“We heard someone is going to summon a god,” Morgan replied, offhandedly.
“A god?” Dorian made a face. “Why would anyone want to do that?”
Morgan shrugged like it made no difference to her. “Just repeating what I heard, dear.”
“Well, I heard the local coven is going to put on a once-in-a-lifetime show as soon as the sun sets. Though, speaking as someone who’s lived more than a few lifetimes, I’d say that bar is damn near stratospheric.” Dorian waved that away. “Whatever, as long as it isn’t another orgy, you won’t hear me complain.”
“You wouldn’t want to participate in an orgy?” Morgan asked, sounding surprised.
“I mean, I wouldn’t say no...but this would be my third this month, and no matter how ‘magical’ they turn out to be, I always wake up sore the next day.” Dorian did a quick survey of the crowd. “You didn’t happen to see any centaurs when you came in, did you? I’ve decided to give them up for Lent.”
“You practice Lent?”
“Practice is exactly the word I’d use, yes.”
“Isn’t Lent almost over?” I asked.
“Yes. It. Is.” Dorian’s eyes lit up and he began rubbing his hands together so that his gloves made a slithering noise. “Fat Tuesday...it’s gonna be big.”
I’d only just opened my mouth to crush Dorian’s hopes and dreams by explaining Fat Tuesday was the day before Lent began, not the day after it ended, when the music died. By this point, we were near the front of the crowd gathered around to see the band, which meant it didn’t take long to clear the way and discover the musicians packing it up for the day and thereby ceding the floor to a couple of minstrels and their lutes.
Though masked and wearing identical finery, the two musicians were almost comically different from one another. Whereas the first was short and so perfectly proportioned he might as well have come out of a box—complete with a jaw that could cut glass and hair kinkier than Adam putting the moves on his own rib—the second was about my height and looked like the ideal spokesmodel for a travel brochure targeting the modern WASP. To be honest, all they had in common in my opinion was that neither looked like they belonged here.
And yet, the moment they began to play, their nimble fingers flying up and down the necks of their respective instruments to a tune both lively and sinister, I could feel the magic in the air. Magic so heavy and so ripe that it felt like an oppressive weight against my skin. Sensing something awful was about to happen, I tried to turn and warn Morgan to run and get help. Unfortunately, I was too late...because our hosts had finally arrived.
And it seemed the real show was about to begin.
Chapter 38
Compelled by the magic, the crowd parted with the efficiency of a marching band, making way for a cavalcade of hooded figures. The tune slowed to a dirge as they came forth, the solemn procession not terribly unlike what you’d find at a Catholic Mass. Indeed, the atmosphere was permeated with that same sense of cultish mysticism—the cultivated ambience which made it possible to let a sexually repressed man put a silver dollar sized piece of flesh in your mouth.
At the tail end of the procession walked three individuals who were not like the rest. The first I recognized instantly as Angelika. The witch was covered head to toe in silver from the feathered crown of her gaudy half-mask to the tips of her bedazzled stilettos. The second wore checkered gold, his Harlequin mask riddled with tapered ribbons and tinkling bells, its upturned lips painted black to match the kohl around the wearer’s eyes. Of course, no matter how elaborate the getup, there was no hiding Liam’s helmet of curls, or those pointed ears.
The third came last and plodded forward like some automaton who grasped the theory of walking, but not the practice. Unlike the other two, there was no way to know this person’s identity; the mask was a full-length Volto that obscured everything but the eyes and a crop of reddish blonde hair, its leather surface was dyed the same shade of virginal white as the tunic and breeches below.
I nudged Morgan as the hooded figures filed past, my voice so low it was barely audible over the music. “Can ye get word to the others? Somethin’ is happenin’ here, I can feel it.”
Morgan continued to stare straight ahead as though I hadn’t spoken, her gaze fixed on the eerie parade.
“Morgan, d’ye hear me?” I asked, louder this time. “Morgan le Fay? Hello?”
