Mason's face flushed and his gaze paused for a brief moment on Brahm, as if in confusion. The chains rattled as he unchained Lya. It took him some time to get her ankles loose, his movements deliberate and measured. Lya did not look at either Diarmuid or Brahm.
Breland's thick hands clasped the chains and led Lya out into the torchlight. The rings on his fingers glittered. The door slammed closed and a lock slid into place. Breland walked away, his feet shuffling in a clumsy gait. Mason's fists clenched and opened repeatedly as he stared at the closed door.
Brahm marked time with the steady footsteps of the Hunters outside the door. She lost count after twenty paces, her mind and body aching with fatigue. Over the silence, voices passed, commenting on the size of the Revival. It wasn't long before the low hum faded into the distance.
A serpent-like voice oozed through the cracks in the door, dripping in a thick coat of southern drawl. “Greetings, brothers and sisters! Greetings, children of the Almighty God!”
The crowd cheered.
“I thank the Lord you have made it here on this fine evening. Praise be to the Lord for this glorious day!”
Voices cried out in unison. “Praise be!”
Brahm rolled her eyes, remembering how she once enjoyed his sermons.
“Praise be to the Lord that we are able to gather in safety in these dark times!”
“Praise be!”
“Dark times are upon us, but here, where we follow the Word of the Lord, let the Light shine! We have spread the Light, my friends, spread the Light into the dark lands that try to consume us. For the bloodcraft and the sorcery of the Outlands is being banished as we speak. The followers of the Horned One and their heathen practices shall be destroyed.”
The crowd applauded and cheered.
“For it is written in the Good Book: Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”
Again, praise and shouts of approval.
Thurmond's speech droned in her ears and she focused once more on the pace of the Hunters outside the door. Above the heavy steps, the twang slunk through the cracks in the wood, yet she ignored it. Her head drooped, as if to fall asleep, and she felt a presence. A cold chill entered the room, as if the door had opened upon the lands of the North Moors.
A shadow skulked past her. She could not see it moving, nor hear its steps, but knew it watched her from the dark, its eyes peeling her down to the soul.
“Something is in the room with us,” she said.
Her soul lifted once again from her body, and found what lurked in the room.
The being from the Westwood.
It leeched onto her and battered at her soul. She felt its anger. Its hatred of her was icefire, its cold touch burning her very essence.
She forced it back, its dark touch freezing her.
I need help!
She sensed Mason over her body, his fingers around her neck. They fumbled with the lock of the silver collar.
She reached towards him. Mason, I need you!
As the collar tumbled to the ground, she recognized her brother’s intent. The weariness withered and died. It was the silver that caused the fatigue. Her dependence on the kahbeth had hindered her all along. Her spirit now thrummed, strong and vibrant.
The being withdrew, trying to merge with the shadows. She sensed its fear and grabbed hold, the bitter bite of its frozen touch worsening. She persisted as it melded with the dark. Her soul coiled around it, preventing its escape, congealing it.
A knife from the shadows flew towards her body. Brahm braced for the pain as the blade coursed through the air. Mason stepped in front, deflecting it with his arm. He groaned. The dark spirit emanated fury and hatred and then its physical presence stood before her, having solidified from the shadows. Her second soul recognized his features.
-My love!-
It was Lya’s father. Startled, Brahm whipped back into her own body as Mason thrust himself towards the Firstborn Lord.
Brahm seized her brother's arm. “No, Mason! It's Lya's father!” Her chains clattered as she stepped forward. She strained to see the man in the shadows. “You're alive! I knew someone escaped us when we ambushed the others. It was you.”
His voice seethed. “You killed my Sephirah. I will not let you take my daughter as well.”
“Sephirah’s soul is twinned with mine,” she said. “And your daughter is held captive by the Confederation, as am I.”
His voice hissed. “I do not care.”
White Feather rose from the wooden box. “She has turned from the Confederation and will do anything in her power to see your daughter safe.” He nodded in her direction. “She is one of my people, and they have forgiven her.”
The Firstborn spoke low. “Forgiveness is beyond me. There is little left of what I once was. I have only thoughts of my daughter. She is all that matters now.”
Brahm stood to face him. “Then help me free her. A demon walked out with her.” She was close enough to smell the decay on his breath. “What is your name?”
He wheezed. “Dïor, I was once called.”
She held out her hand. “Then, Dïor, help me rescue your daughter.”
He hesitated before his hand clutched hers, cold and hard. “My fight with you is not over. I consider this a truce. You must still pay the toll for Sephirah's life.” His voice was stone.
She gulped down the fear in her throat. “It is a truce then.” She turned to Mason. “So, my brother, what is it going to be? Have you seen enough? Do you see the truth now?”
He stood silent as Thurmond's voice drifted through the cracks once more.
Mason looked towards the door. “I see only that the Imp must be stopped. He is demonkind.” His face twisted. “I am with you ... for now.”
