by Lee Roland
The snake man grinned. “I’m selling him now. Five hundred.” The lizard burrowed even further under my collar. The snake man’s grin widened. He knew he had a sale.
I stared at him and realized I was prepared to take the lizard by any means. And I could. This brute was out of shape and had a gut bigger than Harry’s. I could take him. But in spite of my imprisonment and training, I was not a thief. I pulled out my wallet, opened it, and grabbed my four remaining bills. I showed him the empty wallet. “Eighty. It’s all I have.”
“Okay. Eighty. And you stay and keep me company for a while.”
I tossed the bills in the snake cage. “Eighty and I don’t tell anyone about the illegals in the back room.” I didn’t specify what I meant by illegals, but I gambled that this man had something he wanted to keep hidden. I’d gamble that every place along River Street had illegals of some sort in the back room.
“You don’t know about . . .” He stopped. I’d won the bet. He leaned forward. To attack? He sneered. “Get out of here.”
I left.
As soon as we were outside, the lizard’s head came out from under the collar of my jacket and he started chattering. Talking. His mouth formed sounds, repeated hisses and clicks that could only be a language. My mother’s raven couldn’t form words, but he did communicate with her.
“Hey, I know it was rough.” I spoke when it fell silent. “But you better stay out of traps.”
The lizard crawled down my arm headfirst. It stopped at my elbow and stared up at me. The greenish skin had small white spots on it like a collar, and the odd hard ridges down its spine were like nothing I’d seen before. I’d never studied lizards except in biology and couldn’t call myself an expert, though. But again, this was the Barrows, the essence of weird.
“Okay, Spot. I’ll try to take care of you until we find out where you belong.”
Spot chirped once. He climbed back up to my shoulder.
“Don’t shit on me, buddy. Or I’ll take you back to the snake.”
A few people stared at me as I walked along, but I couldn’t tell what interested them—the scar or the odd-looking lizard hanging around my neck like a scarf. I didn’t care. My father taught me that there were more strange things in the world than I knew, so I shouldn’t be surprised when something presented itself. I accepted the lizard—the miniature dragon—as part of the natural world.
Per Riggs’s instruction, I went to the back door of the Den. There were fading painted white stripes on the wide alley street where cars once parked. The ruins began not far from the Den. I could tell some of those crumbling buildings had once been storefronts. How many people had once called this area home before it disintegrated?
Spot chirped. He jumped off my shoulder. I thought he’d splat on the pavement, but he didn’t. To my amazement, the bony protrusions on his back suddenly flipped out to reveal wings. He glided to a place twenty feet away. He let loose with another barrage of sounds I assumed to be his way of talking. He ran toward the ruins, stopped, and stared back at me. He chirped again. He wanted me to follow him.
“Sorry, Spot. I have to go to work. You go on, and don’t get caught again.”
Spot watched me for a moment. Then the investment of my last eighty dollars rushed off into the ruins. Spot might be a familiar, but he was certainly an unusual one. Oh, well. Maybe I’d get enough tips to make up for the spent money so I could eat tomorrow. I hadn’t seen a soup kitchen, but one probably existed somewhere and would tide me over in the meantime.
Riggs met me inside the bar and introduced me to Kelly, the other bartender. Kelly pointed out my section of the bar. It even had a tape to divide our customers.
Kelly wore a silver top like mine. It draped differently over her much larger breasts. She had red hair, but unlike the redhead I’d seen earlier in the day, Kelly’s obviously came from a bottle. The three floor waitresses who came in exposed more skin. Their stretchy pants were cut below the navel, but then they had to work the crowd. When someone came to sit at the bar, I already had a sale.
Riggs gave me instructions on handling the money and my tips. The Goblin Den’s patrons drifted in around us and I was dismayed to realize that my killer would not likely be among them. They appeared to be upper-middle-class professionals. Not what you’d expect for a warehouse at the end of the road with a trashy name. They must’ve really liked the bar to come so far south from uptown. Thus far, I’d seen nothing spectacular to draw them here. Kelly informed me that the Den was once “smoking” hot. She ecstatically praised some bands I’d never heard of.
