The Saint and the Sorcerer

by J. C. Hanna

  Branna began to walk along a wide trail. Amy followed her.

  “I’m not even kidding,” Amy added. “The first vamp I come across and I’m turning tail, heading for the magic door back there, and booking a flight back to New York.”

  As she stopped to say the words, she looked back to where they had entered. At the top of the slope, a man in white robes stood statue-like. He was staring off into the distance.

  “What’s with tall and creepy?” Amy asked.

  “He is the guardian of the gateway. He keeps humanity out. That is how I know that there is something very special about you. A quality that is not fully human. If it were not so, he would have cut you down as soon as you set foot on this soil.”

  “And you were so certain of that? The whole, me not being quite human, thing?”

  “I was not. But I am now.”

  Amy hit her with a look of utter disbelief.

  “Thanks for risking my life, again,” Amy said. “But so that we are crystal clear. One vamp, and I’m out of here.”

  “The only demon in the town has been locked away for hundreds of years. He will not escape. I check on him every day.”

  Amy grinned.

  “Every day, you say,” said Amy. “Sounds like someone might be a little too obsessive with their prison guard duties. You got a thing for bad boys?”

  Branna frowned at Amy. Amy casually moved towards Branna. The witch had been lured unwittingly into a place of great danger by the straight-talking New Yorker. She began with friendliness, and then she quickly reached for deep menace.

  “Now that we are besties, Branna, and we can talk about boys and swap clothes, and wot not. You can even have a go at braiding my hair, if that’s what floats your boat. But before we do…” The feigned friendly giving way to the threatening. “Tell me clearly why you killed my friend. Tell me what you did with her body. And, oh… With an army of bloodthirsty killers closing in on you, how in the hell did you walk away without a scratch?”

  Chapter Thirty-nine: Amy’s Death—Part Two

  Amy and Branna were rooted to the spot and locked in a hard stare. The witch was still smarting from the sudden verbal ambush. Her attacker intended that she would not go one step further until she had answers to her questions.

  “There is no answer that I can offer to you that will bring you any comfort,” Branna said, with simmering malice. “Your friend is dead. She had to die. I am sorry for that, but there was nothing else to be done.”

  Amy broke the gaze. She paced for a moment before silently pushing on with her quest for a satisfactory explanation. The gaze fixed again.

  “Very well,” Branna conceded. “You have been warned. I struck her with the hilt of my sword. She was rendered instantly senseless. As I have already explained, I spent much of the day drawing on my magical life force just to keep you safe. Concealment spells and battling with the demonic army takes its toll. All of it done without you knowing. That was my gift to you, in honour of the promise that I made.”

  “So, it was my fault? If I hadn’t wanted to see my family and friends one last time, Trisha would still be alive?”

  “No. That is not what I am saying. I made the decision. Not you. I took the risk. The price for that choice was that I was left in a weakened state by the time night fell, and the demon hoard closed in. When you stumbled, I concealed you with what remained of my power. I drew blood from Trisha.”

  Amy signed the timeout signal. Branna looked on, perplexed.

  “You drew blood? In what way, did you, draw blood? What does that mean?”

  “With you successfully hidden from the demons, I cut into her arm. A shallow wound. But it was enough. They could smell her tainted blood. I lifted her, and then I fled. I carried her for miles. The vampires were never far behind.”

  Branna paused.

  “And?” Amy demanded.

  “Exhausted, and unable to run any further, I stopped. I brought her to the large park. I set her onto the ground, under the cover of some bushes. I smeared some of her blood on my clothes. And then I fled.”

  “You smeared her blood on your clothes? You wanted them to follow you? Did it work? Did they leave Trisha alone and follow you?”

  “And so we get to the heart of the matter. The part of the story that you will not like.”

  “Just spit it out. It can be no worse than what I currently think.”

