by S. L. Prater
Jack returned, his arms full of colored jars, a pewter mortar and pestle, and a glass of needles which clinked as he moved.
“You didn’t tell the priest about the demon or the deal we made, did you?” Jack jutted his chin at her boot where the silver knife was still hidden. He sat his jars on the floor in front of him in a neat row. A spider scurried out of one of them. Marnie tried not to cringe. It was a fat, furry black one, probably full of eggs.
“I made the demonic deal,” she said. “Oddly though, I think—or I guess I hope—in this case God understands. It’s not as though I allowed the creature to possess me, but I’m still a street witch, I suppose.”
Jack poured midnight ink into a jar of insects. Her nose wrinkled as he used the mortar and pestle to crush them into a paste. He added a dose of fingernail clippings and walnut shell shavings, grinning at her forlorn face.
“I’m definitely going to get a nasty skin infection with all that,” she griped.
He stuck his tongue out at her. “It really hurts me when you doubt my skills.”
The demon appeared in her bedroom mirror.
Faceless bent over and farted at them, its head hanging upside down between its legs. “The witch is taking a demon with her to do battle against another demon. You are both stupid.”
Marnie illustrated her contempt with a raised middle finger. “I’m going to save a girl with the help of a priest. You’re not so suicidal that you’d make yourself known. The priest would kill you.”
“He’d kill you too,” Faceless said, scratching itself. “He’d have to if he wanted to end me.”
Jack jumped up and charged the mirror, shouting a curse. Marnie laughed and he stopped, mid-spell.
“It’s desperate, Jack. Don’t you see it? It’s scared. That’s why it taunts us.” She turned on the demon, her voice foreboding. “We’ll deal with you later.”
Faceless farted before vanishing. The room stunk of sulfur the rest of the night.
Chapter 8
Morning came with a humid heat wave. Marnie dressed accordingly in a light button-up shirt and low travelers’ boots. She was careful with her new ink marking. The skin just under her collarbone was still pink and irritated. Jack had chosen a Sidra symbol for her, the star, with a spell of guidance mixed into the ink that turned the markings a dark, ocean blue that had faded to gray in the night. Jack had promised it would not get infected, even as he mixed maggots into the concoction, but she insisted on adding a healing ointment of her own alchemical making just in case.
She slipped on the pair of trousers she wore whenever she was forced to help the gardener. They fit snugly, were covered in grass stains, and had extra pockets which would likely prove useful for her upcoming task. In the kitchen, Cook warmed some bone broth for Marnie as Jack went to hail a cab. Her mother questioned her passively about her duties as an apprentice. Not wanting to worry her, she kept the details vague. She mentioned casually that she was assisting the church with some tasks outside the walls.
Jack waited for her on the street beside a steam carriage. It was reasonably priced, with a roomy rounded trunk and long, bench seating in the back. The driver wore a wide-brimmed gambler’s hat that shaded his face from the tropical sun. She carried a handful of bills in a small pouch in one of her many pockets. Marnie offered the driver some, but he saw her lion-crested badge and waved the notes away. Just above the badge, her new witch markings emerged subtly, like a sunrise.
“For the crown,” the driver said, sounding uncertain.
He looked her over in her worn clothing, then gazed at the manor’s heights with its elegant brickwork and ivory-paneled windows. She bet he noticed how much one certainly did not match the other. He kept his thoughts to himself, however.
Jack wished Marnie luck as she clambered inside. She heard his prayer of blessing as the carriage pulled away. “God keep you and grant you his peace . . . God keep you and grant you his protection . . . God keep you and grant you his wisdom . . .”
***
Marnie never spent a great deal of time in Gold District. It was a district best suited to people with notes to spend. Periodically during her ride, she peeked out the windows, admiring the massive sun-scorched white walls of Loreley and the airships full of ores and exports that floated above its bastions, pulled by massive balloons and spinning propellers. They hovered so high in the sky, they looked small enough to fit in her hand, though truly they were bigger than most houses. This early in the day, the streets were mostly empty, with just a small scattering of merchants readying their wares.
