Witchwood and Seabound

by Ethan Proud

  “The Killdeers have been murdered.”

  He spun on his heel to leave, but Deputy Kerfield grasped him by the shoulder and turned him back around. The young Corax’s face was slammed against the side of the building before he felt the familiar cold of irons cuff his wrists.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he grumbled.

  “As of now, you are the number one suspect. Now wait here while I saddle my horse,” Kerfield ordered before he set off after his tack.

  Kerfield rode from the stable and kicked Mission in the middle of the back gently, if a kick could be gentle. “Lead the way.”

  “No horse for me?” Mission asked sardonically.

  “If you can afford one, maybe we will purchase you one on the way to the Killdeers. Though I doubt anyone living in the Oyster Shell block could afford to buy one, let alone pay to board, feed, and shoe the beast,” Kerfield said with disdain.

  Mission began to walk alongside the horse. “Only if I was as unimaginative as you, would I encounter any difficulties,” Mission drawled.

  They arrived at the Killdeer’s home nearly thirty minutes later. The door had been crushed into thousands of splinters and the frame looked just as worse for wear. Kerfield dismounted Wineae and pushed Mission into the house in front of him. Trinkets within the house had melted and now stained the floor in hardened rivulets of many different smelted metals. The house itself reeked of death, as if the Killdeers had been dead for many days, not just hours. The power of the vulkodlak made the house seem many years older as well. The boards, where its feet had tread, were split with wood rot fungi and tiny fruiting bodies emerged from each whorl. Nonprecious metals had begun to rust, and the water left in cups had grown stagnant and contained their own microcosms. The bodies of the Killdeers were stark white bones, hard and brittle as if bleached by the sun, the meat that clung to their hands and feet brown and gray and tough.

  James pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose. “It reeks, how long have they been dead?”

  “I wouldn’t imagine they have been rotting for longer than the waning of the last full moon,” Mission speculated.

  This earned him an incredulous look from the deputy. “That’s impossible. It hasn’t even been two days,” the deputy said adamantly through the cloth held to his face.

  “Ruckstead really hasn’t clued you in to what’s going on has he? This isn’t the work of man or even a mundane creature. We are dealing with monsters of the pantheon. There is evil in Northgate beyond the witchcraft that you and its residents are so afraid of,” Mission said with a sneer that sickened the deputy.

  He grabbed Mission by the shackles and hauled him from the house. He forcefully tossed the lighter man across his horse’s flank and swung into the saddle.

  “If you know so much about the sheriff’s investigation, then I suppose you won’t mind waiting for him at the jail while I call the coroner,” Kerfield said through gritted teeth.

  Mission swore under his breath but declined to tell the deputy that he had no news to relay to the sheriff. It brought him undue pleasure knowing that the sheriff was currently summoning a demon with his cousin. So much for upholding the law.

  His skin grew cold and pale when he realized they were inviting a demon to the first plane that had sworn to steal him away and punish him for Artemisia imprisoning his brother. Vahrun was a fiend with a long memory who held many grudges.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  As loath as he was to leave Artemisia with the demon, Ruckstead returned to town alone. He had a family and a city to run and couldn’t spend all his hours in the witch’s cabin. He stopped in the middle of the street where he had gunned down Hugh and tied Wineae to a hitching rail in front of Doctor Stern’s office.

  Pushing open the door, he found the bespectacled doctor pouring over some documents privy to physician-patient privilege. He casually slid the newspaper over them, no doubt the papers belonged to a prostitute who had contracted the clap, some other heinous disease, or had found herself pregnant.

  “Sheriff Ruckstead, long time no see,” he croaked out. The doctor was getting older by the day and soon Northgate would need a new one.

  “I believe I saw you only a matter of days ago,” Sheriff Ruckstead said and flashed a grin.

  “I meant for a visit. I haven’t seen you since we gave Ben his pox vaccine,” the doctor elaborated with arthritic hand gestures.

  “I felt healthy as an ox until I was caught out in the cold the other night.” Ruckstead raised his blackened fingers and tried to waggle them to illustrate his point. They didn’t heed his command and he dropped his hand back to his side.

