by S. L. Prater
“A little more than half of what we had to start.” He pulled harder, his cheeks purpling from the strain. Annette whimpered.
Marnie patted down her skirts. “Give me everything in your pockets.”
She searched her dress and found lint. Lint wasn’t helpful in a spell; neither were her boots or laces.
I could sacrifice my hair . . . Diridge would like that.
Jack produced a walnut and a silver folding knife with a dull edge. Not exactly the kind of weapon Marnie wanted to take into a fight with a building full of armed watchmen. She wished they had prepared better, though it was unlikely they would have gotten through the door carrying a conspicuous barrel full of rat tumors and spider legs. One walnut wouldn’t produce enough natural magic for much. They would need a lot more time if they wanted to pray or chant to garner large favors from spirits.
The demon cackled at them.
Madam Becker rubbed her face dry with her palms, her shoulders shaking in silent misery. “Don’t try to help me, love. Learn from me instead. Learn from what I’ve done, the selfish, horrible thing I’ve done. I’ve made my bed, child.”
“I am not leaving you here,” Marnie growled. She had read about the effects of exorcism on the body. When they found the demon, the process would be worse than the execution that awaited her.
“Make a deal with me.” Faceless considered them from his view in the topmost mirror. “Make a deal, Marnie, and I’ll free your mother. I’ll free Momma Becker, and then I’ll make you beautiful in the eyes of all men.”
“I am beautiful. I already get more male attention now than I know what to do with, so keep your nasty magic to yourself.” She looked around the room for something with which to sharpen Jack’s knife.
Faceless shrugged its gaunt shoulders. “You all look the same to me.” It shifted into the ornately carved mirror beside Jack. “Deal with me, and I’ll make Marnie fall in love with you.”
Jack made retching sounds. He carried on until Marnie glared at him.
Faceless grunted. It rubbed its pale chin for a moment and then vanished. An image of Marnie’s mother climbing the monstrous mechanical gallows replaced it. “Deal with me, and this never has to happen.” Its voice reverberated off the glass.
Marnie turned, expecting to find its lanky naked frame standing there, but all she saw were more images of her mother’s execution, each more creative in their horribleness: the great monstrous mechanical gallows, beheading, boiling oil. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned away, knowing right then that she was about to do what no good witch was ever supposed to do. Only dangerous street witches dealt with demons, and rarely did they live long.
Marnie was going street.
“What do you want?” Jack spoke for her.
Madam Becker wailed loudly, flopping against her chains. Marnie shushed her. Jack rubbed the walnut between his palms like he was trying to start a fire. He used the natural magic stirred up by his witch’s touch to put Annette to sleep. Jack caught her forehead before it smacked into the table. Tucking her arms beneath her, he lowered her gently.
Faceless clicked its nails at Marnie. “Possession for—”
“No.” She folded her arms over her chest.
“Just one day?”
“Never.” Marnie shook her head.
“An hour?”
“Not a chance in Diridge’s hottest hell.”
“Why does everyone assume hell is hot?” The demon chipped one of its nails, then ripped it the rest of the way off. It bled freely, and it played in it, rubbing the thick red fluid between the pads of its fingers, still appearing bored. “And it’s not Diridge’s hell. That spirit is just the gatekeeper. It’s my hell. So see reason, will you? The only way I’m getting out of here with all the wards in a place like this is if someone else allows me in and carries me through it all.”
“Think of another way fast.” Marnie watched her mother sleep, avoiding the demon’s faceless stare. “Or you’re going back to your cold hell courtesy of a priest.”
“Oh, I don’t think you will let that happen.” The demon used blood to write filthy words on the glass. It added a few demon symbols, which mostly consisted of spirit runes turned upside down. The symbols faded, and the other mirrors filled with images of Annette’s dead face. Her hazel eyes were glazed and lifeless.
Jack reached over, sliding his knife toward Marnie.
She covered it with her hand. “Demons can take possession of objects.”
“A nasty, uncomfortable business, but yes.” Faceless paced through the mirrors. “It’s like changing your skin into something slimy. Would you like me to change your skin into something slimy?”