Marnie felt confident, for the most part, as ready as she would ever be. Then the carriage passed the gallows where copper-plated mechanical claws hung, ready to clamp around the neck of the damned, and her stomach knotted up. Hundreds of prayers, scrawled onto paper notes, were tacked across its dark metal base. The faceless demon vibrated in her boot. She stomped on it, her agitation growing, and without meaning to, she accidentally turned one of those paper notes into a bird. The natural magic that favored her hadn’t misbehaved quite like that since she was a small child.
The bird sprung parchment wings and screeched a sharp little bird song. It flitted down the street. Marnie hung her head out of the steam carriage to watch just as a watchman pulled his revolver and shot it down.
Swallowing hard, she hid her face back inside the vehicle and shut the curtains.
She didn’t open the windows again until the steam carriage came to a complete halt. Outside, Brother Doyle called out in greeting, and she pushed open the door to receive him.
“Isn’t it awe-inspiring?” the priest said. He was carrying a pocketed rucksack. Marnie climbed down, politely making use of his offered hand. She joined him in staring at the main entrance. The gates were heavy white stone, and the naked tree symbol was carved into its center. Its roots and branches weaved outward elaborately. Marnie felt tiny beside it.
“Inspiring, yes,” she said weakly, still thinking about the paper bird blown to bits and the copper claws of the gallows.
“You’re looking a little green, Sophia.”
Marnie glanced at her pants. “Just grass stains.”
“I meant that you were looking ill.” He peeked at the edges of her new witch ink marking. Doyle smiled but did not comment on it.
The gates clanged loudly as a horn blew one sharp blast. Large steel gears ground together, slowly parting the entrance.
Marnie and the priest were the only two souls preparing to exit the capital city just then. The gates parted with weighted clockwork and steaming hydraulics, and the area flooded with vendors, rushing to get inside. Donkey carts and wheelbarrows full of fresh fish and goat fleeces barred their path. There was honey, oil, salt, cheese, and more bushels of sweet corn than Marnie had ever seen in her entire life, fabrics in wild colors, and giant pinecones which smelled strongly of cinnamon—goods shipped from Acheus and Steijn, where the seasons changed. In an instant, the vendors swarmed them, running every which way, bustling and chattering, haggling, and exchanging notes and merchandise. Many of them hadn’t made it to their stalls yet.
“Tell your friends about me,” the driver said in farewell.
Over her shoulder, Marnie agreed to do so, her eyes wide at the sea of merchants. Things quieted as the last of the vendors claimed their stalls. Marnie followed the priest to his mare and antique wooden cart. She climbed up beside him easily in her trousers.
“You look ready,” Marnie told him. And he did. His silver hair was still damp from a fresh bath. She could smell the starch in his shirt and silver stole.
“Well, there’s nothing more exciting than God’s work.” He clicked his tongue as the mare set off, her cropped white tail swishing behind her. The horse moved carefully against the Gold District traffic.
Brother Doyle invited Marnie to peruse the items in his knapsack, sliding it over to her with his foot. Glass clinked when she reached inside its largest pocket and gasped.
“Brother, there’
s ingredients in here!” She sniffed the bag. “It reeks of natural magic!”
“For you to use, not me,” he explained, the lines near his eyes crinkling. “I’ll stick to rites and prayers and spirit runes like a good priest.”
She found a bottle of wine, likely intended for healing spells, although she would have accepted a tall glass to soothe her, just then. In the same pocket were jars of eggshells and goat tumors, which Diridge favored in protection spells. Marnie found chalk and pine shavings, some kind of animal hair, a variety of walnuts and acorns, and a spice that smelled so strongly it made her eyes water. Vials of blessed holy oil, generous amounts of Doyle’s family tobacco, and incense were tucked in a side pocket. In the last pocket was the armband Marnie coveted. She touched it, wondering at how delicate it felt.