  “The truth is; I don’t know if it worked. But it doesn’t matter. If they left her alone and followed me, then she has either died, or she will one day turn into a mindless killer. If they got to her and completed the transformation by having her drink their blood, she will have been turned into their murderous servant. Either way, your friend is dead. Or the living dead, which is much worse. That is what happened. Now, tell me… Do you feel any better?”

  “In as much as I now know the truth,” Amy said, calmly. “I do not like it, but I can understand it. And I can move on.”

  Amy wanted to ask her why she didn’t use her magic to hide Trisha and carry Amy to safety instead. She didn’t ask because she already knew the answer—that is what Branna should have done. It didn’t occur to the witch in that desperate moment, and it would stab at her conscience forever. Branna would suffer enough because of the choice that she made—Amy could not bring herself to add further to that suffering. They continued their journey.

  Branna and Amy walked for hours. For the greater part of that time, they remained silent. For a time, Amy felt ashamed. She had pushed Branna too far. She had caused her pain. Branna for her part was having similar thoughts—they also dripped with shame and guilt. As the silence continued, it somehow transformed into acceptance and understanding. Without a word spoken, they both resolved to heal the rift. Trisha, and what became of her, could not be made right; but it could be forgiven.

  After a time, Amy began to contemplate her surroundings once more. The beauty around her somehow pushed the grime and noise of New York out of her mind. It was a strange and disturbing sensation—just how quickly this new world replaced the world that she had just left behind. The longer that she drew in the pure air, the more New York seemed like the fairytale imposter. She searched desperately for a positive anchor to the city that wouldn’t seem ridiculous in presence of such wonder. None could be found.

  “You are a vamp,” Amy started. “If you could have protected Trisha, could she have come to this place? You know? Could she have lived? Even if that meant that she had to be locked away somewhere?”

  “I am a witch. The power that I draw on protects me from the demon inside me. Your friend would only have lived if she had been fully transformed. Without witchcraft, she will turn into a demon. She could live in this place, under this sun, but she would never live free. She would be too dangerous.”

  “Like your boy toy?” Amy mocked, to lighten the mood.

  “You know nothing of that,” snapped Branna.

  Amy came to a sudden stop. Branna halted in response. Amy, instantly regretting bringing up the topic of the mysterious prisoner, moved quickly to change the focus of the conversation.

  “And while we’re at it,” said Amy. “You are all about the magic. You popped in and out of my apartment, and you took us across an entire ocean in the blink of an eye.”

  “What of it?”

  “Why in the hell have we been walking all this time?”

  Branna smiled.

  “How else could you experience this beautiful land?” Branna asked.

  Amy frowned.

  They continued their trek. After a further hour of steady hiking, a large river came into view. On the other side of the river, the stone curtain walls of a castle-like structure followed the natural curves of the river’s course. A formidable palisade extended from the fortified walls, down to the water’s edge. The silvery grey stone reflected the strong sunlight with such prodigious intensity that Amy reckoned that is why she had not noticed at first the large town built onto the side of the deep blue mountain. Br
anna took Amy by the arm. The town, and lake, and mountain vanished. They were in a large room.

  “You are almost at the end of your journey,” Branna began. “And at the beginning of the greatest adventure you could ever imagine.”

  Amy turned around slowly and she looked up and down, taking in the entire space. White marble covered every surface; from the large black and white tiles in a diamond formation on the floor to the smooth walls that stretched to a high stone vaulted ceiling. Branna walked across the large room towards heavy, wooden, double doors, which were more than thirty feet high. The doors swung away from Branna with an ancient groan. As she stepped into the darkened chamber through the open doorway, shallow brass cauldrons sitting on top of head-high marble pillars sparked into life. The flickering yellow flames reflected off the walls, instantly flooding the cavernous room with a warm light. Amy followed Branna.

  In the floor, and stretching from one end of the room to the other, save space for a narrow walkway, there was a pool of water. John Dee and Rufus were standing on the surface of the water. Branna stepped onto the water. Dee stretched out a hand in invitation to Amy.

