Salt Magic, Skin Magic

by Lee Welch

  Something had smashed a tunnel through Raskelf, right through guest rooms and ante-rooms, passageways and all. It was as though a cannon-ball as big as a carriage had ripped through the west wing and out the other side. Through the settling dust and hanging planks and ruined pictures, he could see daylight at the other end. And the tunnel seemed to be moving at the margins—long strands of what looked like seaweed were waving in the air. White crabs scuttled up broken beams. He thought he saw an octopus—could it be the same one?—clinging to a broken chandelier. And for a brief, impossible moment, a school of silver fish seemed to glint across the tunnel, only to be lost a moment later in the gloom of some ruined spare bedroom.

  Not using the pins was deliberate. John had done it on purpose.

  He was aware of John at his side, looking down the tunnel. Then John was kneeling, coiling the spancel, pocketing the pins and eye, sweeping the salt up with careful fingers. He got to his feet and gave Thornby one of those turned-down smiles, mouth severe, eyes alight.

  “Come on,” John said.

  “But what—?”

  “That’s our heading. That way.” John pointed down the tunnel. “West. Your token’s at the end of it.”

  “I—I—”

  “We’d better run. It’s quite a big hole. Your father’s bound to notice. You might want to do your breeches up, though.”

  “John, I—”

  “Don’t you want to get there first?”

  Thornby did his breeches up, and they ran.

  Chapter Twelve

  Once out of the house, the heading remained clear. Big holes were ripped in trees, huge branches scattered like twigs. They ran west for perhaps twenty minutes, following the trail of destruction. Thornby wished for a horse with part of his mind, but he could hardly feel his chest and ankle now.

  They came upon the post and rail fence that marked the estate boundary at this point. On the other side was a narrow field. Beyond that, a screen of yew trees, with a stone pumphouse behind them, its steep slate roof like a dunce’s cap. The yew hedge had a huge hole in it, and the pumphouse wall now sported a crater, the broken stone pale yellow against weathered grey.

  Thornby hurled himself over the fence, but turned back immediately. He gripped the fence rail, wanting to scream with frustration. “The boundary. I can’t.”

  “Isn’t that an estate building?”

  “He owns the building, not the land. I can’t go there.”

  There was no need to ask John to go for him; he was already climbing the fence. But then he paused for an agonisingly long moment. “What if he comes?” John was looking back the way they’d come, towards the Hall.

  “I don’t know. Don’t care.” He grabbed the front of John’s shirt and gave him one quick, hard kiss. Then he pushed him away. “Quickly, go on! Go!”

  ***

  John ran towards the round stone building. He’d heard it had something to do with the draining of the lake that had drowned Soren’s mother. It had never occurred to him that Dalton might own the building but not the land. It was the ideal place to hide something from Soren—completely out of his reach, safer than Dalton’s own pocket.

  Once past the yews, he could see a tiny hole in the centre of the crater in the stone wall. He put his finger to it, feeling a draught of chill air from the inside. The stone gave back an echo of the sex-charm; he could almost taste Soren in it, could almost hear him moaning. No wonder inanimate objects sometimes confused magic with sex; sometimes they were the same thing. If they ever got out of this mess, it was a concept that required extra thought. And further experimentation.

  But despite the crater and the hole, the wall was still solid. It was three feet thick.

  He ran around the building. There were no windows, but he found a door on the western side; black iron, bound with iron. He’d renewed the chimera key last night, thinking he might need to get into Lord Dalton’s room in an emergency. The charm would be faded, but it might work. He was getting the key out of his pocket when he put a hand to the door, and felt a faint cold thread, running like veins of ice through both door and threshold. A ward. Demon-wrought. About twenty years old, laid by some other magician when the place was built. He’d have to unpick it before he could use the key. Lucky he’d realised, or the ward would have broken the key.

  He pulled out the salt and made a sketchy Petit Clé sigil on the threshold. He was about to start tidying it with his fingertips, when the power surged through it, blazing bright. They would have said it was impossible at the Institute, yet the more he worked in accord with the materials, the less the details seemed to matter. The salt understood his intentions. It was helping. The ward threads in the door began to frizzle and wither. He tore them away as easily as spider-webs. The chimera key spun in the lock almost of its own accord. That shouldn’t have been possible either, but it was helping, too. He pushed open the door. Inside was a round room, but it was no pumphouse.