I turned to Dorian, expecting him to have some sort of insight into what was going on—or at least a critique of their showmanship. But the immortal had eyes only for our hosts as they cruised past us and mounted a stage carved into the side of the canyon. Indeed, it seemed everyone was similarly fixated. The crowd filled the gap they left behind in silence; their faces turned up in awe.
“Good evening, everyone!” Angelika stood front and center, presenting herself like a showgirl. “And welcome to our final show!”
Cheers erupted from every corner, including whistles and chants. Beside me, Dorian raised a fist in the air and pumped it, while Morgan put both hands to her mouth and screamed for joy. Then, as abruptly as they’d begun, everyone simply stopped—their mouths clamped shut, hands loose at their sides.
“Many of you know me,” Angelika began as she paced the stage, a rousing melody playing gently in the background. “You know us. We are entertainers! We are artists! And we are, of course, witches.”
The members of Angelika’s coven took a step forward and began revealing their faces one at a time. Each was a variation on a Slavic theme, making it nearly impossible to tell who was from which part of a nation that had once spanned much of the known world. Without exception, however—whether round or square jawed, thick or thin-lipped, fair-haired or dark—every individual among the thirteen men and women had dried blood smeared across their foreheads.
“And yet, for all we have done to make it better place, this world suffers! So many wage war, starve, get sick, and die. And why? Because they say magic is not solution.”
Boos and other disapproving noises rose from her audience as surely as if someone had held up the requisite sign during a live studio recording.
“They say magic is secret thing! Is like having tool others do not. Is to be controlled. Mastered. Regulated.” Angelika waggled her finger at the crowd. “They tell us that world is not ready for magic. But world is magic. And once, we knew this was true fact. Once, we were more than artists. More than entertainers. More than witches. We were the chosen of the gods!”
Angelika held out a hand to silence the crowd before it could get rowdy once more. Then, with the other, she beckoned Liam and his companion to join her. He did so with little fanfare, dragging their third by the arm like a teddy bear.
“And so, to save world, we shall be this again!”
As if on cue, Liam thrust the all-white figure forward to land on all fours at Angelika’s feet. The witch glared at the Gancanagh, bent down, and raised the man’s chin so that he stared up at her through his mask. Whatever she said to him was gentle, perhaps even loving. In any case, he rocked back on his heels so that—when she began untying the ribbon of his mask—his face was nestled in the folds of her skirt.
Which was likely why it took me a few seconds longer to recognize him than it should have. Still, by the time Angelika turned his face towards the crowd, I knew exactly who I’d see.
Bredon.
Beneath the light of the overhead moon and the torches scattered throughout the canyon, I could see that he’d been beaten. He had a black eye, a busted lip, and a bruise covering so much of one cheek that I wondered if his jaw was broken. And yet, when he saw us all standing there, he smiled—revealing missing and shattered teeth.
“Together, we beseech you!” Angelika shouted, throwing both arms wide as her fellow witches joined hands and closed their eyes. “We call you from past!”
A true wind began to pick up this time, whipping at everyone’s attire until all manner of accessories went flying about.
“We call you with power!�
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The air became so thick with humidity that it coated our skin and soaked our clothes.
“We call you with blood!”
Lightning arced overhead, its forked tongues racing across the sky in a flash so blinding I nearly missed the silver blade that appeared in Angelika’s outstretched hand and was forced to stare through spots as she plunged it deep into Bredon’s chest. I screamed and lunged forward in an effort to reach the wounded man, but my cry was drowned out by the howling wind and my arms held fast by my two companions.
“There!” Angelika cried as the gales died down, pointing to the heavens with a hand covered in blood. “There it is! We have called Hex Moon, days early!”
Sure enough, above us hung the largest, brightest moon I’d ever seen outside of Fae. Compelled by Angelika’s words, the other witches opened their eyes. They began shouting and jumping with excitement, reveling even as the sacrifice who’d made it possible bled out at her feet.