Outside the walls, the paved streets turned into a collection of haphazardly laid stones. They bumped along half a mile to where the road split at a bend. Water gardens met the sea at the bottom of a steep hill. Fishermen with long poles and fat hat brims dotted the water’s edge.
An erratic wind blew the smell of salt and pollen into Marnie’s face. In the distance, beyond the sea, was a smear of dark green land. Marnie guessed the western smear was the plains of Acheus, where their wild horses roamed. The large, towering smear of color to the east were the mountains of Stejin, the two largest kingdoms in Loreley’s empire.
“Did you know,” Doyle said conversationally, “that in Stejin they call God’s spirits ‘the Saints’? They believe they are born of devoted, deceased magic users watching over us from God’s dimension. A fascinating theology.”
Marnie nodded. “At the academy, a few of my older professors from Acheus referred to God’s spirits as angels, believing there isn’t one ‘great spirit Soshua’ but many angelic spirits with Soshua or Diridge or Tortua talents and interests.”
“Fascinating.”
Gulls called over their heads. Smaller birds hunted bugs in the sky. A cracked wooden sign with the word “Ferry” painted in white steered them in the direction of a tiny village that Doyle introduced as Glint.
The homes of Glint were limestone and clay cottages shadowed by Loreley’s mountain-like white walls. Blue beeswax candles burned in the cottage windows—candles favored for keeping away demons. Laid stones faded into a dirt path just big enough for the cart. Leaving the city often felt like going back in time. A gaggle of villagers crowded around a well and a rusty automaton who dredged for fresh water. They stared silently at Marnie and her trousers and the Sidra star in ink on her chest. The priest guided his mare to a stop in front of an evergreen with finger-like pine needles.
“It’s too muddy here.” Doyle climbed carefully down from the driver’s seat. “We’ll have to walk the rest of it.”
She helped him unharness his mare. Donala, he said was her name. Marnie fished out a note—one with silver embossing of the naked tree symbol—from the pouch in her pocket. She offered it to a village boy to look after the cart and horse. The generosity was intentional after seeing his ragged boots and clothing. He needed it. The boy—a child of about twelve—agreed, clutching the currency fondly. He smelled it before tucking it away in his shirt. The boy filled a pail with water and found Donala an apple before they parted ways.
Doyle led them to where the steam-powered paddle ferries were docked beside a sea-soaked wharf. Glint’s church was its largest structure, built tall from clay and timber. It perched on the farthermost hill, overlooking the ferries and the miners who rode them to and from their coal and copper mines. The priest guided Marnie to the back of the building. A modest mud brick parsonage nestled there.
“Dear God,” she whispered. A hand went instinctively to the star marking above her heart. The parsonage was war-torn, its windows boarded, the wood dotted in scorch marks. Under her feet, she found patches of red grass. She shut her eyes and tried not to think about the stains.
When her lashes fluttered open, Doyle was staring at her expectantly.
“Hmm? Oh!” It was her time to act. Fear tried to tie her up in an icy grip, but she was ready for it. She swallowed it down and tried the door handle.
It was locked and cold to the touch, even in the heat. She smelled the magic on it, acidic like orange rinds and something chemical.
She pushed on the door. It didn’t move. “Ha. Worth a try, right?”
Doyle offered his hands, his expression somber. Marnie took a few short breaths followed by a few longer ones: in through her nose, out through her mouth. Then she reached out and held the priest’s hands. She closed her eyes and scrunched her face up, concentrating hard.
Moments later, she cracked one eye open, hoping to see new surroundings.
They hadn’t transported, not even an inch.
“If this doesn’t work . . .” Marnie said.
“You will figure it out.” He smiled warmly. “You’re trying too hard, is all.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing, is the problem.” She didn’t want to disappoint him.
“That’s okay. Most of the time, I don’t know how I breathe either. I just do it. God made me that way.” The priest closed his eyes again, so Marnie followed suit.
