Cinderella Necromancer

by F. M. Boughan

  “Aleidis, I’m here.”

  Prince William crouched by my side, and only then did I notice that I no longer slouched against a pillar in the great ballroom. I’d been laid on a small couch in an alcove, off to the side of the guests and their revelry. A wall of palace guards blocked my view into the hall, and the guests’ view of myself.

  “What … ” I began, testing my voice.

  “Have a care,” said William, taking my hand. “You had a bit of a spell.”

  “No,” I shook my head, wincing at the pain. “My … another woman, she came to speak to me.” I sought the place on my side where Victoria had touched and recalled Charlotte’s claw-like fingernails of the night prior. Had Victoria stabbed me?

  I remained a complete stranger to her under my illusion, and she’d stabbed me. Simply because I vied for the Prince’s attentions. Regardless of Celia’s assurances that she would secure the palace’s offer of betrothal. Had this been the plan I’d heard her speak of?

  I tried to sit, but William rested a hand on my side and prevented me from rising. Warmth spread through the place where the pain should have been, and I gasped at the softness of his touch as—I simply can’t explain it any other way—muscle and sinew, the fibers of my flesh, knit together to make me whole once more. I felt it, piece by piece, and a pure sense of bliss enveloped my being as the pain ebbed away. I looked to William to ask what he had done, but he held a distant expression, serene and so peaceful with closed eyes that I could have lay there forever, watching.

  He moved his hand away and I do swear that I caught a glimpse of an object in his palm. Gold, round—his medallion? I looked to his neck and noted its absence.

  When he finally opened his eyes, before a word left my lips he stood and offered both hands to help me to my feet.

  “How do you feel?”

  He knew very well how I felt. “What did you do?”

  “Are you well enough for a final dance?”

  It seemed that tonight had been designated an evening for unanswered questions. “Your Highness, a woman … she stabbed me in the side. I can’t dance with my dress soiled as such.”

  He scratched his head like a curious ape. “I see nothing.”

  I looked down and exclaimed in surprise. My dress shone as it did before, pure and whole. No stain, no tears.

  William’s expression remained clear and innocent. “I’m sorry, Lady Aleidis, but you must be mistaken. You must have hit your head when falling.”

  “Falling!”

  “Perhaps you should rest another few minutes?”

  I opened my mouth to demand the truth, rage rising at lies from this unexpected source, but before the first word passed my lips, the sound of lightning cracked throughout the nearby ballroom.

  I sprang to my feet as William and the guards surged forward into the open hall. He glanced back at me once, but another crack took his attention away. I’m sure he saw I stood without effort, and I cannot fault him for leaving under the circumstances.

  “Stay there,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Not likely,” I replied, though I doubted he heard.

  As I followed him into the hall, screams formed in the mouths of guests and released as the candles and lamps in the ballroom extinguished as one. The air grew cold.

  I knew this. I’d felt this before, even once already this night. The spirits were coming.

  But why?

  I pushed forward, through fainting ladies and piss-soaked men of lost courage, and followed the upward gazes of those who remained standing. The sight weakened my legs despite my renewed strength, for in the air above us, a gaping hole opened with cracks of lightning and ripples of thunder. Silver-lined edges pulled apart to create a chasm between floor and ceiling, sending swirls of black mist shooting through the darkness into the throngs of people below.

  We stood staring, uncomprehending, at the opening form.

  And then the words became clear as I recalled what the Oliroomim had said. The last woman standing.

  God Almighty.

  This was the spirit’s doing.

  I touched my father’s bone key safe around my neck, thinking for some way to stop this before—

  I didn’t finish my thought, for a monstrous sigh ripped the gaping blackness open even further and a surge of black mist poured through the center—mist that shifted, twisted, and took shape as it dove through the air toward the crowded ballroom.

  Despite the lack of illumination, I saw flashes of claws and fangs, leathery wings, and bloodshot eyes. Hideous forms swooped from above toward shrieking, stunned guests, and I did nothing but watch in horror as a host of vaporous spirits swarmed a woman in green silks.

  In the next instant, she floated off the ground, screaming for help, and I looked around for a soul who might be tall enough to pull her back to earth.

  And then they dropped her.

  Without warning and without time to break her fall, her body smashed against the floor with a sickening crack, and I fell to my knees as a redness seeped from behind her head.

  My doing.

  This was my doing … but how?

  The spirits guaranteed my success, but not through death. Never death. Had I not demanded as such?

  Another woman collapsed at my side, sobbing, begging the Lord for mercy,

  And had I not called on the Lord’s name for this? Had I not demanded the service of spirits by his power? Of course I had—and surely the fires of hell awaited me even now, for I could deny it no longer.

  I had not conjured simple spirits, nor angels, none of those creatures in the manner one thinks when supplicating the saints or the Holy Mother.

  No. By my father’s book, I had conjured a horde of demons.

  And as if that were not enough? They no longer listened to me. They were not following my commands, of that I felt sure.

  Something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

  I ran.

