Witchwood and Seabound

by Ethan Proud

She cocked her head to one side as if listening to someone, even though the apartments were utterly silent.

  “Someone comes, we need to leave,” De’lune said with a start.

  “How do you know that? Who?” Mission pressed.

  “Someone dangerous, we need to leave now,” De’lune said as she got off the bed and pulled Mission after her.

  “Vahrun?” Mission asked, a sudden quickness in his step.

  “Yes,” De’lune said curtly as she pushed the door open.

  “How do you know about him?” Mission said, pulling her back.

  “My father met him, and I remembered from our visit to the second plane,” De’lune said exasperatedly. Alarm bells rang in Mission’s head. Artemisia would want to know that Swain and the demon had been in cahoots. De’lune whirled back around. “Mission, we need to hide.”

  Snapping back to the present, Mission thought of the nearest place they could go. “Down the hall, my neighbor never locks her door.”

  ***

  The door to Mission’s apartment was kicked off its hinges as Vahrun made his way in. His eyes glowed with bloodlust. The door lay in splintered ruins, no doubt the landlord would charge Mission for a better replacement. Vahrun’s eyes scanned the entire apartment in a matter of seconds. He ripped the stove away from the wall and flung it across the room before moving towards the bed. He could see the fresh imprint of two bodies, yet Mission and his friend were nowhere to be seen. Grabbing the bed by the frame, Vahrun flipped it behind him. The bed frame broke asunder just as the door had. Vahrun’s eyes alighted on the hole in the wall and the glitter of coins. He could smell the tang of precious metals in the air. Vahrun snaked his hand within and pulled out a small fortune. Greedily he popped one of the coins into his mouth and chewed it slowly. Demons didn’t only feed on flesh, and the currency of man was just as delightful as blood. One by one, dollar by dollar, he consumed all of Mission’s savings.

  ***

  Two rooms down the hall, Mission and De’lune hid in an apartment empty of its resident. They sat in silence with bated breath, as Vahrun ransacked Mission’s apartment. He would be back, and so would Ms. McCreary and she would not be happy to find two vagrants in her home. They needed to find a better hide-out.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Out of breath, Beatrice Axel raced into the town offices to find William and Jackson forging the documents to prove that Vahrun had been elected mayor. Their eyes were glossy, and their hands moved quickly.

  “Sirs,” Beatrice began. “I have to tell you something about our new mayor.”

  Neither of them looked up.

  “He is doing a fine job isn’t he?” the attorney said casually.

  “No! He’s not a human. I just saw him eat his horse!” Beatrice exclaimed.

  This did not elicit a reaction from either man.

  “We need to do something!” Beatrice shouted. The trauma she had witnessed had broken any spell Vahrun had put on her, but her colleagues were deeply entrenched in the demon’s dark magic.

  “The citizens of Northgate elected him. Any action we would take to unseat him would be a grave misconduct,” William Maybury said and slid the resolution that swore Vahrun into office to the secretary.

  Beatrice backpedaled slowly and left the building. She glanced down at the warrant still in her hand. With a sigh, she realized that there was only one woman who could help her.

  ***

  Newt snorted and pawed at the ground as Artemisia rushed into the Oyster Block apartments, her feet clattering up the steps. Each movement brought new pain to her wrist and ribs, but it didn’t slow her down. Covered in cat’s blood she found the door to Mission’s apartment in ruins. The room was in a similar state, and her mind reeled. Vahrun had already found Mission.

  She sank down to the ground and pulled the knucklebones from a pouch at her hip. She scattered the bones and ran her hand a few inches over them, attempting to divine Mission’s presence in the higher planes. She sat back on her heels with a frown. Rarely did the bones give a clear answer. From the same pouch, she pulled a deck of cards bound by a leather thong. She pulled three cards and laid them face up. Once again, the Empress stared back at her. The second card was the Page of Cups, and the last was The Moon. Her face creased again, and she drew two more cards. The first was the Ten of Cups and the second was the Ten of Swords.