  It was a mausoleum. There was a raised dais in the middle, on top of which lay an ornate coffin in ebony and gilt. Decorative pillars ringed the walls, festooned with stone garlands of flowers and fruit. Muddy footprints, quite recent, went from the door to the coffin. And beneath the sourness of cold stone and dust, he could smell blood. He glanced over his shoulder. He could see across the graveyard to the village church, but no one was in sight. He approached the coffin. There was nothing on top of it, nor behind the dais. There were no other obvious hiding places. He hesitated only for a moment.

  The coffin lid was not nailed down. He lifted it and stood staring in horror and pity, holding the lid in front of him like a shield. The body looked as if it had been entombed yesterday, not twenty years ago. The first Lady Dalton was white as alabaster, her unearthly beauty a little bloated. She wore a dried-up rose in her dusty hair, and a yellowed dress of fine lace that could have been her wedding gown. A bunch of fresh violets, still wet with dew, lay on her breast.

  And across her dainty ankles lay the small, crumpled pelt of an animal. It was the same golden-brown as the hair they’d found in the trunk, and it smelled of blood, though there was no blood on it.

  He set the coffin lid down and picked up the pelt.

  The moment he did so, the door slammed shut and he was surrounded by utter darkness.

  He backed away from the coffin, feeling for the door handle. The after-image of that pale, unearthly face was seared into his eyes.

  But there was no handle. The door would not open. He took several deep breaths trying to calm his racing heart. It didn’t matter. Perhaps he hadn’t fully disabled the ward. He’d use the salt again. The Petit Clé outside would help too. He thrust the pelt under his arm. But he couldn’t work blind. He grabbed the rowan twig, which sputtered into weak blue light before he could dip it in the sulphur.

  The corpse was standing at his elbow.

  He leapt away from it, away from the door, dropping the pelt as he did so, a cry of horror escaping him. Yet even as he moved, the corpse flickered like a candle flame and appeared on his other side. Her eyes opened; black all over. A malevolent snarl marred her beautiful lips.

  “No! I’m here for Soren! Soren! Your son!”

  But with another strange flicker she was upon him, reaching with hands like claws. He ducked again, knocking the coffin with a flailing arm. It made a hollow sound, but, said the rational part of his mind, not that hollow. He scrabbled backwards, and as his bare hand hit the floor he sensed something familiar: a musky animal stink overlain with the cloying sweetness of privet.

  Demon reek. But not from Lady Dalton. From the floor.

  He scrambled to his feet and lifted the rowan twig high. The real corpse still lay in the coffin. The flickering thing that was approaching him again was merely an illusion. All the same, he threw salt at it, and watched as holes burned in it, and it vanished. He grabbed the pelt from the floor and tucked it inside his shirt. It was immediately warm against his skin. What was it from? Some kind of dog? He had no time to wonder.
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  He crouched, made another Petit Clé by the door, but a wind came up from nowhere and blew the salt away. The demon must be in the building; they sometimes bound one in the foundations as a watchman. For all his scornful dismissal of theurgists, Lord Dalton had employed one when he’d built his first wife’s mausoleum.

  John straightened and realised his feet had sunk into the stone flags as if the floor were a mire. He pulled free with difficulty, sinking again, even as he struggled out. Most of his scattered salt had caught like a small snowdrift against one of the decorative stone pillars. He managed to get one foot onto it and found the ground firmer. He scraped as much as he could spare from under his feet and held it tight, trying to decide what to do. He had a demon trap in his pocket. The trap was a good one—Rokeby had made it—but it wouldn’t work through several feet of stone and earth.

  And what was happening to Soren? Dalton would see the enormous hole in his house, put two and two together, and be back any minute. John must get out. What to do? The salt seemed to be pulling at his hand, trying to rise. Perhaps it was a hint. He put the rowan twig between his teeth, checked the pelt was safe, pocketed as much of the salt as he could gather, and began to climb.