She thought about breathing, felt the air filling her lungs, felt it leaving steadily through her nose. Wind slapped hair into her face, and she thought on that for a time. She thought about how she didn’t always know how she breathed either, but that if she wanted to, she didn’t have to. She held her breath until it was uncomfortable. When she breathed next, she smelled the magic on it. Her eyes snapped open. She leaned forward and blew hard, blowing organic magic over the door. She recited a quick thank you prayer to Sidra, touching the spirit rune just under her collarbone in salute.
The wind died around her. The doorway vanished. As fast as a blink, she was no longer outside.
She would have cheered if the sight before her wasn’t so pitiful. The sitting room in the parsonage was a bleaker sight than its extremities. A strange red substance dotted the walls and the ripped furniture, a substance she suspected was blood. More blood spattered the ceiling. A lamp was turned over on the floor. Scattered black ash blanketed the fireplace.
“Doyle?” she said in alarm because, although she had managed to get herself through the wards, the priest was still very much outside.
And so was his knapsack full of spell ingredients.
And something moved behind her.
Gut-tightening, finger-tingling fear froze her in place. She knew that eventually she would have to turn around and confront it and try hard not to die horribly, but Marnie’s legs wouldn’t obey her. She prayed to Sidra for courage and protection, and if it came down to it, a quick end.
Sidra answered her, she thought, because finally she was able to peer over her shoulder.
Nothing was there.
The inked star on her chest warmed and she felt a nudge in her mind, a gentle suggestion. Marnie did not have much instinct for spellcasting, but she could manage the suggested spell. With a drop of her own magic and a whispered prayer to Tortua, the animal spirit who favored fire and food, the outline of a fox emerged in the ash on the stone floor by the fireplace. Blue fire erupted in the gas lamp that was turned on its side. It let her see farther into the parsonage to where the kitchen was ravaged. Marnie squealed, proud of herself for casting a spell with no unpleasant side effects. Cupboard doors and torn hinges lay in a heap on the floor. The table was broken in two.
“Marnie!” Doyle’s muffled voice shouted through the door, followed by thumping. The priest’s feet cast a shadow where sunlight peeked through cracks in the wood. “Marnie, come back!” The knob jiggled, and the door wrenched.
A cracked mirror hung over the mantle, visible now in the lamplight. Faceless appeared inside it, wiping ash off the glass with its long black hair. “Get out of here, witch,” it whispered.
She clenched her fists. “Not without the girl.”
“It will kill you. This demon is a nasty one. It will chew of
f your skin and use your hair to floss its teeth.”
“Ha. Like you care.”
“If it kills you,” Faceless hissed, “I’ll never get to live under your skin. Take me out of your boot and wedge the blade into the door. I’ll open it and—”
More movement in the kitchen. Faceless vanished from the mirror.
Coward.
Something fell behind her. She spun to confront it. A wooden plate clattered to the floor. A strange clicking noise was coming from the kitchen. Even with the lamp fire, the room was cast mostly in shadow. Reluctantly, she removed the silver knife from her shoe. She kept it close, in her palm, but would not go for the door. No matter how tempting its offer, help from a demon was never worth what it would inevitably cost her. Carefully, she planted one foot in front of the other until she was in the kitchen near the wood burning stove, beside a cabinet full of broken glass and missing doors.
Click, click. Right by her ear.
The girl sat perched on a broken cupboard, her knobby knees held to her chest, cast in darkness. Her body was so small, she couldn’t have been more than ten years old. She was grinding dark nails together, click, click.
“Addie?”
“You’ve come to kill me, witch?” she said in a voice that was high-pitched and other-worldly.
Marnie smelled the rot on her breath and cringed. When she stepped away, the girl leaned forward into the light. Her eyes were unnaturally large and glassy, protruding slightly from her face. The girl smiled, showing sharp teeth and a snake-like tongue that darted in and out between them.
This little girl was no demon hostage.
She was possessed.
“Spirits have no power here,” the demon said. “Leave now and I won’t eat you.” It chomped at the air.