  The last card disturbed her the most, the image of the man falling face down with a decade of blades in his back was never a good omen. She attempted to decode the cards, she was the Empress, and every time she dealt the woman appeared. The Page of Cups was Mission, but the Moon befuddled her. The Ten of Cups was usually a card indicating celebration and love, which Artemisia had pulled numerous times for engaged proletariat couples who wished to see their future. The Ten of Swords was clearly a warning, but if it was for Mission or herself was hard to decipher. She scooped up the cards and knucklebones and stood to her feet. Whatever the cards had told her, they had not indicated that Mission had been kidnapped. On the contrary, he seemed to be involved in some kind of romance.

  Artemisia recalled the last conversation she had with Mission when she was still in her catatonic, self-pitying state after the sheriff’s demise. Now the third card made sense. One of the Rameks was still alive.

  Artemisia hurried down the stairs, she would scry for Mission in her basin. Now that she knew what to look for it should prove a simple task. When she made her way down the stairs, she found someone waiting for her. Beatrice stood next to Newt and looked extremely nervous. The witch’s eyes narrowed when she saw the parchment the woman was holding. Artemisia had never received a document from the town that had boded well for her.

  “Beatrice,” Artemisia said curtly, much in the same way that she had greeted Ruckstead when he came seeking her help.

  “Artemisia,” the secretary said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I need your help.”

  “I have problems of my own, Beatrice,” Artemisia said scathingly. “And you can put that warrant away. An actual lawman is required for an arrest.”

  “I can only imagine what problems an herbalist such as you would have, but my problem belongs to all of Northgate,” Beatrice said as diplomatically as she could.

  The fact that the woman called her an herbalist instead of a witch was enough reason for Artemisia to hear her out.

  “I am listening.”

  “Our current mayor, Vahrun, is no mayor at all…” Beatrice began, and Artemisia snorted.

  “I am well aware,” Artemisia said, dismissing the woman. She moved to mount Newt, but Beatrice grabbed her by her broken wrist. Artemisia snatched it back from her and stared daggers at her.

  “Vahrun has a plan for you,” Beatrice said and handed Artemisia the order for her execution. The witch scanned it quickly and handed it back.

  “That is of little consequence right now,” Artemisia said as she pulled herself onto Newt. A thought occurred to her at that moment. “How close are you to our current mayor?”

  Beatrice turned red and stammered, “Fairly close.”

  “As close as you were with our last?” Artemisia smirked.

  “Regrettably so,” Beatrice answered, clearly chagrined. Beatrice’s reputation proceeded her and evidently, the woman had a type. Not that Artemisia was prone to judgment.

  “Good,” Artemisia said and spurred Newt forward. “Keep up the ruse. I will need an inside woman.”

  Beatrice watched as Artemisia rode north. The secretary looked down at the warrant in her hand and tore it in half, folded the pieces, and tore it in half again. She let the scraps flutter to the ground where the ink bled from the mud and water that saturated the street.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Gertrude sat in her husband’s chair at the jail, while Kerfield-Volker poured over maps of the parcels and plats of Northgate.

  “The town offices are here?” he asked and pointed to the parcel that Gertrude had just pointed out.

  “
Yes,” Gertrude said patiently.

  “And the mayor’s mansion is right here?” Kerfield-Volker pointed to another parcel.

  Gertrude leaned over the table to see it better. “Yes, how did you know?”

  “He told me,” the possessed deputy answered.

  I did not, Kerfield protested within the bowers of his own skull.

  It’s easier for her that I don’t tell her that I ravaged your brain to find it. You could have just supplied the information, Volker retorted. The demon felt a vicious mental jab as Kerfield tried to push Volker from his body. That will do you no good. I am firmly lodged. Only a witch or shaman can banish me.

  Kerfield settled into silence in the farthest corner of his body that he could find.

  “What is Artemisia’s plan?” Gertrude asked.

  “I am not sure. But I am formulating one of my own,” Kerfield-Volker answered.

  “Pray tell,” Gertrude said, totally unnerved by the newfound mannerisms of the young man she had known so well.