“Now we got this.” She flung her hand at the growing crowd. “They’re even going to change the name of the place to something soft and stupid.” Her contempt was such that she glanced over her shoulder to be sure I was the only one hearing her traitorous remarks.
While a few customers stared at my scar, none asked how I got it. Kelly warmed to me, especially when some of my customers made a point of going to her side. One glance said she felt sorry for me. I mixed my drinks correctly, smiled pleasantly, and collected my tips graciously. A couple of men with kind eyes tipped more than necessary. I didn’t need sympathy, but I could use the money.
At ten o’clock, Riggs told me to take a twenty-minute break. I grabbed my jacket with the knife and wallet tucked inside and went out the back door. Brilliant lamps illuminated the small parking lot like sunlight at noon. Cool night air drifted from the Sullen Bog, bringing the scent of growing vegetation. I walked to a more shadowed area, within the light but less glaring, and sat on a wooden box by the back wall of the Den. I let my body grow still and went into a state Sister Lillian called calm awareness. She said it was the closest thing she knew to true psychic ability for a nonwitch.
My heart rate slowed and my breath deepened. I observed. And I sensed I wasn’t alone. Something moved toward me in the darkness fifty feet away. A slow, stealthy creep of a shadow within a shadow. Then it came no closer. A faint scratching sound made me look up.
An abandoned building stood behind the small parking lot. Two stories with its roofline shadowed, but not completely dark. Something squatted there. Easily the size of a man, it had a head like a gargoyle and the body of a chimpanzee. Wings. It had wings. Its mouth gaped open as it bared its fangs. It was nothing of this world. It had to be a Drow.
I drew my knife. I had to get back inside.
Lights flashed in the alley as a car drove in, a fine midnight-colored vehicle with sleek lines. It parked on the edge of the light—directly under the thing on the roof.
The Drow unfurled its wings.
It leaned forward and focused on the man who exited the car—the blond man who had profoundly affected me that morning. My stomach tightened. The connection I felt to him earlier in the day soared through my mind. This could not happen. I could not let him be attacked. The connection grew so strong it was almost as if whatever happened to him would happen to me. I rose and drew my knife. Not much of a weapon against such horror.
I had no time to shout a warning. The creature plunged down.
I raced toward the angel.
He glanced up as I approached. I ignored him. Focus, focus on the enemy.
I leaped on the hood of his car and threw myself up, colliding with the Drow midair, knife first.
The bronze blade sank deep, and the Drow’s own momentum gutted it. Intractable gravity caught both of us and dragged us down. My body landed first. I managed to keep my head up, keep it from shattering, but the rest of me received a massive, breath-stealing hit.
The abhorrent thing landed beside me, its organs spewing from the gaping wound where my blade had eviscerated it. Dying, it had one last defense. It opened its mouth, hissed a breath of foul air, and sank those terrifying fangs into my shoulder.
I shrieked in mindless anguish as molten fire poured through me and gnawed its way into flesh and bone, boiling my blood. My body jerked with a spasm as a massive jolt of electricity, like a bolt of lightning, tore through i
t.
The creature’s body was dragged off me and I was in the angel’s arms.
My blood burned. The thing had a venomous bite. I struggled to move. The angel held me closer. I maintained my grip on my knife. A death grip. I’d laugh at the cliché if it didn’t fit so well.
“I’ll get help for you,” the angel said. His voice was soft.
I released the knife. Despite my misery, I wanted to touch him. With supreme effort, I raised a bloody, trembling hand. My fingers left a scarlet trail down his cheek, across that perfect face.
I don’t remember much after that, only bits and pieces. I rode in a car, lights flashed, and agony throbbed with every beat of my heart. My lungs kept sucking in air, but that air gave no relief. I suffocated.
We crossed that line again, the one separating the Barrows from the rest of the world. That, I could feel. Everything grew cold and numb. I passed beyond pain, closer to the realm of death.
“Can you help her?” the angel asked someone. Had we stopped? Had they taken me to a hospital? There would be no healing for me there. How could they treat venom from a creature that shouldn’t exist?
