, he had me placed in the furthest depths of the monastery.”
She held her hand aloft and mouthed an incantation he did not hear. The doors and shutters swung closed. Scars were made visible as her sleeve slithered down her pale arm. They were old wounds.
Bloodcraft.
The Pope lowered her arm and adjusted her sleeve with a curt tug. For the briefest hint of a moment, he caught fear flitting across her eyes.
She leaned in to whisper. “He is coming.”
John swallowed. “Who?”
“Do not play coy with me. I did not come this far to bandy words with an idiot. The Second Coming is upon us.”
“I suppose you know who I am.” He shifted where he stood, and the cherry floor groaned under his weight.
She smiled. There was no mirth there. “I know what lies within that darkened heart of yours. I also know what will happen to the person that orders your death. Your soul is cursed. That’s why I’ve let you live.”
He stared, offering her nothing, yet he smiled inwardly.
Cursed indeed.
Anyone who had anything to do with his death would suffer for all eternity.
“I knew of your blasphemy and did not contest the cardinal's decision to put you away. There is too much at risk to let you run around spouting your so-called truth. I come here now to ask what you know. And when you are finished, I have an errand for you.”
He masked his intrigue. “An errand?”
“Hoofed and horned, we believe he is loose upon the world once more, maybe even in physical form.” She paused. “You're going to find him.”
“How?”
“Beings of great power are being summoned, but to where we do not yet know. My sources have been unable to penetrate this secret calling. They’ve all gone mad in the attempt. We know only that it is being called by someone high in the echelons of the Fallen.”
“And what am I supposed to do when I learn of this summoning?”
“You will attend.” She paused, and lowered her voice to a near whisper, “And you will kill him.”
He refrained from commenting on the futility of the request. John’s command of the dead was limited at best, although there were other powers in this world, and ways to negotiate with the unliving.
“You must know by now that my gifts are inadequate.”
She nodded. “But your blackened soul is the only one that may be able to get close enough without suspicion.”
“And how will this deed be done?”
From the pulpit she pulled out a shroud-wrapped object. It was about the length of his forearm. She peeled back the layers of delicate cloth to reveal a sharp metal object. John knew it the moment he saw it.
“The Spear of Destiny,” he muttered.
“It will be the only thing that can draw his soul from his body. Once it is done we can imprison his spirit and keep the world safe for a thousand years. You will have only one chance.” She studied him as he ran his fingers along the length of the spearhead.
He nodded as her logic revealed itself to him. “And if I cannot kill him, then my own death will be a blight upon his soul.”
There was cunning acknowledgement in her eye. “Now, what will it be, assassin? I want to know what you know.”
John pondered his options. Go on a treacherous hunt that would likely result in his own death or remain under the cardinal's watchful eye. His decision was quick and concise, so he motioned her closer, opened his mouth, and spouted truth from the sacrilegious fountain of his soul.
Chapter 2
Paine opened a collection of parchment and papers that were bound loosely with thinning twine and shoddy leather. He found the odd assortment under the floorboards just after the voices in the mirror came to him. He did not know its origins and chose not to tell his parents they had it. The grimoire’s discovery would have likely done more than merely upset them. There were quotes by someone named Cyprian of Antioch, but if that man was the author, Paine did not know. What he did know was that had his parents caught them practicing the bloodcraft that lay within its brittle pages, Gwen would have had them flayed, skinned, and hung.
The fact their children were different from others never rested well with his parents. It was part of a heritage Paine never fully understood. They spoke little of his birth mother. All Paine siphoned from them was that she could no longer care for Paine and Lya. And the two were reminded often that they were not Gwen and Charles’ seed.
He handed the book to his sister and stepped outside of the barn. He feared his parents might come around the bend at any moment, but smirked as they lounged in the hammock under the old beech.
Perfect.
Paine looked back to Lya. With her pale fingers she delicately flipped each page. It amazed him that her features were so different from his own. Although not identical twins, he expected some resemblance. Where Paine’s features were subtle and ordinary, his sister’s face was inimitable; her slanted eyebrows, pallid complexion, and strong cheekbones were unlike anyone he knew. The only feature the two siblings shared was the shape of their slightly snubbed noses and round eyes — and those seemed more coincidental than anything.
She caught him staring at her and squinted her annoyance. “I’m not sure if there’s anything in here. Most of this is about how to call upon different souls, heal an injury, or how to summon a rainstorm. It’s the usual — summoning, bloodcraft, and divination.”
&n
bsp; Paine scuffed his feet along the dry ground. The buckthorn and black willows that littered the farm had long folded up their dried leaves in a prayer for water.
“Rain would be good.”
“That requires bat’s blood. You got any?”
If he did have a bat, she would take it from him and slice its throat without asking. She was a little eager, but he supposed that bat would be just as dead at his own hands. It was the price of the craft.
Blood.
Paine shook his head. “Keep looking. I want to know what that Reverend is up to.”
A screech caught his attention. A nondescript, dappled falcon stared at him; its only distinguishing quality was the missing appendage on its left foot. Lya had healed the injured bird three years back and the two had been inseparable since. She could sense Talon’s thoughts, a skill Paine did not possess.
He scowled at it.
The fucking bird hated him.
His sister continued to thumb through the pages, scanning each one. “Wait, there’s a divination that might work. You can spy on the object of your affection. You still got that knife Billy gave you?”
Paine shuffled over to the wall where he left it stabbed into the wood, thrust there in anger when he learned that Billy had succumbed to Lya’s charms. What rankled him was not that she had beguiled him. Billy Chapman was merely a lustful proclivity; nothing more. What got under his skin was that Paine had to use a potion to have his way with Billy where Lya could seduce the boy with a few choice words; an enchantment. And she did it for no other reason than to see if she could.
Paine had tried to learn that talent when he was alone with the chickens or out in the field with the goats, but failed. He would have to ask Lya to teach him.
He yanked the knife from the wall. He hated asking.
“He’s hardly the object of my affection,” he said.
“I know, but it’s the knife that matters. It once belonged to him.”
He offered a smirk. “Maybe we can send the knife sailing at the Reverend.”
“No, but maybe at Billy with the right summoning,” she said. Her lips did not curve, but the smile still lay within her eyes. “You should have let me put a curse on him.”
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