The dark shadow that surrounded the boy swept forward and enveloped Paine. The fire within him burst. He cast a curse of darkness and death and funneled it towards the pale being. The boy screamed. His bellow shook the trees. He doubled over, twitching. He staggered forward, reaching for Paine.
“Abba.”
His face collapsed inwards, leaving a hollow shell. His skin sagged like white drapes. He gave one final, hollow wail before his shell crumpled upon the ground.
Paine tried to reel the souls back, but they were ravenous. They wanted blood. And his righteous anger still burned like hot coals.
Lya stepped back from him, horror etched upon her face. The souls at his command probed at her. Jealousy and rage over her use of Paine to satisfy her own ambitions flickered in his mind and danced along his skin. Something in Paine strained to control it, but another part of him delighted in her horror.
The parchment from his parents lay on the ground and he picked it up, placing it in his pocket. His angry eyes challenged her to take it from him, and she lowered her head.
A shuffling of dried leaves behind him turned his attention. He spun around.
Puck stepped from the trees, cut and bruised.
“Paine, no! It's me!”
The souls flew towards the young man. Puck cried out.
The voice sounded in his mind again.
-No, child. That is enough. -
The souls paused and Paine fell to his knees.
They reeled back towards him. And they brought the memories of the vile creature that had assumed the shape of a little boy. And there was knowledge, terrible and old. Not to mention a deal; a deal made with a woman cloaked in shadow. Then it was gone. And the darkness embraced him.
It was cold, and excruciating.
***
John pulled Meega close to him as they rode along the cobbled road, leaving Barcelona by the light of the half-moon that hung in the sky. The girl sat quietly, stroking the straw hair of the wooden doll she clutched in her tiny hands. From time to time she leaned back against him and her hand would silently reach up and touch his face. He considered leaving her with the orphans of the Temple. Miguel had insisted upon it. Yet something about the idea did not sit well with John. He couldn’t help but wonder if he could somehow make amends by caring for this child. Or perhaps it was what Liesel said to him.
She has no one, Churchman.
It made him wonder.
Did the old woman know the girl's mother was dead?
Meega might have been better off with the orphans, for what sort of life would she have with him, but he would not subject her innocent mind to a twisted religion; especially when the little girl and her mother feared God.
For our God is a consuming fire.
A smile of irony twitched inside him.
Wasn’t that the point?
Miguel rode beside them, cloaked in anger and silence. The fat friar was still upset with him for his comments about the Church. John wasn't sure if the man believed what they had discovered with Liesel. He wondered if the good friar was like all the others, burying his head in books and rituals to ignore what loomed on a desolate horizon.
Others have ignored the truth, so why should he be any different?
John sighed.
He had penned a missive to the Pope to let her know of his findings, but he did not leave it in the hands of the Church to deliver. When he informed the Pope of what he knew, she had given him specific instructions on how to reach her. He did as he was told, and hoped the letter made its way to the Vatican with all haste.
As they reached the top of the hill, John peered into the valley. Torch-lit windows shone back at him, tiny embers of light compared to the fires that lit the Temple and its towering spires. Miguel continued onward, leaving him to stare back at the city like Lot's wife. It was all he could do to turn his gaze away, feeling like a pillar of salt himself. Meega stirred in front of him, leaning back to rest her head against his chest. She still clutched the tiny wooden doll.
John turned his horse around, but not before he caught a shadow slide across the face of the moon. He scanned the skies, searching, but found only fear in the pit of his stomach.
***
An old, haggard woman watched the two friars and the little girl ascend the hill that led out of Barcelona, leaving the city behind. She buried her head in the tattered rags that clothed her, muffling her cackle. She wondered if they would find the Beast. She knew one thing, someone else searched as well.
Perhaps if this friar gets there first. Perhaps …
She could only hope, for hope was all she had.
The tall friar — the heretic — took a last look upon the city before turning around. Far above him, a winged being soared west through the sky.
The Archangels are awakened.
Liesel wondered if the friar had noticed.
Liesel. Yes, that is my name. Sometimes.
The old woman wrapped a midnight-blue cloak about her and ignited a power within her. She groaned. The change always caused her pain. She morphed to another form, one of a dark-haired woman with emerald eyes, and a voluptuous body. When it was complete, she pulled the cloak about her shoulders to ward off the night chill.
Then Lilith, first wife of Adam, turned on her heel, and strode down the path back into the city of Barcelona.
***
Paine woke, his head pounding to the rhythm of Shadow's steps. He felt an unexplained tightness around his chest and legs.
He was tied with rope.
Solid arms surrounded him, and callused hands held the reins.
Diarmuid.
Warm breath tickled the nape of his neck. “Relax, Paine. You're with me.”
Paine sank back into him, feeling the man’s chest rise and fall against him.
“What happened?”
His throat was parched.
“You destroyed that boy-thing, whatever it was, but the wolfen escaped. The others saved Puck, but all three died in the attempt.”
“What was that thing?”
“I don’t know. Truitt thinks it might be a part of the Westwood.”