Feeling more and more helpless by the second, I struggled against Morgan and Dorian’s grips. Unfortunately, they were both strong enough that the only way to break free was to hurt them, and I wasn’t willing to go that far, yet. Besides, Bredon was surely dead by now. I couldn’t save him. What I could do, however, was put a stop to the second act of their mad play. After all, from what I’d been told, the Hex Moon only had one purpose: to amplify spells. Which meant they’d called it early for a reason.
“Everyone back into position!” Angelika called to her coven, grinning. “This was only first obstacle.”
The others did as she said.
“Now, we join hands, brothers and sisters!” Angelika drew a mark on her forehead with Bredon’s blood which mirrored those on her fellow witches. “Tonight, we use the power of Hex Moon and last drop of blood from thirteen evildoers to call to you, Belobog, Lord of Light and Saviour of all—”
“Actually, go ahead and let me stop you right there.”
Liam’s voice cut through the ritual like a snapped string in the middle of a guitar solo. And yet, no one in the crowd so much as stirred. Instead, they looked on with glassy-eyed stares as the Gancanagh strolled across the stage radiating so much power it leaked out the eyes of his mask like gold dust.
“Liam, what is this you are doing? Do not be a fool.”
“Guilty as charged,” Liam replied merrily, flicking one of his many bells for emphasis.
“I am serious. Get off stage while we summon Belobog.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. The summoning part, that is. I could get off the stage. I won’t. But I could.”
A disgusted look crossed Angelika’s face. “What is this madness you speak?”
“The truth can be a little maddening,” Liam replied, nodding sagely. The Gancanagh spun on his heel to face the audience, arms folded behind his back, his chest puffed up. “But would you all like to hear it, anyway?”
“YES!”
I flinched, startled by the crowd’s collective response.
“Know your audience,” Liam said as he turned to Angelika. He snapped his fingers, and all the other witches fell to their knees with cries of alarm. He snapped them again, and they went down onto all fours. In a matter of seconds, fountains of blood began pouring from their eyes and mouths—far more than any ordinary person could afford losing and live.
“Stop this! What are you doing?!” Angelika raced to aid the nearest witch.
“I am returning things to the way they used to be. Isn’t that what you said you wanted? To bring back magic? To bring back the gods?” This time, Liam waggled his finger at her. “You were never chosen, you delusional creature. You were slaves. You were created to serve. Having magic simply made you better at it.”
“Stop killing them, please!” Angelika crouched beside a twitching body, the hem of her dress stained crimson. “Let them go!”
“My lovely Angelika...you know I can’t do that. Not after all the effort I went through to convince you this was the only way to get what you so desperately wanted. And certainly not after you murdered all those poor, innocent people thinking they were werewolves.”
“You said—”
“Oh, no. I let you do all the talking tonight. It’s my turn, now. And what I want to talk about is…” Liam drifted off; his masked face turned towards the moon. “Hmm...someone’s gone and done something they shouldn’t have.”
Angelika’s head shot up, her cheeks stained with tears and runny mascara. Perhaps sensing an opening, the witch bared her teeth, gathered up the voluminous mounds of her bloody skirt, and launched herself at the Gancanagh with all the athleticism she’d cultivated over the decades. Liam backhanded the dancer as one might a fly, sending her careening across the floor like a skipped rock.
“I really hate leaving the party before it’s over,” the Gancanagh muttered to himself. He walked to the center of the stage, stepping over the shattered body of his lover so casually she might as well have been a crack in the pavement in the process. “Oh well, I suppose it can’t be helped. Maybe I’ll double back. See what a mess he makes of you all.”
Realizing now was my best chance to end this gruesome bloodbath once and for all, I doubled down on my efforts to free my arms—using whatever means I could think of short of breaking their hands. If I could only awaken Areadbhar, I thought, I was sure I could stop the demented bastard with one well-timed throw. I yanked Dorian forward and began prying his fingers off with my teeth one at a time, but it seemed I was too late.
