Black, jointed feet poked beneath the door, shoving the rags aside. “Do you think they can get underneath?”
For all I know they can eat through the door. “I hope not,” Rigan answered, not wanting to panic his brother.
New sounds, this time on the porch roof above the back door, then a thump as something hard struck the high window facing the alley. Rigan sprinted across the room and slammed the wooden shutters closed.
“Is the glue ready?”
“Yeah. Now what?”
Rigan grabbed boards from against the wall. “Paint the boards with glue and tar. I’ll put them by each of the doors and windows.”
“What do we do with the insects, assuming they stick?”
“Burn them.”
“Where?” Kell challenged. “Are we just going to walk across to the trash pit with a board covered in monster bugs and throw it on the burn heap?”
“You have a better idea?”
“Yeah. Let’s burn them in the fireplace.” The large fireplace at the end of the room was rarely used. Heat and corpses did not mix well, and the brazier took enough of the chill off for the brothers to work comfortably without making the bodies rot faster. Kell ran to clear out the odds and ends stored in the fireplace and grabbed a few logs from the pile next to the upstairs hearth. Within minutes, he had a blaze started.
Scrabbling noises echoed from the rafters. Something was definitely moving on the roof. Chittering sounded on the other side of the door separating the workshop from the front of the store. Sharp feet scratched at the wooden door, and pulled away the rest of the rags under the door.
“What did you have in mind?” Rigan asked, licking his lips. “That brazier is too small to handle more than a few of those creatures at a time.”
“Bring up the big metal cauldron from the cellar and set in the fireplace,” Kell replied. “When enough of those things get stuck, we grab the planks and dump them into the cauldron.” It took both of them to lift the heavy cauldron from the cellar and get it into position.
“If they touch you, they can burrow under the skin,” Rigan warned. “And you know what happens after that,” he added with a glance toward the corpses.
Something hard banged against the door into the front room. “You spread more pitch onto boards,” Rigan said. “I’ve got an idea.”
Rigan headed toward the door and took a deep breath, trying to center himself.
Let’s see if my magic is worth anything.
He shivered at the sound of the insects on the other side of the door scrabbling across the wooden floor. How many are out there? Half a dozen? More? More than enough to kill us both.
Rigan forced down his fear and took a deep breath, trying to block out the sounds. He placed his palms on the door. I don’t dare use fire. Calling on the earth won’t help. I don’t want to drown us. Air, maybe?
“Rigan! Whatever you’re doing, you’d better hurry. They’re squeezing under the door.”
Rigan closed his eyes and pushed his power down into the ground to anchor himself. He breathed in deeply and gathered his magic, then thrust it out from him with his breath, envisioning his power moving through the door, sweeping away the insects on the other side.
High-pitched squeals and a rattling, tumbling sound suggested his attempt had been successful. “I think I bought us some time.”
Kell stared at him. “Did you just use magic?”
“Now’s not the time to discuss it.” Rigan hurried back to help Kell tar and position the last of the boards.
“You did, didn’t you? That wasn’t grave magic. That’s how you knew the healer. You’re a witch, too!”
Two black, hard-shelled shapes squeezed beneath the alley door.
Great. They’re thinner when they haven’t gorged themselves on blood, Rigan thought.
“Oh, gods!” Kell exclaimed. More of the insects slipped beneath the door. Their jointed, hairy legs became mired in the tar.
Rigan grabbed a length of wood, wrapped a shroud around the end and dipped it into the tar. He lit the torch and thrust it at the crack beneath the door. The beetles hissed and backed away.
“Are you crazy?” Kell yelped. “You’ll set the door on fire.”
Four more insects crawled beneath the door. One stuck in the tar, but the others used its body as a bridge. Half a dozen other insects struggled on the sticky board.
Rigan and Kell surged forward with shovels, lifting up the boards as Rigan kicked replacements up against the gap.
“Back up—carefully!” Together, they sent the traps falling into the cauldron. The insects shrieked, exploding with sodden popping noises.