Marnie lifted the small pocketknife.
The demon groaned as though it had been stabbed with it. “No deal, no deal. I’d rather be sent back to hell.”
“He could be forced into the knife,” Jack offered, “but the sacrifice would need to be great.”
“You could cut my hair, but that’s probably not big enough. Not for something like this. Oh God, do you think a finger would be enough?” Marnie eyed her hand, wondering if Jack’s little blade could slice through the bone. “Maybe my ear too?”
Jack rolled his sleeves up past his elbows. “It might require a whole arm, and how would we explain the missing limb to the watchmen?”
“You could try to reattach it later, right?” Her stomach lurched. “It would never work quite the same again, but it’s worth a try. Use the walnut. Soshua likes seeds, and her magic should keep the worst of the pain away. You’ll probably have to kiss me.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Marnie, I don’t have it in me to saw your arm off. Could you? Let’s fight our way out of here.” He lowered his voice. “I’ll ask one of the red-stolers to come inside, pretend I have a question. We’ll grab him and go from there, knocking them unconscious one at a time for as long as we can get away with it.”
Faceless cackled gleefully.
Marnie spun toward the mirror and jabbed the glass with the knife. It cracked. “Get in the damn blade! That’s all the deal you get, you demon bastard! I carry you out in it, you get your freedom, or we die fighting against this constabulary and you get to face off against a priest!”
The lights flickered. She stabbed the glass again, and the crack widened. In a blink, the demon vanished.
Jack straightened. “Where’d he go?”
The silver knife grew cold in Marnie’s hand. Startled, she tried to drop it, but the metal clung to her fingers.
Her brow puckered. “Is it . . . do you think it’s . . . ?”
The smell of burning rot dissipated. Madam Becker began snoring more peacefully. Marnie tried to hand the blade to Jack to examine, but it wouldn’t leave her. A small ruby shaped like an egg appeared in the handle. It bulged from the silver. Squinting at the strange gem, Marnie couldn’t see the demon, but she sensed its amusement. She shivered.
“Well,” she said, trying to shake the knife loose. It stuck to her palm stubbornly. “I can’t say I didn’t expect some sort of catch in all of this.”
She turned the blade over between her fingers. Marnie couldn’t give it to Jack, but it passed between her palms easily. She slipped the folded blade into her boot. It was more cooperative when she wasn’t trying to drop it or give it away. The ruby was uncomfortable when pressure was applied, rubbing against her ankle, but she would manage.
Her mother murmured Romulus’s name in her sleep.
“You’ll have to make her forget her part in this,” Marnie said. “My mother won’t be able to forgive herself otherwise. She’ll continue to confess. She wants to be punished.”
Jack sang a prayer to Arseno, a spirit who favored memories and artistic expression. Marnie joined in on the verses she knew. In addition to music, Arseno liked laughter for spell work. When Jack squeezed Marnie’s knee, she caught on to his intention, but she wasn’t in the mood to laugh or be cooperative.
She pushed his hand away. “Why can’t you be the one—”
“I don’t laugh.” Jack blew a raspberry on her cheek, which failed to lighten her mood.
When she tried to shove his chest back, he knocked over her chair and wrestled her onto the floor, tickling her stomach and squeezing her thigh until her cackles were echoing off the walls. The new magic filling the room smelled like rubber. The feeling of sand in the air intensified, and the harp, a spirit symbol, shone on the floor in brown dirt.
“I need something to catch the memories,” Jack said, breathing hard. Marnie had put up quite the fight. He released her to loosen the laces of his left boot.
She picked herself up, mildly irritated he hadn’t been the one cackling on the floor like a child. She went to her mother’s side and gently lifted her forehead off her folded arms. The Madam’s eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. Jack positioned his boot. The memories trickling out of Annette’s ear looked like swamp water and smelled like vinegar. When it slowed to a dribble, Jack reluctantly stuffed his foot back inside with a sickening squish. His boot darkened from the moisture. Marnie hoped no one would notice.
Jack frowned at the growing stain. “How will we explain that?”
