Mist, Murder & Magic

by Dionnara Dawson

  It was a small confirmation, but Hella felt her chest settle, her racing heart slowed. It was good to know that much, at least. ‘How do we find his soul? What would it even look like?’ Hella asked. She didn’t expect a lot of help coming from him, but it was worth a try.

  Malachai glanced around, his eyes roaming the skies. ‘I’ll bet your warlock doesn’t even want it back, do you, little demon?’

  ‘He’s not a demon,’ Hella snapped at his age-old prejudice.

  ‘Oh, he’s about the same now,’ Malachai said, completely serious. ‘Aren’t you, warlock? You have demon blood in your veins, am I wrong?’

  Harrow frowned, folding his arms over his chest. ‘Well, yes but—’

  ‘And now that you’re without a soul, you really don’t mind hurting people, do you?’ The angel pressed.

  Hella thought of Harrow attacking her, Tessa and the others. Amara. The dead guard. Even Dimitri. She cast her eyes on the bloody grass.

  ‘What’s your point?’ the warlock asked.

  ‘Well, just that I think it’s amusing that you’re here, with me, after we both fought in a battle where you thought you were the good guys—and now we can both be bad guys and celebrate together.’

  At that, Hella’s head snapped up. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, I know you’re not “really” here, but if you were, warlock, we could drink until we die in celebration of your soullessness. It’s a wonderful achievement, really.’ Malachai drawled.

  Hella shook her head. This was not helping. ‘Malachai, how do we get his soul back?’

  ‘My point remains, witch. Who says he wants it back?’ Malachai said.

  ‘It’s what’s going to get me out of the Imperium Ceremony, where they cut my magic out of me,’ Harrow pointed out, though Hella felt as if he’d still dodged the question.

  ‘I’m sure you could escape your justice, nonetheless. Wouldn’t it be much more fun that way?’

  Hella wasn’t sure why Malachai was goading Harrow, but it frustrated her. Of course he wanted it back. Then a thought slammed her. He was violently escaping when she arrived. He killed the guard. He hadn’t even tried to ask about getting his soul back. She turned on Harrow.

  He gave a shrug, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. ‘We’ll never find it, Hella. Maybe I don’t need it. You’ll just have to let me go so they won’t put me on trial. After everything, I think you could do that for me.’

  Hella would have taken Harrow’s arm and dragged him away from Malachai—but she couldn’t—so she glared at the bleeding angel and jerked her head away for Harrow to follow her. He sighed but complied.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We didn’t come here for you to give up!’ Hella snapped.

  ‘Hella, what’s the point?’ Harrow said.

  As if to emphasise, Tommy’s voiced echoed down to them. Guys, it’s almost 5pm. You now have 24 hours until Harrow’s official trial. You’d best hurry.

  Harrow looked skyward, as if Tommy would be there, and pointed with a tired shrug. ‘See? We’re just about out of time, and we have absolutely no clue what to do down here. What does it matter if I have no soul?’ His eyes glazed over: they were slit-blue, but a dark cloud of black seemed to creep in. ‘I’ve had some pretty soulless years already, Hella.’ He seemed to be thinking about his past. ‘At least I’m alive.’ That was the closest he’d ever come to acknowledging what Hella had done might not have been a bad thing after all. The closest he had come to thanking her. ‘I’ll leave Mill Valley. I’ll take care of myself.’ He insisted. ‘I’m used to that, at least.’

  Hella couldn’t stop herself. She reached out to grab his arm, to stop him from turning away from her like this. Her fingers connected with Harrow’s wrist. She was holding onto his arm. She was touching him. ‘Woah,’ she said. His eyes were wide too.

  ‘I thought we couldn’t—’ Harrow started.

  ‘I didn’t think we could—’

  ‘But you’re—’

  They had both frozen in place.

  ‘I know,’ Hella breathed. Somehow, they had astral-connected.

  Maybe, just maybe, Hella thought, this changed everything. If she could touch Harrow, she could use his blood to scry for his soul. She wasn’t exactly sure how it would work, but it was a good start. Now it was possible.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Harrow

  ‘Holy shit,’ Harrow said. He didn’t dare move in case he broke the connection. ‘What does this mean?’ Harrow had never had a lot of contact with witches. They were human, and usually had much lesser powers than warlocks. Sure, they could conjure stuff, but they do their dumb full-moon rituals and keep out of the way. It wasn’t until Harrow had met Hella when that all went out the window. The things she could do—however terrifying at times, and painful—really were extraordinary.