  “Demons cannot travel planes without an invitation from a resident of the realm they are traveling to, save being sent by a higher being, namely a divine spirit. This can be done with purpose or unintentionally. Many doors are opened accidentally by humans, which allows numerous demons to flood through. These doors are harder to find than when one is summoned. I will open a hidden portal, cast Vahrun into it, and close it behind him,” Kerfield-Volker explained.

  “He ate my husband, I want him dead,” Gertrude said evenly.

  “My dear, not even Artemisia could challenge a demon directly. One would need the assistance of an oathbound demon or a god or goddess,” Kerfield-Volker said casually.

  “You are bound by oath, why can’t you kill him?”

  With a noise of exasperation, Kerfield-Volker slammed his palm on the table. “I have been weakened tremendously by my tenancy of this plane. Even on the fourth plane I would be no match for Vahrun.”

  Gertrude settled back in her chair and crossed her arms. Dealing with demons was just as big a pain in the ass as she had imagined.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  The herbs, sage, lavender, and mint were strong in the air as Artemisia poured a tiny droplet of anise oil into a basin to divine Mission’s location. She was only searching the first realm, and not pulling past or future events so she didn’t need the protection of the plants, but a little caution went a long way. The glassy surface in the bowl rippled before revealing the blackened frame and ashen remains of the Ramek Manor.

  “Dammit, Mission,” Artemisia said as she scanned the area. She willed her astral traveler from her body and into the image. She didn’t truly project herself, but simply lingered outside her physical form and steered the reflection in the bowl. For this she didn’t need any flight potion or herbs. She explored the Ramek property, her traveler’s feet never touching the snow dusted earth. Much of the house was in ruins and would not be a suitable refuge with the near freezing temperatures. As she continued her search, she found a rogue footprint. It clearly belonged to a young man, or a woman with sasquatchine proportions. She followed it for several hundred meters, until it disappeared into a copse of beech trees and gorse. Artemisia’s ethereal form easily passed through the brambles and trunks. When she emerged on the other side, she found an outbuilding. It appeared to be servant quarters, though to her knowledge the only slave in the Ramek household had been De’lune. It must have been constructed by the previous owners.

  Artemisia stood before the doorway and listened for life within. If she crossed the threshold into the building, Mission would surely detect another presence. He had a touch of magic about him, though the he-witch was not as refined, powerful, or resourceful as his cousin. Depending on what relation the priestess De’lune had with the Goddess Mond, she may have the capability of trapping Artemisia’s traveler there. Thinking back on her residency as a worshipper of Mond, Artemisia decided that the goddess would surely warn De’lune that their sanctuary had been violated. Artemisia heard hushed whispers within, the rustle of clothes, and clandestine promises. She grimaced and returned to her body.

  The witch shuddered as her astral traveler wedged itself back into her physical body. It was akin to a snail sliding back into its shell. Artemisia cracked her neck and began to ponder what interest the goddess had in the Ramek family. Artemisia had seen plenty of prodigal daughters of the goddess sacrificed as penance for their disloyalty while she served Mond. However, it had been years since she had turned her back on the Moon. The goddess did have a long memory. Perhaps the wolves of Northgate and the priestess were her punishment for blasphemy. Artemisia mulled over these thoughts before she withdrew the tarot cards for a second time that day. Her wrist and ribs ached, but she had more pressing matters at hand. She fumbled with the deck and dealt four cards. The first was the Empress, the second the Moon, the third was Death, and the last was the Tower. She interpreted the reading quickly. She and the priestess would duel, yielding chaos and death. Mission would not be pleased. Regardless of the outcome, he would have at least one body to bury.

  ***

  Despite the sense of foreboding that his cousin was feeling, Mission was immensely pleased at the moment. The servant quarters were little more than a single room with cots and a kitchenette, but to him it was a palace. De’lune’s silvery hair cascaded across his chest and stomach, a few strands even tickled his nose. One of her hands was placed in the cleft of his hip, while his palm was flat against her lower back. Her breathing was rhythmic and slowed with each passing minute.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  “I think we should wait for Artemisia,” Gertrude said as Kerfield-Volker drew the pentagram in the dirt outside the jail. At each of the five points flames flared but with a wave of his hand the portal melted into the mud.