“I don’t know.” A woman’s voice. “Put her on the bed. I need to see how bad it is.”
I forced my eyes to focus. The woman stood over me. My senses barely functioned, but I recognized an earth witch. Her magic was as clear as my mother’s. It gave her a soft gold aura. I remembered Mother Evelyn’s words. You now look and act like a Sister. A witch will not likely harm you, but neither will one provide you with aid, should you need it. You must depend only upon yourself.
But this witch could not help me, even if she desired to do so. The one secret I kept from the Sisters at Justice was the one that threatened my life now: While I can feel it, I am completely immune to the effects of earth magic. I couldn’t be harmed by it, but I couldn’t be healed by it either.
I could feel her undressing me with less-than-gentle hands.
“Let me help,” the angel said.
I didn’t want him to see me like that. I tried to speak, to say no, but it came out as a moan.
The witch hissed. They’d stripped off my pants. She’d turned my body and seen the tattoos, the art that marked me as a Sister of Justice and possible enemy of any witch. “What is it?” the angel asked.
“Nothing. Take that thing from around her neck,” the witch demanded. She referred to Sister Eunice’s amulet, her last gift to me.
They’d covered me with a blanket and I tried to draw it closer. Lying on my side now, I could see my fingers. I couldn’t feel them.
The angel came close, kneeling beside the bed. I realized that I was probably in shock.
The witch touched me, murmuring softly. I grew colder. I knew her efforts were hopeless.
“I can’t help her,” the witch said. “For some reason, I can’t reach her.”
“No!” My angel sounded like he cared.
I would have smiled, but the paralysis from the Drow’s venom was almost complete.
A voice filled my mind, filled the room, filled the whole world. I could feel magic and power in its words.
“Use the scar.”
The witch rolled me over and slapped her hand against my cheek. My body convulsed.
“Hold her,” she said.
The angel had me in his arms again. As he turned me on my side, I saw . . . her. She stood to the side of the room—a specter with an incredible aura of power. The Earth Mother had come to witness my passing back into her realm, into the cauldron of death and rebirth. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream in rage at her. I couldn’t express every filthy name I’d called her over the years. While I understood she would not intervene with most of humanity, I’d never understood why she wouldn’t save my mother, one of hers, a witch who loved her. She let my mother die a horrifying death and did not help her. Now she had come to torment me in my last minutes.
I could hate. I poured every bit of my remaining life into that hatred.
“Peace, daughter.”
Gentle words came into my mind, drifting like a thin cloud of smoke.
I refused to let the hatred waver.
“I understand. I watch you. Know that I am proud of your courage.”
As her ghostly figure faded, so did my consciousness.
Chapter 7
June 21
I woke in a room, warm and comfortable, something I hadn’t done since the morning before my parents’ murder. I lay quiet, unmoving, a bit bewildered, allowing sound to seep in. Birdsong came and street traffic hissed and hummed at a distance. For now, little would disturb this place of peace. I opened my eyes and saw the half-open window, a window covered with white lace curtains. Memory of the night before spun through my mind and gradually subsided.
I slowly sat up. The covers fell away from my naked body. My shoulder? I rubbed my fingers across it. Sore, but not bad. Scars? Nothing disfiguring, like on my face. The thing’s teeth had poked four-inch-deep holes in my shoulder. Whitish marks remained, but those would probably fade. The witch had done a good job of healing me, but only with the intervention of the Earth Mother. A surprise, really, given the vile, hateful thoughts I’d sent her way. I couldn’t figure out why she was proud of me either.
The chair beside the bed held folded clothes—jeans and a T-shirt. Sister Eunice’s amulet lay there, too. No sign of my knife, wallet, or jacket. I slid my legs over the side of the bed and pulled the pants on as far as they would go. I tried to stand—and plopped back down. I had seriously miscalculated my strength. My legs tingled. The bed had a cast-iron headboard. I drew a deep breath, grabbed it, and hoisted myself up. And sat back down again. I put on the shirt while I rested. The tingling in my legs lessened, but they began to itch. They were not ready for serious action.