  “You should have come to me as soon as that happened. There’s no saving those fingers now,” Stern admonished.

  “I know. Cut ‘em off,” Ruckstead said in all seriousness. It was only his pinky and ring finger on his right hand. Thankfully it wasn’t the hand his wedding band resided on or Gertrude would be beside herself. With a sigh Stern motioned for him to come to his operating table. He handed Ruckstead a piece of wood that had the gnaw marks from many different sets of teeth.

  “I’ll pass on that. Just make it quick.” The sheriff set the wooden dowel down and placed his hand on the table, fingers splayed apart.

  Stern opened a drawer and withdrew a bone saw pitted with rust and stained with the blood of previous patients. He grabbed the sheriff’s wrist and had a surprisingly strong grip as he positioned the saw above the dead tissue. Ruckstead didn’t even feel the teeth first pierce his skin, but moments later he felt his muscles and tendons tear beneath the saw’s bite. The wet sound became a terrible dry grating once it touched bone and the sheriff clenched his teeth as tight as he could.

  The doctor worked quickly but it felt like an eternity of back and forth before his fingers dropped to the table limply. Ruckstead left his hand flat against the wood as the doctor fetched his needle and thread and sewed the torn skin back together. He dabbed a cotton ball in some foul-smelling liquid and administered the numbing ointment to the now empty knuckles.

  “This will help with the pain,” Doctor Stern said as he handed a vial to Ruckstead. On its label it read: codeine, morphine, chloroform, and cocaine.

  “Thanks, Doc,” Ruckstead said as he walked towards the door. His head and legs still felt light from the agony he had just endured, but as always, he put on a passive face.

  “Before you go,” Doctor Stern began, “you shouldn’t have killed the Ramek boy.”

  With a fire in his eyes, Ruckstead whirled around and bared his teeth. “He deserved it. He threatened James, a man of the law. Just because he has money does not mean that he can terrorize Northgate as he likes.”

  Stern pulled his glasses from his face and wiped them nervously. “I didn’t mean to imply that. But Swain has many powerful friends in Northgate. I hear he is plotting something. The Rameks are trouble.”

  Ruckstead laughed. “I’m the Sheriff of Northgate, a criminal is a criminal. All of the new businessmen mean trouble and I have enough bullets for each of them if they cross me. It takes more than the likes of Swain to frighten me.”

  The sheriff’s words were true. He had faced a demon who had promised to devour him earlier that day. Artemisia, who spoke of gods and bound demons, terrified him more than any businessman, werewolf, or demon ever could.

  Ruckstead let the door swing shut behind him and left Doctor Stern’s office two fingers lighter.

  The sheriff untied the reins from the hitching post and swung into Wineae’s saddle. His hand was on fire after the initial shock had subsided. Even with the topical pain reliever he felt the sharp sensation. Gritting his teeth, he twisted Wineae around and cantered towards the jail. When he got there, he took her to the stable around back, brushed her down and fed her oats and an apple. She graciously took the fruit and munched it heartily, pieces falling to the ground which she greedily sought after, her nostrils flaring as she attempted to locate each morsel among the straw. />
  Ruckstead left the stable and entered the jail in a sour mood and an aching hand. He stopped in the doorframe when he noted the jail’s occupant.

  “Couldn’t stay away?” he asked Mission with a raised eyebrow.

  “It’s quite homey,” the youth said through a yawn.

  “Let him out,” Ruckstead said wearily to Kerfield.

  “What? Why? You don’t even know why he’s in this time!” the young deputy protested.

  “He’ll just get out again anyways,” Ruckstead said and motioned for Kerfield to get on with it.

  The keys jangled as they turned in the lock and Mission stepped free. He glanced at the sheriff and announced, “The Killdeers are dead.”

  The sheriff shot an icy glare at Kerfield. “When were you going to tell me this?”

  “It’s not like you gave me a moment to say anything before you ordered him released. Should I put him back?” Kerfield asked.