  ‘It means,’ Hella said slowly. ‘That maybe I can do that scrying spell after all.’

  ‘How?’ He didn’t totally understand how this astralling stuff worked. Hella seemed to be making it up as she went. That didn’t boost his confidence. This girl just seemed to shoot out unprecedented magic without ever meaning to. It was a good thing she had a soul, he thought. Not that that had stopped her from sending a freaking lightning-bolt of magic down on him, mind you.

  ‘I’m going to need your blood. I hope this works.’ Hella broke the connection of their clasped hands with a shower of purple sparks. She jogged over to the blacksmith’s workshop and tried to grab a blade, but her fingers passed right through it. Damn. She looked over at him, disappointed, and jogged back. ‘I don’t understand,’ Hella said, annoyed.

  ‘Why don’t you try the athame on your belt?’ Harrow suggested dryly. He almost smiled that she hadn’t thought of it before, though he wasn’t sure why he was trying to help. They would never find his damn soul anyway.

  ‘Oh.’ Hella clapped a hand to her forehead—which went startlingly—through her head. ‘I forgot about that.’ But it was no use. Again, she couldn’t grip it. Hella swore loudly. Harrow smiled at her use of language, proud that he had corrupted her as such. He was making good progress on teaching Net similar words.

  ‘Maybe it’s only you and I that can touch, since we’ve astralled together.’ Harrow didn’t really know anything about witch-magic, but it seemed as good a guess as any.

  ‘Maybe. Can you shimmer?’

  He hadn’t tried. He shimmered, scales, claws, tail and all. ‘Great. How does this help?’

  ‘Because if I can’t hold anything to cut you with...’

  ‘I have to cut myself,’ he finished for her. ‘And how better than with my claws? Don’t you need a map and a crystal, too?’ Harrow said, remembering Remy’s scrying.

  ‘Normally, yes, but that’s never going to work for this. Valhalla isn’t on any map, and my chances of finding a crystal—and being able to hold it anyway—’ She shook her head. ‘We’ll have to make do with this. It’s all we’ve got right now. And, apparently time moves differently here. I can’t believe we’ve already been here for eight hours. It feels like ten minutes.’

  ‘Time is weird here,’ Harrow agreed. If they were going to do this, he supposed they ought to try. Harrow held a sharp claw over his wrist, prepared to cut, then paused. ‘I don’t even know if I can touch me in astral form.’

  ‘Just try. We’re running out of time,’ Hella said.

  ‘How much do you need?’ he asked, wondering if he could bleed to death in astral form. He wondered if it was like dying in a dream.

  ‘The more, the better.’

  Harrow frowned. Why did he have to bleed to please her? To fix a problem that she created? He ran his claw over his bare wrist, clamping his teeth together. Hella stood right in front of him. If they were real, he thought he would be able to smell the strawberry shampoo she liked to use. She held one hand palm up under his wrist, letting his dark-blue blood flow over her open palm, the other was at the amethyst
amulet around her neck. Her eyes were closed. She seemed to be concentrating. For a moment, nothing happened.

  Typical, Harrow thought angrily. His blood flowed steadily over her hand until her skin was coated with it.

  Tommy’s voice called to them. Harrow, you’re bleeding. Are you okay?

  They had no way to answer, until Harrow thought of something. With one clawed finger, he scratched out am ok in his forearm. Hella’s eyes were still closed. Harrow could hear Tommy’s confusion and concern.

  Oh. Okay, Tommy answered hesitantly. He could feel Tommy’s hand on his shoulder.

  Harrow was about to sigh and pull his stinging wrist back from Hella, when something started to happen. A soft purple glow throbbed in the depths of his wrist, beneath the blood. It ached. Then the purple spread like fire through his blood, down to Hella. It licked her hand that had bathed in his blood, then began to pulse like a beacon, dull then bright.

  ‘Woah,’ Harrow murmured.