Paine swallowed the lump in his throat. “Where's Lya?” he asked, although he knew she rode beside him.
“I'm here.” Dark half-circles framed her eyes and her lips were gouged with bite marks.
He regretted what had happened, but could not bring himself to apologize.
Lya’s voice hesitated. “I think you should get some more rest.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Most of the day.”
His eyelids weighed heavily.
Diarmuid stirred behind him, pulling Paine into him.
“Sleep. We're long out of the Westwood and on our way to Haven.”
The Westwood.
Its memories and knowledge were lost to him with the singular exception of a deal and the woman with whom it was made.
She would pay.
“Thanks, Diarmuid,” he muttered.
Sleep took him once more.
***
Fang watched the young man sleep once again, exhausted from the use of a power that threatened to consume him.
If he does not learn to deal with it, it will destroy him.
She looked to his sister.
She has great power as well, and the skill to wield it.
Such power Fang had not seen in a long time, so long it seemed like another lifetime. It awoke something in her, something she thought long dead.
A squirrel ran past and leapt into a tree; one that was good for shade. Its shadow made her think of the Westwood and of what they had found there.
Devil spawn.
She always had her suspicions about that dark place, but there was something more. She could not put her paw on it, but something was amiss, and she cursed herself that she could not see it. The wolf retraced the steps in her mind, but knew she missed some small thing that flaunted itself in front of her.
It itched.
She sniffed at the air and smelled the change on the wind. Its stench was unmistakable.
If this is any sign of what is coming, the others will need to know.
Not much frightened Fang, but this made her smell her own fear. So much so, that something inside her edged its way up her gullet and tickled the back of her throat. She knew of only one way to voice it, but she stifled the howl that begged to come forward.
Chapter 12
The morning sun was hidden behind a cloud that looked like a giant mountain, casting a shadow upon the land. It was reminiscent of the one that was cast upon Brahm's heart. She always hated leaving this place.
She led her brown charger through the gates of the Haudenosaunee village and a voice cut through the mist.
“Orenda, wait!”
White Feather chased after her.
Exasperation escaped her lips in a sigh.
“Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?” he asked. The look in his eyes was hopeful.
She grunted. “I hate goodbye.”
“No need,” he said as his appaloosa trotted up to them. He adjusted the bags on Wind’s saddle. “I'm coming with you.”
“What?” Brahm failed to mask the irritation in her voice.
A wide grin crept across his rugged face. “I didn't think you were hard of hearing, Orenda. I said I'm coming with you.”
She turned her back to him and mounted. “I go alone.”
“Mother thought you might need help.”
Brahm gave a hearty laugh and shook her head. The Clan Mother's motives were as evident as the twinkle in her son’s eyes.
“Very well, but you do as I say.”
He mulled it over. “Agreed, but not if your life is in danger. I would hate to see anything happen to that pretty hide of yours.”
That grin lodged itself in his face again and Brahm felt a fresh desire to slap it clean off. She rolled her eyes instead.
“Let's go.”
She urged Roan to a trot, leaving White Feather muttering something about women. They both knew she could outmatch him in a heartbeat.
If anything, she would end up saving his pretty behind.
Five days later, with the land blanketed in pine, box elder, and beech, Brahm found herself in the dales of the upper Outlands. She once heard a saying about a needle in a pile of hay. Searching for Diarmuid was similar. Yet something was guiding in her in this direction. Whether it was her instincts or not, Brahm was unsure. And the second soul within her had been disturbingly quiet.
Too quiet.
Two days previous, her overwhelming desire to run back to the Haudenosaunee village had disappeared— a whisper of a memory. So she followed her gut after that, or what she thought was her gut, in the hopes it would lead her to Diarmuid.
For most of the trip she was gripped by the meaning of the Peace Maker’s visit. The spirit being had placed the fear of God in her. And that made two things Brahm Hallowstone had little tolerance for: fear and God.
Her thoughts were interrupted as a raven alighted in her path. It hopped twice, croaked, and fluttered its wings. She yanked the reins, and Roan whinnied.
White Feather pulled up beside her. “What is it?”
Brahm dismounted and approached the bird with a slow, steady pace. She never understood why so many thought them harbingers of death and bad omens; they were highly intelligent. She crouched when she was within range.
The bird croaked a few times and flapped its wings. Its message was short and simple — a warning. Brahm nodded and reached into her pack for some flat bread. She gave it to the raven with her thanks before it croaked once more, and flew west.
White Feather's feet padded the ground behind her. “What did it say?”
“There are humans beyond the next ridge. The raven didn't like the smell of them. We’re also being followed.”
White Feather stared into the eastern breeze. “Then we should go on foot.”
Brahm nodded, and whispered in Roan's ear as they led the horses off the road. She tied them to the bough of a silver beech. Her gut was laden with anticipation, and with sweaty palms she gripped the kahbeth. She sensed their tug, their hunger for blood, reaching deep inside her. White Feather gripped his war club, his bow slung over his shoulder. His eyebrows were lowered in concentration, his breathing slow and rhythmic. He wore apprehension well.