Chapter 24
Brahm bandaged the angry gash in her brother's arm with a shred of cloth she ripped from her tunic. He winced as she pulled it, but took the pain of it with silent acquiescence. White Feather and Diarmuid rummaged through the wooden boxes in the storage room only to discover a rusting pick-axe and the handle from a shovel. Dïor waited by the entrance, listening as he flicked at the blade of his dagger.
Through the cracks in the door, Senator Thurmond's voice spewed vitriol like rattler's venom. The crowd fell victim to his poison, silent and attentive except for the occasional agreement.
“Hallelujah! Amen!”
Brahm finished with the binding on Mason's arm. “We need to figure out how we're going to help Lya. I'm going to see how many Hunters are out there.”
Her soul soared through the door, and east up the hill towards the stage. She sensed the sharp fear of the masses, honed by years of misinformation and ignorance. A quick search of the perimeter revealed a few Hunters on the outskirts, out of the crowd's sight. Thurmond stood at the podium, his jowls and fists shaking. Brahm decided to take a closer look. Mason’s soul was beside her as she sailed in the direction of the Senator.
His words floated over the crowd and with it a spell of influence. “There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch.”
Mason arrived at the podium first and reached into the Senator's body. She sensed her brother's revulsion and followed his lead, only to find the same loathing in herself as she brushed Thurmond's presence.
Something like a demon, but stronger.
Thurmond's speech broke for a moment as he paused to swallow water. He cast a hasty glance around him before continuing.
Brahm backed away and skirted past Lya who stood behind the stage, surrounded by Hunters. The girl clutched at her chest.
Brahm's soul sailed the still night air, back to the secluded storage room. As she glided back, a presence watched her. Dïor stood at the door, his fingers playing with the dagger. He muttered to himself. “Seventeen. Seventeen. Seventeen.”
Was it him?
“There are twenty Hunters out there,” she said, “
all armed. I'm not sure, but I thought I sensed something watching me.”
Dïor repeatedly sheathed and unsheathed his dagger. His gaze remained focused on the door.
Brahm turned to her brother. “Did you sense what I did about Thurmond?”
His eyes lowered. “Demon.”
“Not just demon, something more.”
He shook his head. “It doesn't matter. What matters now is getting out of here. Lya should not be left in their hands.”
And in whose hands should she be?
Dïor shifted. “Leave the Hunters to me.” His face blackened as he stepped into the shadows and was gone. Two thumps were heard outside the room and a trickle of blood seeped under the door. The rasping sound of dragging bodies followed.
Mason averted Brahm’s gaze and slipped through the door. The others inched out behind him, mindful of the crowd's attention.
Brahm bent to retrieve a dagger from one of the Hunters. She hesitated, the cold of the dagger heavy in her hands.
White Feather was beside her. “Orenda, we must go. Lya needs us.”
Brahm took it and followed White Feather into the dogwood shrubs that grew in neat rows behind the church.
A small blue bird chirped and danced along the ground. It hopped twice towards a dark part of the woods. Brahm paused. Then she noticed there was nothing to be heard. Senator Thurmond’s voice was silenced, as was that of the crowd. There were no creatures of the night, no crowd gasping or praising the Senator’s poison words. She looked up. The few clouds that were in the night air were still.
Thank the Great Mother. Help at last.
Brahm thought of the Peace Maker and strode forward. Perhaps she could beseech his aid. It took only a few steps before she found herself in a clearing and here she paused. It was dark and moist here, and stunk of sweat. Something was stuck in Brahm’s throat as she stepped forward. It took great effort to swallow it down.
She walked the perimeter of the clearing, searching. There was no stump on which to sit, only a swath of moss in its midst. When she had made one complete circle she strode to the center.
Where was the Peace Maker?
Then she saw someone standing on the other side, in the shadows. Whoever it was, they were taller than the Peace Maker.
“Greetings,” she said, unsure of what else to say.
“Merrily met,” said a low voice. It was like buttermilk to her ears. The bearer of the voice came into the poorly lit clearing. Brahm sucked in her breath at the sight of him. He had cloven feet and goat-like legs that stretched up towards a body that was carpeted in matted hair. He stood tall as the Peace Maker, but the horns on his head made him somehow more majestic. They were covered in a soft, mossy-like substance. He was naked and his phallus was erect and thick.
Brahm refused to turn her gaze from him, and found she could not help but stare at the appendage between his legs.
She squeezed out the only words she could manage. “We need help.”
“And I need a bride,” he said.
The voice of her second soul was with her. It held her.
-We are one, Soul Runner. We are in this together.-
Brahm raised the silver dagger to defend herself, but the blade was gone.
“Fighting spirits,” whispered the voice. It emanated from the whole clearing. “Attractive.”
Other creatures appeared at the edge of the clearing — some that were human-like in appearance, others that were not. Most were half-human and half something else. All were naked.
Two of the half-men played forked flutes and the others began to frolic. The female creatures danced around Brahm, slow and sultry. They smelled of ripe berries and sweet flowers. Brahm stood her ground, refusing to move. One of the human-like creatures brushed her, her firm breast pressing against Brahm. The nipple ran down the length of her arm and paused at Brahm’s hand as if wanting something from her fingers. It lingered there and then was gone.