She shrugged, biting her lip. “Say you pissed yourself, maybe?” Marnie scattered the harp symbol with her foot, scuffing the floor.
His eyes narrowed to slits.
Madam Becker sat up, blinking. She wiped her mouth, looking lost for a moment until her gaze found her daughter. “Dear, do something with your hair.”
Marnie dove at her, hugging her so hard she coughed.
“Ouch, dear . . . Jack, be a lamb and ask the watchmen if they’re ready to question me. I certainly don’t know how I’m supposed to help them sort this mess out, but let’s have it done quickly. I’ve work to tend to.”
***
The priest entered the room first. He wore a worn silver stole, long and layered, with the naked tree symbol sown into the silk. The stitching was intricate and so beautiful, Marnie had an urge to touch it. The boot hiding the possessed knife along her ankle twitched. She ground her heel into the floor until the demon settled down.
The priest was stout and wore plain clothing: black slacks, a cream shirt, and soft, sensible, brown leather shoes. With a tiresome possessed knife poking at her, Marnie was jealous of those shoes. The priest had a kind, trustworthy face and thick, silver eyebrows. He introduced himself as Brother Doyle.
“What happened to the mirror?” he asked casually, pointing at the crack that webbed across the largest glass.
“I didn’t like the look of it.” Marnie sniffed at the row of watchmen lining themselves against the wall of mirrors, feeling crowded. “You can charge the master of my house for its replacement.”
“Gentlemen,” Doyle said to the watchmen, “I can already tell you we are wasting our time. There’s no demon in this woman.”
“You haven’t performed the rite yet.” Constable Alec had his short red stole on now, perched formidably over one shoulder, only partially covering his revolver. Gold bars sown into his collar displayed his higher rank. It accented his brown skin and amber eyes. His chocolate hair was slicked back perfectly. Everything about him was annoyingly tidy to Marnie, even the revolver in its shoulder holster. He appeared to be as efficient as her mother. They would have gotten along well in different circumstances.
The priest plucked thick eyeglasses out of his front pocket. “When you’ve done this for as long as I have, you learn to sense these things. We’ll do the rite if you insist, but I tell you, young man—”
“Constable,” Alec corrected.
“I tell you, Constable, there’s no demon in this woman.” The priest perched glasses on his rounded nose, then removed them again to clean them on his stole.
“What’s this about a demon in me?!” Annette bristled. “There most certainly is not a demon in me!”
Alec eyed her reproachfully. “You’re denying it now? All day you’ve spouted off about demonic terrorism and possession.”
The madam looked lost. Her mouth gaped, then closed again like a gulping fish.
“I’m her adviser,” Jack said firmly. “Direct your questions to me, Constable.”
“Two advisers.” Alec’s neat, symmetrical eyebrows bristled. “A witch and a magician adviser with no experience in law. When Master LaFontaine brought you here, I only allowed it so that the girl could share a proper goodbye with her mother, but you’re trying to play at counsel? Your client has already confessed.”
“Madame Becker was confused,” Jack began.
Marnie helped him tell a story of half-truths, expounding upon how she had suspected her mother was placed under a harmless hex—culprit unknown—the night of the party. Jack tried to explain the effects of magical intoxication, how close exposure to the curse and assorted spells had altered the behaviors and recollections of many at the party. Marnie added in bits about losing several memories of the night and exaggerated her own magical intoxication symptoms.
“I did what?” Annette exclaimed as Marnie described her actions in the ballroom.
“Confusion can also be caused by too much wine,” Doyle said warmly. The watchmen chuckled at this, all except for Alec who was eyeing Jack and Marnie suspiciously in turn. He folded his arms without creasing his shirt or wrinkling his stole. His posture was ruler straight.
“No. It was spell intoxication. I can smell magic,” Marnie said, and the priest sat up a little straighter. “I smelled it on her. And my mother rarely drinks. She thinks overconsumption is for people who are boring and need excuses to commit debauchery.”
Her mother nodded in agreement. Unaccustomed to having others speak for her, her mouth twitched, and her hands kept busy, playing with her chains.