  Amy stepped onto the surface of the water, with great caution. The surface was solid. She looked down. The clear liquid under her feet began to swirl rapidly. As it moved, it changed colour many times. The colours mixed as they moved. With time, the movement slowed until images as clear and as real as the room in which she stood, began to form. She saw a young girl being chased by an angry mob through the streets of an old city. The scene changed to the moving image of a woman, in a forest clearing, tied to a stake, surrounded by kindling. Then there were knights on horseback riding across a great desert; with clouds of dust trailing in their wake. Then there was a city on an island—her city.

  The scene changed one last time before settling. She saw herself. She was walking towards Turtle Pond. It was a beautiful day, and she looked content. Amy turned to the others with alarm and confusion.

  “Why am I here?” she asked.

  Chapter Forty: A Royal Death

  Hampton Court Palace, 1583

  The demon’s bite was powerful. Its teeth slipped effortlessly into the soft flesh of the queen’s neck. The pain of the bite was excruciating. Elizabeth endured the ordeal with steely fortitude. She remained completely silent. She knew that if the young guards on the other side of the doors entered the chambers in response to a scream, that would have been an end to them—it was her unholy contract and she would face the consequences alone. As blood flowed freely from the freshly opened wound, the pain began to subside slowly. With the lessening pain, her life slowly began to ebb.

  In the final moments, her eyes moved to a small painting of her father that hung on the oak-panelled wall next to her bed. Henry was a young man in the painting. He was wearing black velvet and black leather. The wry smile on his lips and the impish twinkle in his eyes spoke of a man that loved fun and adored life. The young king in painting was a far cry from the bloodthirsty tyrant that he would one day become. It was that loving and kind king, husband, and father, that she turned to for comfort as her life neared its end—that man never truly existed for Elizabeth, yet it was always how she imagined him. She closed her eyes.

  The room suddenly filled with bright sunlight. The demon instantly released the queen and it fled to a corner of the room to escape the deadly rays. Elizabeth opened her eyes. As a twisted life-force, deep inside her, sparked and writhed towards a new life, her ability to control the focus of her eyes wavered. The dark figure standing in front of the orb of bright light was cast in a shadowy silhouette; but as the figure moved closer, she was struck by recognition.

  “John,” she began, weakly. “You must leave. You must let this happen. You do not understand.”

  Weakness settled into her legs, and she fell forwards. Dee caught her. The guards attended to the commotion by charging into the room.

  “I understand all too well, my Lady,” Dee said. “I cannot allow that foul thing to finish its damned work. If this be the moment that we part, then so be it.”

  “If you do not let it finish, John, then I shall surely die. Let it finish and I shall be reborn. I will be young again. Together we will build your mighty empire. It will be greater than anything that has gone before. Greater even than that of the Romans.”

  “Your death is a terrible price to pay, but the cost of the alternative is too high. I will not let it complete its scheme.”

  “Listen to your Queen,” snarled the cowering demon. “If she dies tonight then this kingdom will descend into chaos and death. Would you be the architect of an invasion? Let her live. Let her live better than she has ever lived before.”

  “Let her live under your control? I know your kind. I have studied your diabolical history. I will not let you have her!”

  The demon roared. It moved at speed towards the orb of light, which smashed into a blizzard of tiny shards, and was gone. The guards rushed into the room. The creature moved again. Faster than Dee’s eyes could track. In a deadly instant, the guards fell to the floor; blood spilled from the open wounds about their throats.

  Dee raised a hand and another orb of light materialised. The creature moved towards the orb with pain rippling across its gruesome face as it destroyed the ball of light. Another orb, then another, then another, burst into life about the room. The pain that the orbs of light caused to the fiend was overwhelming—it had to concede defeat. It moved at great speed out of the queen’s chambers. The doors, caught up in the wake of the disturbance of air generated by the demon as it fled, slammed shut. The rooms were overtaken by an absolute silence.