Last night I’d saved the angel from one of the Drows. I’d been a hero. And then he’d helped the witch undress me. Humiliation, ugh. Yes, I knew he wasn’t really an angel—and he kept close company with an earth witch who obviously disliked the Sisters.
I tried to stand again. Better. I seemed to be standing on tiny needles, but the room stayed right-side up. I didn’t know what had happened to my shoes, but I slid the amulet over my neck and tucked it under my shirt.
I could hear the faint sound of voices through the open bedroom door. Holding on to the wall, I headed in that direction. As I came closer . . .
“What does Mom say?” A woman’s voice.
“We are not to interfere.” Ah, the witch. Dismay filled her voice.
I entered the kitchen, clinging to the wall as I did.
The fragrance that filled the air smelled of lavender and citrus, and strangely enough, home. Like my mother’s kitchen.
The pregnant redhead I’d seen with the angel yesterday sat at a round table covered with a homey red-checkered cloth. The witch sat by her. The redhead was still pregnant, still smiling. She turned that smile on me. She had tiny freckles across her nose and happiness in her eyes.
The witch did not smile. She watched me with relentless and unfriendly eyes. She was a woman with silver hair and the ageless face some powerful witches attain after many years of service. I’d met a couple of those as a child. As I started to mature, Mother kept me away, not wanting them to ask about me and magic. She didn’t like to admit her daughter had no power at all.
“Good morning,” the witch said. Her voice carried a note of caution. “Sit and let me make you some tea and food. They’ll help you regain strength.” She rose. “My name is Abigail.”
The healing this witch had performed on me required that she give me a part of herself, her own life. My mother had taught me the polite—and cautious—greeting. “Honor to you, Abigail. Innana’s Daughter, I thank you for your gift.”
Abigail smiled, but it carried irony, not warmth. “Well, at least you have manners. This is Cassandra.” She nodded at the redhead.
I wobbled to the chair and slowly lowered myself.
Cassandra chuckled. “O
h, Abby, she reminds me of the good old days. Burns, broken bones, monster bites. I don’t know how I live without it.” And to me, “What’s your name?”
“Madeline.”
“Well, Madeline, are you my replacement? The new Huntress?”
“No!” Abigail spit the word out. “She cannot be.” She shook her head and turned back to the stove.
Cassandra frowned. “Oh, shit. The Mother is at it again. She’s got some secret scheme, manipulating and— Fuck it. I hate it when she does this.”
“Don’t curse, Cassandra. Your babies can hear it.” Abigail came back to the table with a steaming cup she placed in front of me. It smelled awful, but I knew it would help.
Cassandra sighed. “Take your medicine, Madeline, and she’ll let you have some coffee.”
Abigail stared at the tablecloth, then lifted her eyes to me. She was obviously distressed. “Will you tell us why you are here?”
Did she think I was a Sister, sent to kill a witch? “I need to find someone.”
“Very well.” Her voice tightened. “I did not refuse to help you last night, Madeline. But once you leave here, I’ll ask that you not return.”
“Abby?” Cassandra sounded shocked. “What’s going on?”
Abigail’s face turned bleak as winter in upstate New York. “She belongs to the Sisters of Justice. Assassins. Killers.”
“Executioners.” I stupidly allowed the word to pop out of my mouth before I thought.
Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. “Now is the time you explain, Abby.”
Cassandra’s curls moved and a small red and black snake appeared. It slid down her arm to the table and coiled in her hand. I heard a growl. I glanced down. A brown and black ferret sat by my foot. Its lips drew back to reveal teeth that might belong to a badger.
Cassandra wasn’t a witch. But she had familiars. Huntress, she had called herself. I’d have to figure out what that meant later.
Abigail told Cassandra essentially the same story Mother Evelyn had told me. Cassandra listened without interrupting. Then she said, “So, what’s your problem, Abby? You don’t think witches who work black magic should be taken out? Or does it upset you that your precious Earth Mother has a dark side? That she employs killers as well as witches?”