“Chernobog!” Liam shouted; his hands held to the heavens as though he planned to pluck the moon from the sky. “Lord of Darkness and Devourer of Souls, I give you the souls of thirteen...oh, make that fourteen, can’t believe I almost forgot Angelika...witches bathed in the blood of the innocent! By the power of the Hex Moon you are called! Awaken, and feast!”
At first, all I sensed was an abrupt release of pressure as that horde of metaphysical energy dispersed into the night. Then a bestial roar, louder and more primal than a clash of thunder, split the night. Even more ominous, however, was the feeling of pervasive dread that seemed to accompany the horrendous sound.
“Ah, there he is,” Liam said, sounding quite satisfied with himself. “Should be along any minute now. Probably best I be on my way.”
With a flourish, the Gancanagh swiveled and bowed farewell to his audience—and yet it felt an awful lot like his blazing eyes were locked solely on mine. Was it possible Liam knew I was here? Was that how the other two had known to restrain me so I wouldn’t interrupt? As if on cue, Dorian and Morgan released me simultaneously, their faces so slack and unwitting that their mouths hung partially open. The Gancanagh came out of the bow and retreated into a portal of his own making, waving cheerfully until the portal closed, leaving nothing behind but his final words.
“Die well, everyone!”
And that’s when the screaming started.
Chapter 39
The screams were those of startled women, mostly, though a few men joined in with shouts of shock and disgust at waking from Liam’s spell to find a stage covered in corpses. Not that I could blame them. Frankly, I couldn’t remember ever having seen so much blood in one place; it oozed outwards by the pint, spilling over the stage to form puddles which lapped at the feet of those in front. Unsurprisingly, those were the people screaming loudest.
And yet, I had a feeling the nightmarish scene was nothing compared to what awaited us.
“What’s going on?” Morgan asked, grabbing my arm for the second time in as many hours, her gaze sliding from the stage to the sky. “What happened here? Is that the Hex Moon?”
“Are those people dead? Because they look dead to me,” Dorian chimed in before I could answer.
“Ye don’t remember any of this? Neither of ye?”
They both gave me blank looks.
I opened my mouth to explain as best I could, only to be cut off by a second barrage of screams. Except these weren’t squeals of dismay. They were cries of genui
ne horror. I spun round to find the lifeless corpses spasming so violently that a few had even rolled to their backs, their arms and legs flopping bonelessly about like those of the inflatable tube men that haunt automotive dealerships. Within seconds, a foul wind whipped about the canyon, blowing out the few remaining torches like candles on a birthday cake, and something huge began to rise up from the center of the stage—a bulbous, amorphous shape covered in a bloody sheet. No, I realized, covered in a sheet made of blood. The more the colossal figure swelled and expanded, the more liquid was pulled into its wake.
Moments later, all that blood rose into the air, floating above our heads like some sort of possessed blanket. As we watched, however, shapes began bulging at the edges. Here, a hand. There, a leg. A hideously emaciated arm emerged from one side, only to be yanked back down by a thicker, more muscular limb. This continued for several heartbeats until, without warning, the whole mess came dribbling down like juice from a freshly squeezed fruit.
And, where it landed, a god began to take shape.
Aside from what had been insinuated during the ritual, I couldn’t tell you exactly how I knew he was a god except to say that the energy which roiled off him was unlike anything of this world. Indeed, it was unlike anything I had ever encountered before. Whereas I’d met a fair number of gods, many of whom had the potential to level whole civilizations on a whim, this creature—the one Liam called Chernobog—struck me as an odious and contemptible being capable only of laying waste to everything he touched. Which meant, by the time the abomination rose to his full height, his ebony black skin slick and dripping with gore, I knew we were all in serious trouble.
And so, too, did everyone else.
Those in the back of the crowd surged towards the exit, their terrified shrieks inciting even more panic than there would have been otherwise until the rest of the mob joined them in a mad dash to freedom. Except the only way out was that narrow gap, which meant the vast majority of us were more or less trapped.
Moonshine: Phantom Queen Book 11—A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Page 22