  Dee stroked the queen’s forehead as he held her in his arms.

  “Bess, what have you done?”

  “What needed to be done.”

  Dee smiled.

  “My Bess. Always right. Always so damned headstrong.”

  She smiled back at him. As Dee shifted his gaze from the queen for a moment, he was alerted to a presence in the room. A young woman walked towards him.

  “Who are you?” Dee asked, with mild alarm.

  “A friend,” Branna said.

  “A friend to whom?” asked Dee.

  “You, John. At least, I will be. I am here to help.”

  “I am afraid that you are too late. She is beyond help. We can but pray that God will have mercy on her soul. What’s left of it.”

  Branna’s face contorted into its vampire form. Instinctively Dee moved to shield the Queen. His eyes flitted from orb to orb. The light from the spheres did not trouble the young woman.

  “What are you?” hissed Dee.

  “Like I said; I am here to help. I was bitten by a vampire. One sired by the creature that bit your Queen. I am a witch. The magic of my ancestors allows me to control the demon that dwells inside me. I can help her.”

  “She is the Queen of England! She is not a witch!”

  “But her mother was a child of the craft.”

  “That’s not the same thing!”

  “John, you sent me here. You will send me here. What other choice do you have? Are you simply going to let her die? Are you going to let this world catch fire?”

  Dee pondered the options. Eventually, reluctantly, he turned the queen’s head towards Branna in a gesture of offering. Dee tenderly laid Elizabeth onto the bed. Branna bit into her own right wrist. She knelt beside Elizabeth. She offered her arm to the barely conscious queen. Fat droplets of dark red blood dripped onto the queen’s lips, and into her mouth.

  “What now?” asked Dee.

  “Now, we wait,” Branna replied.

  Chapter Forty-one: Rebirth

  Hampton Court Palace, 1583

  Dee and Branna sat in front of the ornately carved fireplace in Elizabeth’s reception chamber. Dee gazed absently at the double roses, the hinds, and the hounds, delicately teased out of the slabs of wood—the wooden forms danced with mock life under the dynamic firelight. The queen rested on her bed in the adjacent room. Dee was s
napped back into the moment by the sound of something smashing in the room where the queen had been sleeping. Branna moved first, and Dee quickly followed.

  Elizabeth was sitting in front of the large dressing table. A blue china, powder pot lay in pieces next to her feet. She stiffly dragged a silver-backed brush through her curly, auburn hair. Dee watched her for a moment from the doorway. The restoration of the youthful queen, the Bess that he had devoted his life to so freely all those years before, almost blinded him to the eternal damnation that lay behind the newly restored perfection. He continued into the room until he was standing next to Elizabeth.

  “I can still see my reflection in the glass, John. That pleases me. The demon did not have a reflection. Perhaps that aspect of my transformation takes time? Perhaps the young witch’s blood has spared me from utter damnation?”

  Branna appeared in reflection next to the queen.

  “Your transformation is complete,” Branna said. “You are like me. You have a reflection. You can control the evil inside you. You will control the evil that dwells in you. I give you my word.”

  Elizabeth flashed her an uncertain smile. She touched her face.

  “How am I going to explain my sudden, youthful appearance?” Elizabeth asked.

  “We will think of something, Bess,” Dee started. “It has become fashionable for ladies to shade their faces white. With the right constituents, a paste or clay may be formed that we can mould to give the appearance of age. Only your closest advisors ever view you at a near distance, and who amongst your most intimate counsellors would dare question your choice in fashion?”

  Elizabeth snorted, and then smiled.

  “The very moment that I have my youth restored, you would have me ripened, John?”

  “I would not have you burned as a witch, Majesty,” Dee said, in a reasoned tone.

  There was a pause.

  “And what of aging?” Elizabeth broke the silence. “No queen can live forever. There will come a time when questions will be asked. Why is good Queen Bess still alive? How has she continued so far beyond the three score years, and ten, allotted to her by the Almighty?”