“Rigan—behind you!”
Rigan wheeled and saw one of the giant insects skittering toward him. Kell flipped the creature with his shovel, then brought a length of pipe down onto it, end-first, with all his strength. The shell cracked and the pipe impaled the insect, which screeched and flailed. Kell shook it off into the cauldron, as Rigan held off two more that had skittered under the door to the store front.
“Oh, gods!” Kell said, eyes wide. Four beetles climbed onto a work table and started to savage the corpse lying there.
“Deal with them later,” Rigan ordered. “The bodies will keep them busy.”
Smoke filled the workroom, making their eyes tear up. The air was foul with the smell of burned blood and charred shells.
“We don’t know that we’ve got them all,” Rigan said. “Let’s circle the room.”
“What about the ones over there?” Kell said, with a jerk of his head toward the creatures still feeding on the corpse.
“Better them than us.”
Torch and shovel at the ready, Rigan led the way as they made a check of the perimeter of the workroom, then the front of the shop, but there were no more insects to be found.
“Now, how do we get them off the corpse?” Kell asked.
Rigan grimaced. “If we could just push it—body, bugs and all— onto a pyre and light it, that would take care of the whole problem. We’ve got to kill the things—otherwise they’ll probably dig their way back out of the grave once the food runs out.”
Kell looked nauseous. “That’s really more than I wanted to picture.”
Rigan made another torch from a shroud, watching as the flames rose. “Stay alert—we don’t want to find out the hard way we’ve overlooked one of those sons of bitches.” He thrust the torch into the open belly of the corpse. The insects were swollen to three times their normal size, barely able to move. They charred in the flames, popping like ripe melons, spraying Rigan and Kell with blood.
“I am never going to sleep well again,” Kell muttered. Rigan moved on to the next body, to make sure they hadn’t missed any. By the time they were finished with the corpses both he and Kell were soaked in blood.
“That’s all of them,” Rigan said, looking around with a sigh of relief. Tar tracked across the floor and blood spattered the walls.
“Corran is going to have a fit when he sees this,” Kell replied.
A black shape dropped from the ceiling, landing on Kell’s shoulder.
“Rigan! Get it off me!”
Kell pulled desperately at the burrowing insect, but the hooked feet and vicious pincers held fast. Rigan acted on instinct, sending his will down to the flames beneath the cauldron, channeling the fire through his hands. He clamped his hands over the insect, careful not to tear it free and hurt his brother further.
“You’re burning hot!” Kell shouted. Rigan shoved him against the wall and pinned him there. Sweat dripped from Rigan’s brow. Kell’s skin blistered beneath his hands, but he held on, though his brother writhed in pain.
The beetle raised its head from the wound, slick with Kell’s blood, and Rigan grabbed it with both hands. Rage and fear coursed through him, hot as the cauldron. The insect squealed and exploded in his grip.
Abruptly, the power left him, and the room spun. Rigan staggered, colliding with a worktable, and nearly fell.
Rigan threw what remained of the insect into the cauldron. Blood covered his hands—Kell’s blood—but beneath the gore, blisters rose on his palms as if he had touched a hot stove.
“I just did what I had to do,” Rigan said. He sounded a little shocked, even to his own ears.
“That was witch magic.”
There was no way to deny it, so Rigan nodded. “Yes. And it’s worth my life if anyone finds out.”
Bloodied, wounded, and exhausted, Kell still managed a broad grin. “That was amazing,” he said, awe tingeing his voice. “Corran’s not the only one with a secret. Somehow, I didn’t think you were sneaking out to see a girl.”
“You knew?”
Kell’s grin widened. “Yeah. But I never suspected you were doing magic.”
“You’re not going to tell Corran?”
Kell leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. “Of course not. What are brothers for?”