Another did the same, running her breast along Brahm’s leg, pushing harder against her to penetrate her pants. Brahm held in place. The man with the horns was behind her and his voice whispered in her ears.
“Why do you resist. My bride must be willing.”
“Who are you?” Brahm managed to ask.
She waited for his manhood to press against her thigh, but there was only his quiet, firm voice.
He walked around her.
Her eyes were drawn downward once more. She swallowed.
“My name should mean little to you.”
Sephirah’s soul knew him.
-The Horned One.-
His hand took her own, dwarfing it. It was strong and gentle.
“It won’t hurt,” he said.
She did not pull back her hand, yet she held her ground. “We need help,” she tried to mutter, but the words only dribbled from her lips.
“I like this play,” he said and was gone once more.
Again the female creatures were there. They danced, touching each other. There was tenderness, but it was underlied by yearning. They kissed. They drew in towards Brahm, caressing her arms once more. Their skin was soft, and the smell of berries filled her nose.
Brahm’s head swam.
The female beings laid upon the bed of moss. Flower petals dropped from the trees, alighting on their outstretched bodies. With red berries they traced a slow path along each other’s limbs.
Brahm could taste them as they bit into them, staining their lips. There was wetness upon her tongue.
They lay with each other, bodies pressing gently together at times, a slow rhythmic rubbing that Brahm had to bite her own lips to watch. Some of the male creatures joined in, mouths enjoying the taste of crimson berries and ruby lips. They were eager, hungry, yet restrained. Their movements were slow, deliberate, pleasing. With thick fingers they toyed with the women, dancing in places that desired tenderness and were forceful in places that hungered for something more.
Brahm moaned.
The Horned One was with her again, behind her. He smelled stronger of man-sweat and berries. This time he brushed against her thigh. Brahm closed her eyes. He said nothing, but his breath was on her neck, moist and warm. She felt him circle her. Again he pressed against her. His breath was in her face, steady, unrushed. It smelled of fornication.
Brahm licked her lips, waiting for his own to touch hers, wanting it.
She tried to resist. “Will you help us?”
He whispered. “Will you take me?”
She breathed her response in a sigh. “Yes.” She wanted nothing more, she cared for nothing else.
Her body then shuddered with pleasure as she lay upon the ground. Convulsions of delight took her and she tipped her head back, her neck stiffening. Her back arched, her toes curled and she moaned her ecstasy. She was naked and every flower petal that touched her was a moment of unique pleasure.
He was over her, tickling her ear with his gentle voice. “Will you accept my mark?”
She pulled him to her. “Yes.”
-Yes.-
His body was against hers, heavy and powerful.
She felt pain on her shoulder. And with its burning she moaned as did the second soul within her. And then Orenda, the twin-souled woman, spiraled into rapture for what seemed days without end.
***
Friar John rose from the forest floor and cleaned the mirror of blood within a nearby stream. It was night, so it was difficult to tell if all the blood had come off. He did not want to leave it lying about for someone to inadvertently use it. The spell cast upon it would allow any sort of evil to tempt its bearer. It was an open window now that it had been used for such a purpose. He imagined what sorts of people could be fooled into believing the whispering lies.
Almost anyone.
He lay it out in a clearing so that the moon could cast its rays upon the mirror and cleanse it of darkness. As the rays of the gibbous object struck the mirror, it took only minutes before it smoldered and cracked.
John
strode from the clearing, carrying his pack and followed the path of the setting sun. The Beast would be closer than he thought. Dark things were being called to a place west of where he stood.
As he walked, he took his fond memories and kindnesses and buried them deep within his being. He brought forth his anger and his jealousies, his hatreds and his scorns. They rose within him, and he immersed his heart in their pain; for he knew his heart would be examined by those among the darkness. There were beings that could search for his purpose and the reasons for his allegiance to the shadow.
With pristine wings.
John had shed his Friar’s robes and dressed now in black cloth. He let his thoughts wander into darkness and of things that he had once regretted. He took pleasure in his past wrongs, and he did not castigate himself for his impure and wicked thoughts. He hated himself and the others that had caused him pain. And with all of this, he marched forward.
He cast a spell to hide his own mission, even from himself; a spell that would raise his consciousness and the righteousness in his heart when the truth was revealed. When the time was right, his true purpose would come forward and he would smite that which would bring evil to the world; the Hand of God.
He constructed a new truth, one which he would use to fool himself; he immersed himself in the whisperings of the mirror and let his heart be tainted by their promises. He let himself be led into their temptations. He delivered himself unto evil. He became what he once was, so long ago.
Assassin.
Then, as the last of the spell was cast the man that was once Friar John marched forward. In his hand he held a wick. He smiled his pleasure at it and then sucked upon the leaf of the Wormwood.
Chapter 25
Brahm stood, clothed and cold, in a place where time moved and the scent of blood soured the air. Here there were no petals that delighted the skin as they dropped, or the loving caresses of half-women that danced naked under the moonlit sky, and neither was there a man who knew how to pleasure her in ways no being ever had.
Or might never again.
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