  I am not proud, nor regretful. I ran, and I did so as quickly as I could. But I wasn’t the only one, for we all swept toward the grand staircase, each of us praying—I am certain—that we not fall, nor be trampled, or worse yet taken by the demons before then.

  I had to leave. If I couldn’t be found, the spirits—demons—could not complete their work. Or so I hoped. Perhaps they would cease their malevolence with their conjuror absent. It did not make sense, their violence.

  How could I have done this?

  A girl to my left stumbled, but as I reached out to help her stand, a familiar face swooped down from above. Curson.

  “Hello, mistress,” he said, and my limbs both froze and became quivering jelly at the same time.

  However, this time, I didn’t want his presence and I resented the growing craving. I needed to move, to escape. But oh, this spirit.

  “Leave us,” I forced in a whisper. “I didn’t ask for this.”

  He reached out and touched the straw-colored hair of the girl who’d stumbled. She sighed, jaw growing slack as her bosom heaved.

  “Leave her,” I said, and fought to suppress the rising tide of unbidden jealousy and yearning.

  “My regrets, mistress.” Curson leaned forward and placed a smoky finger on my lips. I shuddered despite myself, my whole body aching to remain, but my inner self screamed that I had to leave now.

  A drop of salty liquid formed in the corner of my eye as I strained against the hold on my will. And as it slipped from its place, down the side of my nose, trickling toward my mouth, Curson bent to gently—ever so gently—kiss away my tear.

  I could stand it no longer. I couldn’t afford this delay, and neither could those who sought to escape the mission carried forth by the demon host. As it was, I needed to end it before others suffered at my expense.

  With a shout to fuel my strength, I pulled with all my might against his hold on my will. I did not move. A second time, I tried to block out all thoughts of him, holding back the tid
e of desire as sluice gates upon a river. His neck strained as if pulling against my resistance. I couldn’t allow this, not here and not now. This desire was neither pure nor welcome, and the cost too great.

  I gathered my will once again, holding firm, thinking only of the pain of those around me, and loosed a second shout—louder this time, and felt the give of unseen chains. Harder then, I strained, and my limbs tore through their bonds. I plunged my hands through his smoky flesh like a knife through butter, and his eyes widened in shock. My anger grew. How dare he?

  My fingers closed around some solid lump inside his chest, and though I fought a growing tide of revulsion, I pulled back as hard as my new-formed strength would allow, drawing the object out as mist fought against force, slippery and hard and soft and sharp and this moment formless, that moment hard as stone.

  I held tight and received my reward, for from Curson’s chest came a gooey, blackened mass. It writhed in my hand as small white creatures twisted about, tasting the air.

  Curson looked from me to his rotting, maggot-infested heart. Fear reflected in his beautiful eyes, and yet I didn’t care.

  I felt glad.

  I threw the heart to the floor and pressed my heel into it.

  “Go back to hell,” I whispered.

  With a fiendish shriek, Curson’s form pulled backward through the air, into the darkness above us, and through the gaping hole in our indoor sky.

  And in that instant, three more demons were also sucked through, and I clutched at the key around my neck. I had not done that.

  A flash of light in the ballroom revealed William, his father, and two other men—Peter, and perhaps Lorenz—standing with hands raised on the marble floor. The two held staffs, the King a sceptre, and William, his medallion. For an instant, I wondered if they had wrested control of my spell, but no … for as I watched, a second flash of light burst forth from the King’s sceptre and William’s medallion, together, sending a swooping demon spinning backward—back, back, back, and up, until the gaping darkness above reclaimed its own.

  William. He had worn that medallion every time we’d met.

  He had “saved” me from the town terrors, and been there when they’d struck. Knew its patterns, behavior. That night, he’d known it had killed and would not strike again. Certainly, it was no coincidence we’d met so many times after I’d found The Book.

  He had spoken of the King, of being beholden to a family legacy, even during the festival.

  But what did it mean?

  Too much, too many questions. My head throbbed with the ache of frenzied dismay, and it would not be abated until I had answers and so, unthinking, I took a step toward them—

  And lost my footing on the steps, falling into the arms of a stranger who assumed I also fled the room. I shouted for release, but over the growing din of screams and cries from both people and demons, no one could hear a word—and if they did, they didn’t care. The crowd dragged me up the rest of the steps, and in the moment before the onslaught of bodies pushed me out the grand doors, I saw it. Saw them.

  On the balcony—just as she’d been the night prior, watching her daughter thrash about on the ballroom floor—stood Celia. But this time, flanked by a daughter on each side.

  Celia’s arms stretched forth toward the writhing black mass on the ceiling, and her mouth moved in a silent chant I could not hear. At her sides, Charlotte and Victoria. Eyes closed, mouths open with expressions of rapturous delight upon their faces.

  They remained undisturbed by the spirits … no, far from it.

  Lord Almighty.

  Celia controlled my spirits.

  Somehow, she had taken my command and twisted it, perverted it, and as she spoke, I saw her daughters point and laugh at the fleeing crowd as though directing the demons’ attacks like a game at a carnival.

  And as another set of stranger’s arms wrapped around my middle and dragged me across the entrance plaza, toward the second staircase that led down to my waiting spirit horse, I did not resist.