Chapter Twenty-One
CORRAN WAS GONE, fighting monsters somewhere. He’d refused to answer Rigan’s questions, just grabbed his cloak and left. Kell murmured something under his breath about both his stubborn brothers, stomped up the stairs, slammed the door, and went to bed. That left Rigan alone in a workroom full of corpses, several days after the fight with the beetles.
For a moment, he thought about mixing up pigment and getting to work on the bodies. Most nights, he would have done just that. But since the opportunity had been handed to him, he had a theory he wanted to try.
Rigan glanced up the stairs to make sure the door was still closed, then took his cloak and let himself out quietly into the back alley, staying in the shadows in case Kell happened to be watching from the window. It was after curfew, and he knew the danger if he were caught, but that did not slow him down; the need to know was stronger than his fear.
Rigan made his way to the burial ground. Once inside the stone walls, he let out a sigh of relief. The guards almost never came near the cemetery, and after curfew, no one else did, either. Any danger now came from the dead, not the living.
He looked around to assure himself he was alone, then walked to the center of the graveyard, where a shrine to the gods sat in a clearing. He sensed the ghosts gathering like fog, curious to find out why he had come. He and Corran banished troublesome spirits from the cemetery as often as they did the work room, so he was not afraid of the dead. Tonight, he planned to offer them a trade.
Rigan drew the sigils on the paving stones, connecting them with a warded circle drawn in salt, aconite, and amanita. He lit the candles and then looked up. Spirits crowded against the salt line, watching.
“If you can tell me how the monsters come to Ravenwood, and who commands them, I will hear your confessions. Tell me what you can and I’ll help you cross over.”
Making spirits pay for the release of their soul was blasphemy, or worse, but Rigan was willing to take his chances with the gods. If his suspicions were correct, they had a bigger problem than the monsters, bigger even than the guards.
“Are the guards controlling the monster?”
Yes—and no.
The ghosts parted, and Rigan saw a thin man in his middle years.
From his opulent clothing, the gold ring on his left hand, and the wide, ceremonial silver chain across his chest, holding a cape across broad shoulders, Rigan guessed the spirit was the late Guild Master Noran.
“That’s not much of an answer.” If the Guild Master had still been alive, Rigan might have watched his tone. But dead, and outside the warded circle, with Rigan armed with the banishment ritual, the ghost could cause him little harm. Rigan’s growing fear for Corran and Kell’s safety pushed him past civility. “Are they, or aren’t they?”
Noran glided closer to the salt circle. The ghosts around him pressed closer, as if they were eager to hear. How many of them, he wondered, had ended up in this cemetery because of those damn monsters?
Some of the monsters occur naturally, Noran replied. Others are created or controlled by blood magic. That sort of dark sorcery comes at a cost, and if it can’t be paid in fear and death it will turn on its wielders. It’s all about the Balance.
“I thought the Balance had to do with light and dark—”
A convenient misunderstanding, one that well serves those who control Ravenwood. A willful lie, even, to make the masses more pliant. He shook his head and chuckled. How would the people feel, knowing their fear, blood, and death feeds the dark magic of powerful mages—the same mages who send the monsters among them to keep from being savaged themselves? It’s always about the Balance.
“You’re lying.”
Why would I do that? I’m dead. Either you send me on, or I remain here in the mortal realm. You asked a question. I answered. Not my fault you don’t like the truth. Now hear my confession and let me go to my rest.
“What about the guards? How are they involved?” Despite the cool evening, a cold sweat rose on Rigan’s skin.
The guards’ control is limited, the Guild Master continued. They can summon monsters to certain places at certain times with the use of charms and spells. But the magic controlling the monsters doesn’t belong to the guards.
“So, who’s summoning them?”
It takes a powerful blood witch, well versed in the arts of death magic.
Rigan shivered. “That kind of magic is forbidden in Ravenwood.”
Noran’s ghost laughed. Dear boy, don’t you know by now that laws apply to some people more than others? Magic is forbidden outside of Guild business, but money can buy many privileges.
“Then who is this blood witch?”