“Annette Becker is not a witch. Look at her.” Jack thrust a hand at the madam. “She doesn’t know a curse from a hex or a jinx from a spell. Not to mention, this same office declared her magic-less five years ago. A demon would have about as much use for her as an illiterate with an encyclopedia.”
Alec stroked his chin, his expression resigned. “Magic users can at times come into their abilities late in life.” His tone was halfhearted. His attention turned to Marnie, and the watchmen changed gears along with their constable.
Marnie felt his amber eyes taking her in. A cool sweat developed on her neck. She stopped herself from chewing her lip, worried the gesture made her look guilty—as guilty as she was.
Street witch.
Their ensuing questions were accusatory. Most of them dug immediately under Marnie’s skin. She battled against the urge to lash out and lob a curse word or display a rude hand gesture. For her mother’s sake, she minded her temper as best she could, because despite what Annette usually insinuated, Marnie tried hard, most days, not to intentionally embarrass her.
Some of their questions were easy to answer. Most of them felt like traps, which she avoided when necessary by feigning memory loss, blaming last nights’ magical drunkenness or her significant head injury.
“You say you wished to save your master,” Alec recounted, “that you fled from the demon magic with him. So then, why did you drop him out of a tree?”
“You aren’t suggesting I landed us in that sun tree on purpose, are you?” Marnie’s tight fists shook. She hid them under the table.
“That’s precisely what I’m suggesting.”
“And kill myself in the process?” She rolled her eyes. “I’m not suicidal, Constable. I could have died, too, and almost did. And I’d never hurt Lord LaFontaine. I believe he’s—well, he is a good man. One of the most decent I have ever met. He’s been nothing but good to me—to us.”
“Good to you? He lets you slave for him in his kitchens, sweep his floors, keep his books . . . Oh yes,” Alec crooned, his tone laced with sarcasm, “he’s so good to you. I’m sure you appreciate all that he lets you do for him while he lives his life of luxury and you struggle for a pittance.”
Marnie made a derisive noise in her throat. “He doesn’t live a
life of luxury. He lives a life of problem solving and stress and loss and disappointment. His only family have been dead for over a year. There’s no one to help him now. The man barely sleeps, hardly eats, and worries constantly. As we speak, he is running around our city setting things right, with a significant internal injury and no sleep, fueled by tobacco and tea, and this probably isn’t even his worse day this month.”
She chuckled humorlessly, shaking her head. “And when he isn’t worrying, he endures intolerable boredom under the heavy weight of cutthroat scrutiny, forbidden from doing anything he’d like to do with his own time because he’s a slave to what others need from him. Ha! No amount of wealth would ever make it worth my while to trade places with the Master of LaFontaine Manor—pardon me, the Lord of Loreley, Emperor of Kings.”
“Hear, hear,” Brother Doyle said. Alec glared at him, but he beamed in return, unaffected.
The constable shifted in his seat. He removed his stole, looking flushed, as he situated the crimson fabric behind his chair.
Marnie groaned and buried her sweaty face in her hands. “Is this ever going to end?”
Had they been at it for hours? It felt that way to her. She was hot. Sweat had her dress clinging to her neck and beading in her hair. There were too many bodies pressed close together around a table, with no access to fresh air. She could still smell the vinegar of her mother’s soggy memories. The smell turned her stomach. The mirrors made the room seem even fuller, multiplying the watchmen in their reflections. The sight of so many crimson stoles made her woozy.
The priest coughed, stealing the room’s attention. He repositioned his glasses on his nose and blinked at Marnie, his enormous blue eyes magnified by the spectacles. “So, it’s true, then? You saved young Master Bran and yourself from a demon curse through transportation, or ‘magic riding’ as my generation calls it.”
“Yes?” She didn’t want to say anything that might accidentally reveal her mother’s guilt or the fact that she was hiding a horrid demon in her boot.
His eyes lit up. “Fascinating, truly. I knew another who could ride natural magic—he was just an acquaintance, mind you, but the stories he told . . . just fascinating. And you can smell magic too. How useful!” Doyle clapped his hands and rubbed them together energetically. “Well, then, let’s get started. Marnie, would you assist me, please?”