  “No!” Ruckstead and Mission exclaimed in unison. Kerfield put his hands up in capitulation.

  “I’m assuming the Killdeers were eaten?” Ruckstead said hanging his hat on the top hook of the coat rack and ruffling his hair with his whole hand.

  “What’s going on in this town?” Kerfield asked earnestly.

  The sheriff studied the young man before conceding.

  “Werewolves.”

  He sat down as if he had just stated the weather and slid the newspaper in front of him. Mission chortled.

  “Those aren’t real,” James said adamantly.

  “Put some coffee on, would you?” Ruckstead didn’t take his eyes off the paper as he leafed through its pages.

  “Ruckstead, I don’t know what games you are playing, but people are dying. You can’t go chasing monsters that don’t exist,” Kerfield said angrily.

  “Do you think I would have involved myself with the Coraxes if I had another option?” Ruckstead answered evenly.

  “All right, leave me out of this,” Mission said with an ill attempt at humor.

  “Why are you still here?” Kerfield snapped. Mission shrugged but didn’t leave. The deputy turned back towards the sheriff. “Can we please just solve these murders so the people of Northgate can sleep at night?”

  “Don’t insult me like that. You have seen herds of animals and people slaughtered and you still think this is the work of a human?” Ruckstead’s voice dripped with disdain and bordered on rage.

  Kerfield stammered. “N-no. I just don’t believe in imaginary creatures.”

  “These imaginary creatures will surely be the death of me if I don’t kill them soon,” Ruckstead murmured. “Now, that coffee.”

  James turned around, defeated, and did the sheriff’s bidding. The sheriff turned and glared at Mission, who was still standing there looking far too smug for having not been a part of the conversation.

  “Get out of here. And check on your cousin. She has a rather unsavory house guest.”

  At the mention of Vahrun, Mission blanched. It was all he could do not to break out in a cold sweat. On legs like jelly he exited the jail. Outside in the cool fall air, he made the pertinent decision not to pay a visit to Artemisia.

  Inside, Ruckstead stared at the mug of coffee in front of him, tipped the doctor’s medicine in it and watched the swirling pattern that dissipated as it mixed with the hot drink.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “Where’s my brother?” Vahrun demanded as he stirred the cup of tea in front of him with a long-handled spoon.

  “You act as though he is held against his will,” Artemisia said dismissively. “When he wishes to see you, I am sure he will make himself known.”

  “I will drag him kicking and screaming back to the fourth plane if I must,” Vahrun threatened evenly.

  “Your family squabble is between the two of you. But I will be sure to warn him.”

  The demon snorted. A whorl of teeth appeared in his cheek and chattered incessantly before disappearing back beneath his flesh. His unmarred human complexion belied the beast within. It was rumored that each of the tiny mountain ranges of teeth belonged to souls he had consumed between the planes. According to Denizens of the Pantheon, Vahrun and his siblings fed on the souls of lost beings who wandered too far from their home planes. Once he had devoured the Harvest God, Messis, before his sister Detrita had hunted down the demons and traded them the souls of her most devoted worshippers. That was precisely why Artemisia tread carefully around the gods, they cared little for the troubles of humans and more often than not, caused them.

  “Back to the matter at hand. This vampire wolf. Where is he?” Vahrun drummed his fingers on the table top. The wood fogged with steam beneath each of his fingers.

  “That I do not know,” Artemisia admitted.

  “Then why summon me now? I won’t do all of your dirty work for you,” the demon said.

  “I tried. He is being protected by someone.”

  “Tsk, tsk. Not even the mighty Artemisia can pierce this veil? The conjurer of the spell must be someone powerful,” Vahrun said with mock respect.

  “The Goddess Mond has answered the prayers of her faithful and cast a shimmer about him,” Artemisia answered and Vahrun’s expression withered.

  “I will not aid you in this quest anymore.” He started to rise but became frozen. Only his eyes could dart back and forth. He could, however, molt back into his demon form. His skin split and screamed as it seared into a black tar that dripped down his body. Smoke rose from the floor.