Noran shrugged. Whoever it is, they won’t have come cheaply. You’re lucky it’s so expensive to hire a blood witch, or you’d have it worse than you do now.
“Who hires the blood witches, and why?”
Rigan was burning through his limited power quickly. Usually, hearing a spirit’s confession was a passive act: the spirit spoke and Rigan listened before murmuring a few words of absolution and illuminating the path to the After. Interrogating a spirit at length was new to him, and it took more out of him than he expected. Rigan’s head pounded, and he felt feverish. Bleeding out life force in a cemetery might not be the smartest thing he’d ever done. But he was so close to getting answers, so much was at stake, that he pushed on.
Noran gave an unpleasant smile. At one time or another, boy, anyone with the means to do so. It’s how the game is played.
“Game?”
I don’t expect you to understand. You’re an undertaker, he added, disdain thick in his voice. Pay attention, sonny. I’ll only say this once. Men of power are always looking for an advantage over the competition. It’s a game with no rules, winner takes all. What damages my enemy benefits me. When goods are scarce, prices rise. And when people are scared, they’re so much easier to control. The price of power is keeping the Balance, paying your debts to the darkness. And the blood and death keep the commoners cowed, even as they maintain the Balance. Quite the bargain.
“So who—”
I’ve answered enough questions. And I’ve been dead for years; I don’t know or care who’s calling the monsters now. I’ve told you all I’m going to.
“Then let me hear your confession. The night’s a-wasting.”
Noran’s eyes narrowed. I admit to sending assassins against my enemies. I don’t regret it. I paid for spies and I blackmailed other Guild Masters. I would have used a mage myself to control the monsters, but never had quite the gold to spend. I was unfaithful to my wife, if that matters to the gods. I killed my mistress. He smirked, not a hint of remorse in his eyes.
“Then go to the gods,” Rigan said. “And may you receive everything you deserve.” Wind gusted through the cemetery. The other spirits
fell back from the circle and vanished. As Rigan watched, Noran’s spirit faded. Only at the last did his confidence falter, as Doharmu, god of death, opened the gate. Rigan saw the smugness give way to terror, heard Noran scream, and then the cry cut off abruptly, leaving only silence.
Rigan slumped forward, shaking, mouth dry, dangerously spent. Perhaps on another night, he would return to see if any of the other ghosts knew more about how monsters were summoned and controlled. Tired as he was from the summoning, it would take all his remaining energy just to get home. Fever alternated with chills. The ghosts were gone, but he dared not dispel his wardings without making certain that none of the spirits would attack him, or even seek to confess to him. I’m done for tonight.
He read the banishing spell, managing the ritual even though his voice trembled with exhaustion. Then Rigan extinguished the candles and smudged away the sigils and salt mixture. He knelt on the wet paving stones, utterly exhausted. Glancing skyward, he reckoned the time from the position of the moon. Let’s hope I make it home before Corran.
Rigan scanned the cemetery warily, but saw no one, not even the spirits. He gathered his equipment, then crossed the burying ground. At the stone wall, he paused and looked warily up and down the deserted alleys. The guards don’t come near the boneyard. They’re afraid of the ghosts.
The walk home took twice as long as the journey in. Rigan staggered, sweating and shivering. The ache in his head pounded in time with his heartbeat; his vision blurred—which was why he didn’t notice the guards come up behind him.
“It’s past curfew.”
Rigan froze. He had nowhere to run, and he doubted he could outpace the soldiers in his present state. “Pardon, sirs,” he said, intentionally slurring his words, trying to sound drunk. “I didn’t hear the bells. Just heading home now.”
“The curfew bells rang a long time ago. You’re breaking the law.”
Rigan bowed. “I’m deeply sorry, sirs. I’ve made a mistake. I won’t make it again.”
“You know why there’s a curfew?” the guard asked, stepping forward. “Because all kinds of bad things come out at night. Thieves. Monsters. Bandits. Which of those are you?”
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