They prowled the forest, silhouettes that slipped between the trees. Brahm moved forward, every step carved from a honed instinct. Her iron grip on the kahbeth pearled her dark hands. They traveled in stealth for more than a mile, without sign of human presence.
She was about to call a return when she sensed an oddness about the forest. White Feather sensed it as well. With hand signals he indicated he would go left, she should go right and they would meet up in one hundred yards. She nodded, and he vanished into the shrub.
Time to dance, Brahm thought, and called upon the one skill that would serve her here. Even the kahbeth was second to her ability as a Soul Runner.
It was time to become one with the Great Mother.
Brahm calmed her mind, and let the sounds of the forest beat in her ears like a ceremonial water drum. Her lungs drank of the musty air. She smoothed her hand along the earth, its presence seeping under her skin. She became one with the trees, and felt their longing to touch the sky. Her soul lifted from her body and the wind breathed through her. She rose above the shrubs, forsaking her physical form. She soared past birds and rustling leaves. Two deer raised their heads, yet could not see her as she brushed past them. She sensed White Feather, his feet dancing along the ground in a silent waltz.
Then she found what she sought.
The kahbeth pulsed in the fingers of her physical form. They tugged at her for blood. Her soul fought with them. She needed to see more. Her prey was near, twenty yards away. Her soul danced a little further. The hairs on the back of her neck bristled.
A Witch Hunter.
The kahbeth yanked, and the sensations slipped from her grasp. Brahm shuddered as her soul reeled back to her body. A wave of fatigue stole over her, as it sometimes did, but she shook it off and listened.
There was nothing.
The blades of the kahbeth warmed in her hands. She gripped them harder. The Hunter was casting a spell or a summons; the kahbeth could smell the blood. She waited as the wings of fate perched upon her shoulder and breathed down her neck; its breath was rank with anticipation.
There was a sharp thud.
Feet pounded the forest floor.
Brahm rose, and grunted at the sight of White Feather chasing after a helmeted man in leather.
Damn!
She bolted from the trees.
Brahm leapt with stag-like strides. Her heart thrummed. Her breath flowed. She joined in the chase, and sped through the forest. With fluid motion she sheathed the kahbeth as she hurdled fallen pines. Reaching to the small of her back, she slid out a jagged knife. A smile edged across her face as she gained ground on them. Within moments she caught up to White Feather and bounded past him.
The Witch Hunter was a worthy chase and Brahm howled with excitement. She liked a good hunt. The Hunter's legs propelled him through the forest, the trees offering little to impede him.
No matter. He would be hers.
She gained on him, stride by stride. She blew past the trees.
Brahm smelled his fear now. She licked her lips.
The knife in her hand felt like northern frost, cold and heavy.
It was time to put an end to this. There might be others.
She hurled it.
As the knife cut through the air, she unsheathed the kahbeth. The knife struck the Hunter in the back of the knee, and he tumbled to the ground.
The kahbeth pulsed. Brahm gave herself over to their hunger. She raised them into the air and then pierced the Hunter's hide, thrusting it through his back. They pinned him to the ground. The Hunter thrashed, his soul fighting to cling to his body.
The struggle did not last long, and Brahm shuddered as he fell limp. The kahbeth screamed in her mind and she convulsed with their pleasure. They were satiated. She ripped the blades from his body, flesh dangling from the spikes. As she wiped the kahbeth on the ground, White Feather approached, and the grin on his face faded at her grave look. She rolled the Witch Hunter over with her foot, and stared at the smooth roundness of his face. He was young. She searched him, but found nothing of interest.
A snapping noise caught her attention. The kahbeth were ready, screaming for more, but she lowered them when she noticed a lone white horse partially obscured by the trees. She stepped over to it, and noticed the lack of side packs.
No supplies.
It could only mean one thing.
“Scout,” she said.
“Where are the rest?”
A loud crack sounded behind them and they rounded to find twenty Witch Hunters on horse, armed.
“Behold,” muttered White Feather.
“Put your weapons down.” The leader's voice rumbled. “By the authority of the Confederation, I command you to surrender.”
Brahm recognized the woman, remembered her from an ancient past — a ruthless Hunter. One that wore the finger bones of her victims as a necklace. The half-helmet veiled a face that Brahm recalled well, hardened with lines of age and battle. A faint tickling sensation edged at her heart. She shook it off. She refused to fear this woman.
White Feather’s hand tightened around the war club. He nodded to her as if he read her thoughts.
The Hunters would hang them anyway, so why not die fighting.
Brahm gripped the kahbeth.
Her feet itched to surge forward, but froze in place as cries echoed from the east. Brahm turned, wondering whether she would face death regardless if she ran from it. She thought of the Clan Mother, of Diarmuid, of Gray Wolf, of White Feather, and of a face she had not thought of in ages, a face not unlike her own.
Would he mourn her passing?
And what of her second soul, she wondered. Would she finally have peace?
tmp_ab131adc730627acb6e8cb55492d02d1_rmMCfR.fixed.tidied Page 13