  “Duly noted. Don’t step in that,” Kerfield-Volker said.

  “I thought you respected her? Why are you going behind her back now?” Gertrude pressed. She didn’t entirely trust the demon.

  “I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my days as a cat, living in the woodwitch’s cabin. This form is torture,” Kerfield-Volker said as he ground his teeth.

  You can say that again, Kerfield muttered under his breath.

  Silence, Volker hissed and Kerfield once again retreated from the demon’s foul presence.

  “How do we lure Vahrun in now?” Gertrude asked.

  “There is no ‘we’. Occupying this body will only fool him for so long. You need to bring him here. Something under the guise of your beloved late husband,” Kerfield-Volker said.

  “And what makes you think he will follow me here?” Gertrude challenged him.

  “He devoured your husband, he has a particularly sick sense of humor. As long as he knows that your late spouse was Ruckstead, he will come,” the demon assured her.

  “So be it,” Gertrude said as she swung into Lily’s saddle.

  It wasn’t a long ride to the town offices, but to Gertrude it felt like an eternity. Her stomach was in knots and her palms sweaty. She was utterly terrified to face the beast that had eaten her husband alive. Yet despite her insurmountable fear, she pressed on.

  When she reached the mayor’s office, she tied Lily to the hitching post and strode inside. She found Beatrice sitting at the reception desk.

  “I need to see Mayor Vahrun,” Gertrude said coolly. She noted the secretary’s pallid complexion.

  “And may I ask what pretense this visit is under?” Beatrice asked. She attempted to sound professional, but her voice caught one too many times.

  “I am the sheriff’s widow. I should not have to request the mayor’s condolences. Yet here I am,” Gertrude said, her demeanor turning icy.

  Beatrice’s hands trembled on the desk, it was both a combination of fear of Gertrude and a reluctance to face her demon lover.

  Luck was on Beatrice’s side for she did not have to leave her desk. Vahrun had heard the exchange and casually descended the stairs, his b
oots thudding on each step. Gertrude straightened when she saw him and set her jaw. She felt her pulse quicken and she tried to ignore the sweat beading on her forehead.

  “You must be the Lady Ruckstead,” Vahrun purred. He eyed the woman up and down with a predacious gleam in his eye.

  “Indeed I am. My husband has been dead for many days, yet I have received no flowers, letters, or severance packages. I am well aware of the benefits I am entitled, having been married to a public servant,” Gertrude said and Vahrun was taken aback momentarily. He quickly regained his composure.

  “Benefits you were entitled to, should he have died in good standing with the town. I’m afraid that is not the case. I believe the double homicide case is pending investigation. Did your husband admit to you that he killed both Mayor Kerrick and Swain Ramek before he turned the gun on himself?” Vahrun, the master manipulator said in a most cordial tone.

  Gertrude was even quicker on her feet. “That is why I am here. I will be receiving my benefits in exchange for my sworn statement of Sheriff Wilder Ruckstead’s guilt prior to his death. If you would accompany me to the jail, I believe that Interim Sheriff Kerfield must witness this account,” Gertrude said and Vahrun did his best to conceal his broad grin.

  “Regrettably, I no longer have a horse. I will meet you at the jail as quickly as I can,” Vahrun said. Neither he nor Gertrude noticed the expression on poor Beatrice’s face.

  Gertrude was determined to make sure the demon arrived at the jail as promised. “I will walk. I don’t believe we have ever met. This will be a good opportunity to chew the fat before we get down to brass tacks.”

  “Of course,” Vahrun said and nodded. His mouth was beginning to salivate. The thought of consuming an entire family was nearly overwhelming.

  The demon and widow stepped outside the office and Gertrude deftly untied Lily from the post. She led the horse with the reins and walked alongside the mayor.