  The stonework twitched under his hands, and when he fell, the floor sucked at him, but eventually he got to the cross beams that held up the roof, and began to smash his way out, brittle slates sliding down the roof. The demon seemed to have less power up here, but it was making the beams feel greased.

  Soon he had a hole large enough to see through. His heart lurched in his chest. Five horsemen were approaching fast from the direction of the Hall. One was surely Lord Dalton, and two wore the blue livery of Raskelf; Prout and Abbott. John held tighter and kicked slates. He could hear Soren shouting, but couldn’t make out the words.

  But he could guess. As soon as the hole was bigger, he pulled out the pelt. In the light of day, it was a pathetic thing, barely as long as a new-born babe, stiffened and shrivelled by its long banishment in the dark. Nevertheless, this was it; the source of so much trouble to Soren, and so much power to his father.

  He’d thought to throw it to Soren, but it was too light—it would fall short. To be sure of Soren getting it, John would have to climb down and give it to him. He stuffed it back in his shirt. He’d kicked out as many slates as he could reach. Could he crawl through? Not quite. He bashed away more with forearm and elbow. Now the hole was large enough, but when he tried to climb through, his left foot would not budge. He tugged at it, disbelieving, before realising the demon had bound it to the beam. The delay could cost them everything. His heart sank, but he fumbled in his pocket for a handful of salt.

  In a thunder of hooves, the horsemen reached the fence, reining their horses in so fiercely, the creatures slipped. Lord Dalton’s face was red with rage. Soren climbed over the railing, putting it between him and his father. John began to grind salt into the spell on his foot, his hand shaking so much he dropped half of it. The spell came plain, but did not dissolve. Shit!

  “Well, well, Mr Blake.” Dalton’s voice was tight with fury, but pitched to carry up to where John perched on the roof. Dalton’s horse danced under him, snorting. Soren was backing away from him, clinging to the fenceline.

  “I see my son is with you,” Dalton continued. “His cat’s-paw now, are you? I hope you don’t believe whatever he’s told you. He’s got nothing. Whatever he’s offered, I’ll double it. Now give me that—thing.”

  Soren started forward across the field, but only managed a couple of steps before staggering back to the railing. “John!” His voice was frantic, pleading.

  “John?” Dalton repeated. “You are on familiar terms for men who met a week ago. How familiar, I wonder? Well, Mr Blake, you’re a clever man. You understand business. Give me the skin for now, and once I’m done with it, you can have it. Keep it in a safe place; you’ll have him forever. Do whatever you like with him. What do you say?”

  Dalton was guessing. It was best not to respond. John tried to concentrate on unpicking the binding spell. He had the trick of it; it was simply a matter of time. But the skin would be no good to Soren if he was trapped, and Prout and Abbott had dismounted and were advancing on him.

  “Come, Mr Blake,” Dalton was saying. “We’re above the law, aren’t we, men like us? I’m a man of the world. If you want him, we’ll say no more about it. Just give me that skin!”

  John pulled an iron pin from his pocket and threw it, hard. It hit Abbott in the arm and stuck like an arrow in a target. Abbott screamed and grabbed at it, but it burnt his hand with an audible sizzle. He yelled again and began twisting out of his coat, trying to remove it that way. Prout backed away from his flailing figure, but the other two men—Warren, the valet, and Farrell the butler—were also dismounting.

  “Stop your men, Dalton, or I’ll stop them for you,” John called. “I can help you. But you will leave Lord Thornby alone.”

  “Fool. You can’t help me. You’re all the same, you bloody magicians. So damn sure of yourselves.”

  “You’re wrong. I know what’s on you.”

  But Dalton wasn’t listening. “Warren, if Mr Blake throws any more of those darts—shoot him. Prout, Farrell, we’ll take my son back to the Hall.”

  “John! Throw it!” Soren shouted. Prout and Farrell were closing on him.

  John could feel the pelt thrumming with urgency. Perhaps, once it hit the ground, Soren would find the strength to get it, even if it fell short. And then what would happen? Would it confer power, or simply allow Soren to leave the estate? Perhaps Soren sensed something John didn’t—it was Soren’s pelt after all. John wasn’t especially afraid of Warren’s fowling piece—the ward stone would protect him, once he’d found a moment to charge it. He grabbed another pin, wrapped the pelt around it as best he could, and threw it hard towards Soren.