  The scene played over and over. William, the King, royal advisors and attendants, fighting the demon horde … and Celia, with her daughters, controlling them.

  The demons I had called. Who were supposed to be under my control, carrying out my demands.

  I would not ride my spirit horse tonight.

  I wanted nothing more to do with spirits.

  From afar, I spotted Liesl in the crowd, limping, with bloodied cheeks. Her poor brother cradled his hand, and when I stopped to call her name—which reveals more about my own imprudence than all else—someone in the surging crowd slammed into my back and threw me forward, sending me tumbling down the steps. I drew in my arms and rolled, step after step, unknowingly kicked and stepped on by others as they too tried to escape.

  I didn’t blame them. In fact, I didn’t hurry to stand. I deserved it.

  I had done this and I needed the pain … for what had I now but Edward and some small semblance of freedom? Surely someone would soon discover what I had set in motion. Perhaps William, and the King, already knew. Perhaps that is why he’d pretended at being my friend … and alluded to more.

  Oh, Lord.

  I could do no more. I had to flee the kingdom.

  And while I welcomed death as punishment for my actions, I couldn’t allow Edward to suffer for it too.

  We would leave tonight.

  33

  The Cost

  Home.

  As always, to Edward’s room.

  I flung open the door, calling his name, fumbling with my dirtied, golden skirts, desperate to tear them off and make our way free of—

  I froze in the doorway. Edward was motionless.

  Breath held, I crept to his bedside, praying he had only fallen into a deep sleep, but the fear … believe me when I say I have never felt so afraid.

  Even at his side, I saw that he didn’t move. His small chest didn’t rise or fall, and so in disbelief I lay my head upon his chest to listen.

  I did weep then, for his heart still beat, and yet … and yet he barely breathed at all. His skin, cold as a storm in the dead of winter. His fingers, stiff and blue. But he lived.

  I couldn’t stem the flow of tears, for now I saw the way things were. Our lives ended here. I couldn’t move Edward in this state, nor did I have the strength left to do so even if I had wanted to. More so, I doubted very much that The Book of Conjuring contained any remedy for illness. Cursing and making others ill, certainly, but healing fell beyond the book’s ability and mine.

  I knew this. I had already searched the book in vain.

  “Edward?” I whispered and gently shook his arm. “Edward, wake up. Please. You have to wake up.”

  But he did not.

  How long I sat at his side, listening for the rise and fall of his breath, I cannot say. But I admit, I wept until I was certain the wells were dry, and then I wept still more. How fair was a God who’d allowed such an innocent to suffer? Who’d brought such calamity on my family? Surely, we didn’t deserve this. If anyone should be punished, it should be me alone.

  Edward, only a child, to be taken in his earliest years—did purity of the soul count for nothing? Did all my cries for mercy go unheeded?

  I had seen this all before. It was only a matter of time before Edward left me, too. Everyone else had.

  Perhaps he would see Mother, where he went. Perhaps he would be happier there, in her arms. Or perhaps she could petition the Almighty on behalf of her son.

  A thought struck me—surely being in the presence of God would allow her this one request, if the saints didn’t already kiss her feet and seek her comfort. I had to speak to her one final time and beg that she do this one thing for me, since no one else listened.

  And she would speak to me. I had seen her face, when last I’d visited her stone … had I not? It could not have been a dream. I had not imagined it. I had to believe it. I had to try.

  Though I felt
loath to leave my brother for even the blink of an eye, I saw no other way. I tore off my skirts and stuffed them once again in Edward’s closet, kissed his too-cold cheeks, and left through the passages—ensuring his doorway remained blocked and closed to Celia, should she or the others return—and plunged into the crisp night air.

  I only hoped that I returned to collect Edward long before their arrival home, if indeed they bothered to come back at all.

  Once more in my undergarments, I tore through the town, caring not for decorum and no longer in fear of assault by terrors. It was even easier to ignore the stares of the few who undoubtedly peered from behind closed curtains, perhaps wondering at the influx of citizens returning from the palace at utmost speed, with wild fright in their eyes.

  Past the Church of the Holy Paraclete and its spires I ran, through the gate—closed, but unlocked—and into the field of stones. I left the gate open and stomped through the field, welcoming the stabs of thorns as devil’s weed pierced my toes, digging into soft flesh.

  “Mother.” I stopped in front of her stone and raised my face heavenward. “Mother!”

  Silence.

  I waited, breathing in hazel and lavender. Believing she would appear. I would see her again. Why had I not thought to call on her so many months before?

  I called again.

  And waited.

  And called once more.

  With no reply, I leaned against the stone, sliding my back across its weathered surface.

  I couldn’t leave until I had received some kind of sign, some assurance that Edward would live. For if he did not? Neither would I.

  I called and waited and called again, praying and begging and bargaining with every possible thing. My life for his. My soul for his. All earthly things, if only Mother would speak to me but once.

  My lids grew heavy as the night wore on, and my heart began to fray with the loss of hope. Surely, Celia and her daughters had returned to the house by now. Found Edward. Relieved him from his earthly body.