  “You swore your oath. You cannot leave this plane or defy me until the vulkodlak is dead. Now sit,” Artemisia said flashing a smile, but her eyes remained a dead, cold blue.

  The demon obeyed. Artemisia handed him the knuckle bones. Vahrun scoffed, plucked one from the table and plopped it into his mouth. He ground his teeth together and rendered the bone to dust. He spat the gray gob onto the table.

  “You know that I will need something more powerful than the bones of a rapist. Were we on my home plane, I could locate the beast without any tools. But here my sight is limited. You must travel back to the fourth plane and find the basin in my home and fill it with the pods of the snapdragon blossoms under the Tree of the Morning.” Vahrun met Artemisia’s stare. He could sense her reluctance, but her façade was as strong-willed as ever. He was sure that she tricked plenty of people with her confident bravado.

  “I can do it,” Artemisia said.

  “Yes, but can you make it past the tree’s guardian?” the demon smirked.

  “We shall see. In the meantime, leave. I have a trip to plan and don’t want you in my home while I am away from my body.”

  Vahrun stood and bowed graciously. “As you wish my queen.” The door to the cottage slammed shut a moment later.

  Before he got too far, Artemisia darted from the door. “You can’t go anywhere looking like that!”

  Vahrun waved at her as if to say ‘yes, I know’. In the span of a breath he was back in his human form, trotting towards town. Artemisia went back into her home, closed the door, and pulled Denizens of the Pantheon off the shelf. She flipped open to the entry titled The Tree of the Morning. She had a little light reading to do before her jaunt.

  ***

  Whistling a tune, Vahrun made good time to the Main Road. He had never been to Northgate, but he knew exactly where he was going. His sense of smell was more attuned than a bloodhound’s and he had been hunting his prey across the planes for many years. Of course, with his bond to Artemisia, he could do no one harm until she permitted it. But that didn’t mean that a good scare wouldn’t bring him undue pleasure.

  Using his nose, Vahrun found Oyster Shell just off of Raven’s Barrow. Not that he needed his demon senses to locate such a foul place. He pushed open the dilapidated apartment door and strode up the soft, rotten steps and knocked on Mission’s door.

  Even with his disguise, Mission recognized him. He stumbled backwards and nearly tripped in his haste to be away from the demon. Vahrun laughed easily, b
ut the young Corax still slid the table from its place against the wall and shoved it towards the devil with all his might. Vahrun caught it by its lip with one hand and held it still. He pushed it back, its legs squealing against the floor. He stepped through the threshold and reclined on a couch. A moth alighted from its resting place and thumped against the window on the far side of the room.

  “The he-witch is not nearly as bold as his cousin,” Vahrun said with amusement.

  “That’s because you have not promised to drag her into hell and torture her for an eternity,” Mission hissed.

  “No, but she would seek to save you and then your lot would become hers. She is aware of the stakes,” Vahrun said, his third eye blinking open for a moment before winking back shut.

  “What are you doing here?” Mission asked, taking a seat on his bed, the farthest object from where the demon reclined.

  “I came only for your company,” the demon drawled. “You always run when I come to see you.”

  “No shit.” Mission’s words dripped venom, but it did little to deter Vahrun.

  “You are like a puppy, barking at an intruder. One little kick would send you whimpering back into a corner.”

  “But I know that while you are bound, you cannot do anything of the sort,” Mission countered, summoning up what little bravery he had.

  “Yes, but I wished to get a look at your hovel before I am free from this oath. I have to say, I can’t believe you live like this.” Vahrun stood up and made for the door. “I’ll see you again soon, but in the meantime enjoy your days left in this realm.”

  Stepping from the Oyster Shell Block, Vahrun was amazed by the host of disgusting smells that wafted on the air. The first plane was such a mundane world. The gods had truly showed this place as little mercy as possible. Vahrun could still detect their influence, but it was buried deep and few knew how to call upon it. Of course, Artemisia was well aware of the power of the earth, which was why she was such a formidable witch, but few others in this town even knew what power lay at their fingertips.