  “There! Get that!” Dalton shouted.

  Pin and pelt fell ten paces short of the boundary. Soren and Warren both went for it at a run, but Soren hunched, as if in pain, and stopped, swaying. Prout and Farrell caught up with him and grabbed him from behind. John pulled out another pin. He’d have thrown it at Prout or Farrell, but they were now grappling with Soren, twisting and turning. He’d have to get down and stick it in Prout like a dagger. Fine.

  Instead, he threw it at Warren, who’d nearly reached the pelt. It hit Warren’s right hand—a neat crucifixion. He yelped and dropped the gun. But Abbott, coatless, blood reddening his arm, had staggered over to help. Abbott snatched the gun in his burnt hand, flinched, and fired.

  The shot cracked a slate next to John’s head, and slivers of stone flew up, cutting his cheek. Shouts came from below—Dalton’s voice booming out, “Get that, you damned fool! Forget your hand. Use the other. Get that bloody skin!”

  John half-charged the ward stone. No time to do it properly. He must free his foot. The blood was pounding in his ears, everything imploring him to hurry, hurry, hurry. But that was not the way. He must simply keep going, unpicking the spell with all the methodical care of a lady at her tatting. He was nearly done. He glanced up.

  Soren, Prout, and Farrell were still grappling on the mausoleum side of the fence. Soren had to be desperate to get back to the estate or to reach the pelt, and maybe that was feeding his fury, because John had never seen such a vicious fight. There were no gentlemen’s rules here; Soren punched and rucked, gouged and bit and throttled. He was taller than Prout and using his long reach to good effect, but Prout was stronger, and Farrell was heavier, if a good deal slower. Soren had blood all over his face, and seemed not to be using his left hand. Soren landed a kick dead on Farrell’s nose, and as the fellow reeled back, John threw another pin. It pierced Farrell’s thigh and he dropped, shrieking.

  The fowling piece cracked again and something hit John’s chest, just below the throat. If not for the ward it would have done for him. As it was, it burnt like a branding iron and bounced off. Warren was up, the pelt in his uninjured hand. Abbott was relo
ading. John pulled out another pin. He had four left, and he wouldn’t miss. First Prout—to stop him hurting Soren. Then Abbott, then Warren. He’d pick them off like flies. Farrell had crawled away; he was out of the fight. There’d be one pin left for nailing Lord Dalton right in the fucking face.

  The unbinding was complete. He kicked his foot free and slid down the roof, rolling as he landed, reaching for another pin. Another shot rang out. Not even close. He began to run to where Prout and Soren struggled, a pin in his hand.

  But he’d taken only a few steps when a blast of foul air and salty water hit him out of nowhere. It knocked him sideways onto the grass, blinded and choking. It stank of rotting fish and shit and blood, as if the curse that haunted Dalton had been magnified a thousand times and thrown at John with all the might of a hurricane. What the fuck? He struggled up, wiping his eyes. Magic, but who—?

  He looked over his shoulder.

  Dalton had a pelt draped over the pommel of his saddle. Another one. A larger one. It must have belonged to Soren’s mother. Dalton had kept her here too; mother and son, both bound to him by their skins, for as long as he chose. Dalton had a pocket knife in his hand. He cut a small piece from the pelt and threw it at John.

  It was only a bit of skin and hair. It had no weight, no heft. It left Dalton’s hand and traced a gentle arc to the grass in front of his horse’s hooves.

  And yet, John was thrown to the ground again by a gust of foulness so strong it made him retch. Needles of salty water stung his face and hands. Then it slackened. The wind still blew, but the fury was gone from it. John shook his head, blinking brine out of his eyes. He’d dropped the pin. He groped for it and threw it at Warren, who had nearly reached Dalton with the pelt.

  He had no idea if it found a mark, because another foul spell-wind hit him, blinding him. Soren screamed, a wordless cry of fury and pain. Something screamed back—a chilling echo. Not human. Dalton must have Soren’s pelt, too.