  Hella opened her eyes, which then widened at the amount of blood she had used. ‘Oh, Harrow. At least it’s working.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Yes. We use you—your blood—to lead us to it. Have you ever played “hot and cold”?’

  ‘No, what’s that?’ Harrow frowned. He had cut a little deeper than he’d meant to and thought for a moment that he might’ve hit a vein. There was a lot of blood, and even in astral-form it hurt.

  Hella grasped his arm—thankfully around the wound, not in it—and pulled him this way and that, staring at the purple glow running through his blood. It was more dull than bright. ‘When it lights up brightly,’ she said, ‘we’re close.’

  ‘It’s dull,’ he said, frowning again.

  ‘We’re not close.’

  They moved slowly around the edge of the field, then resigned themselves to padding out in it amongst the fighters.

  ‘Do you really think this will work?’ Harrow asked, trying not to focus on his wound. He didn’t know why he cared. Malachai was right, he should’ve just escaped. Ew, he thought, I agreed with an angel.

  ‘I think it will,’ Hella said, excitedly. She glanced up at him, her green eyes sad for a moment. ‘I am sorry,’ she said, her voice low as if she thought it might break.

  He couldn’t feel sympathy for her. He tried, but it wasn’t there. It was wherever his damn soul was. Harrow was drawn to her, that much he knew. He felt strongly about Hella, but that wasn’t enough to make him forgive her. In his mind, he knew he’d done bad things (worse than, say, stabbing a human with a broken bottle—hey, the human had started it), but he didn’t exactly feel bad about them. In a way, he was proud of the things he’d done. He couldn’t look at Hella, though. Instead, his gaze fell to their hands, clasped together in his blood. The purple pulse quickened but was duller than before. A groan escaped his lips as a fresh torrent of blue blood trickled from his wound.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Hella asked.

  Harrow felt Tommy’s hand grip his shoulder worriedly.

  ‘Oh, I’m just fantastic,’ Harrow snapped. ‘I thought you said this would work. It’s even less bright here.’ Even though the chances of bumping into the warriors were slim, they avoided all the soldiers battling on the field, which was tricky—it was hard enough climbing up and down these stupid little hills, keeping hold of Hella so as not to break the spell. Avoiding the hundreds of thousands of soldiers, sure, why not? Anger brewed within him. ‘Why would I not be okay? I’m stuck in some soldier-forsaken land, bleeding everywhere, looking for my fucking soul because you dragged me here and you can’t even find it.’ Hurt flashed in her eyes. Good, he thought.

  Hella paused in the middle of a small, flat expanse. Harrow watched as a solider delivered a fatal blow to his opponent, who crumpled to the ground in a shower of red blood. His armour clattered as he hit the ground. Hella was looking at their entwined hands. ‘I don’t think it’s around here,’ she said, her voice weak. As if she were going to cry.

  Oh, for star’s sake, he thought. They spent a while wandering through the field, from patch to patch, and then it started to all mingle together. They kept the great hall on their right, though, so they never got lost, but the Unending Field was fucking true to its name. ‘Okay, this is going to take forever,’ Harrow said. ‘Can’t you do something else?’

  ‘You’re the one who wanted me to do this,’ Hella pointed out.

  ‘I thought you would do it better.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry.’ Her voice rose to a shriek on the last word. She gripped his arm tighter and he winced. ‘I’m really sorry I am such a disappointment, Harrow. Would you like to give up and go home? Face the music? Tommy says he’s seen a warlock have his magic cut out, that it was awful. That it should be illegal.’ She was shouting, her nails digging into his open wrist. ‘But if you would like to just give up and never have your soul again, then let’s go. But I’m telling you now, you won’t be escaping or getting out of your trial. I don’t want that ceremony to happen to you, but if you’re willing to give up, then I can have us back in your cell in a matter of seconds.’ Hella pulled closer, so that her face was a breath away. ‘Is that what you want, or would you like to try for a little bit longer, so that we can save your life, your soul, and have you set free?’

  ‘You have really sharp nails,’ Harrow said through gritted teeth, trying to pry her own claws out of his open wound. ‘Do you mind?’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Azazel

  It doesn’t matter how smart humans think they are, Azazel mused, they fall for the same tricks every time. Humans even seemed to consider themselves superstitious. They had that natural instinct to shy away from dark corners or strangers, and yet he had never had trouble finding prey. Azazel licked his bloody fingers.

  The couple in the park had been a nice entrée, but now it was time for the main course. He could summon his kin, but he was selfishly having far too much fun to share in the spoils—at least for the moment. As he buttoned his jacket, hiding the blood splatters, sirens began wailing nearby. Soon Azazel saw bright flashes of red-blue, and police cars came hurtling down the street toward the park. Someone must have heard the screams.

  The park would be closed for the rest of the night, and in a matter of hours—in this 24-hour news cycle decade—all Londoners would avoid the area like the plague. For at least a day or two, that is. Londoners couldn’t forever avoid any place where people have been murdered. They’d never be able to go anywhere.

  Azazel let out a happy-growl that, in a cat, would have been something like a purr. He felt warm and fuzzy, the light meal rolling around his stomach. As he walked away from the park, he saw people gather at what was about to be labelled a crime scene. Nosy people walking by or hurrying over from neighbouring streets to see what all the sirens and flashing lights were about. Azazel smiled proudly, then turned his back as the human police officers started shooing the onlookers away and putting up yellow crime scene tape.

  Little did they know, the bloodshed of the night was just getting started.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Hella

  Hella loosened her grip on Harrow, her conviction fading. She had wanted to snap some sense into him, and maybe a little patience. Looking for a disembodied soul in another world wasn’t something she had covered in high school or her minimal witch training; if she had to guess, she would bet that no one had ever done this before. And he was whining that he thought the spell would work better.

  She was impatient with him. She missed the old Harrow. Didn’t he realise that this was the way to get him back? A sudden flush of heat rolled over her. For an embarrassing moment, she thought it was a stroke of lust for Harrow, then she realised he was being stupid, and she wasn’t attracted to that, at least. She released his arm as he winced—she’d hurt his wound more than she’d meant to—potentially breaking the spell, but she couldn’t help it. There was something, a staccato in her chest, that made her feel weak.


  ‘Hella?’ Harrow asked, more out of curiosity than concern, she could tell. Then the same look she suspected drew her features together, mirrored on Harrow. ‘Something feels weird,’ he said, voicing her thoughts.

  She nodded. ‘It does. I feel…warm. Like I’ve just run a marathon.’ She remembered a particularly gruelling day in PE when they had run around the oval until Hella nearly threw up. The teacher was a sub with no idea what else to make them do. Idiot. But she felt the same way now, almost ready to puke—though, in astral form, could she?—and she felt feverish. ‘This can’t be good. I wish we could ask the others what’s happening,’ Hella said, a hand on her side where a stitch was forming. Hella remembered last time her astralling power had over-boiled; her body had been on fire, and the others couldn’t help her. Harrow’s cell must be aflame too.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Harrow said.

  ‘It’s a side effect. Maybe of the spell, I don’t know.’

  ‘Could you be burning out? I thought that’s why we’re connected to Piper and Tommy.’ Harrow was breathing hard, too. If he could blush or look feverish, he would.

  ‘It is,’ Hella said, having trouble getting the words out. ‘But I don’t know.’ She doubled over, a flash of purple fire licked over her hair and up her blood-stained arms. ‘Something’s wrong. We have to hurry.’

  Tommy’s voice called down to them. Hella, Harrow, you’re both running a fever. Whatever you’re doing, hurry.

  Hella looked up at Harrow, worried. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ She hated to admit it, but there it was. She had caused this mess, brought them here, and fell short at the last hurdle.

  ‘I wish things were as simple as when I was thirteen,’ Harrow said suddenly.

  ‘What happened when you were thirteen?’ It was getting hard to talk. A fog had formed in her mind, blurring out her thoughts.

  ‘That’s when I left home,’ he said. He didn’t talk about his past much, but even soulless Harrow seemed sheepish about sharing. Exhaustion gripped them, and they both sank to the ground, unable to stand any longer. Harrow sat with his knees up, his head between his legs, breathing hard. ‘My mother was passed out, and I honestly don’t know where my father was. I hated them, so I finally walked out.’ His voice was low, and he wasn’t looking at her. ‘I’d been living on the streets for a few weeks, man it was cold, behind a bar.’