Druid Bond

by Brad Magnarella

  The rector watched me with critical eyes as I passed.

  I took a final glance back at Broadway to find several of the men moving our way—but still in search mode, it appeared.

  When we were all inside, the rector closed and locked the door. I exhaled. We were at the rear of the chapel’s nave. In the wavering light of the rector’s candle, I observed a back row of boxed pews as well as a pair of columns that rose into the darkness of a high ceiling. The energy inside the chapel felt soothing, benevolent. Though we were at the rector’s mercy, I trusted him.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He nodded. With a softly spoken “this way,” he led us down an aisle that ran alongside the nave. He continued past the altar and into a back room, where he went around lighting several candles with his own. They illuminated what looked like a dormitory consisting of two beds, two wooden desks, and a basic armoire.

  “I’ll return with water and some linen,” he said.

  Jordan already had Malachi sitting on the edge of a bed and was peeling back his sleeve.

  “Damn,” Gorgantha muttered as the wound came into view. The slash was ugly and deep.

  The rector returned with a basin, and together, he and Jordan cleaned the wound until the basin water turned almost as dark as Malachi’s robe. I noticed Jordan hadn’t taken out his druid kit, which was smart. Many religious officials in the present day considered any and all magic the work of Satan, and I knew that went triple for the colonial era. With Jordan holding Malachi’s arm, the rector poured what smelled like drinking alcohol over the cleaned wound, then wrapped it tightly with strips of linen.

  “There,” he said, tying off the final strip. “We’ll check it again in the morning. Make certain there’s no infection. I have a pallet I can bring in for a third bed. I’ll prepare the room next door for the women. You may stay two nights. No more. The vicar and curate return from Boston on the tenth,” he explained.

  “We’re friends of the Church,” Malachi assured him.

  The rector looked at each of us in turn, his gaze lingering on mine. Deep inside, I felt Thelonious stir. The rector’s a shadow exorcist, I realized in alarm. He can see the demonic essence I’m harboring. I expected fear and hatred to take hold in the man’s eyes. Instead, they softened with what seemed empathy.

  He returned his attention to Malachi. “I understand, but others won’t.”

  “Can you tell us what’s happening out there?” I asked him.

  “I believe the less said, the better.” He backed toward the doorway.

  “Wait.” Jordan stood from the bed. “We’ve come to the city to recover people. Loved ones stolen from us. We believe there might be a connection to the returned soldiers.” He glanced over at me as though to concede what I’d said earlier. “The same soldiers who injured Brother Malachi here.”

  The rector paused in the doorway.

  “What you know could save lives,” Jordan finished.

  “Someone paid the British to have the soldiers turned out,” he said.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I received the information from a minister at Middle Dutch Church. When the British occupied the city, the only religious houses allowed to remain in service were those loyal to the Church of England. Indeed, I’m required to ask the allegiance of anyone who seeks sanctuary here.” He dipped his eyes and added under his breath, “As if there’s a higher allegiance than to the Creator. The remaining churches were seized and turned into officers’ quarters or soldiers’ barracks. Middle Dutch became a prison for American soldiers.”

  “But they were released?” I asked.

  “Not from there, the overflow north of here on Broadway,” he said. “A converted sugar house. And very suddenly. According to the minister at Middle Dutch, someone paid an enormous sum for their freedom.”

  “They sprung the ones they’re still fighting ?” Gorgantha asked. “That’s straight up stup—I mean, that doesn’t make sense.”

  “No it doesn’t,” the rector agreed. “Nor does what those soldiers have become.”

  As a shadow exorcist, he would have discerned their soulless natures.

  “Have you noticed anything else amiss in the city besides the freed soldiers?” I asked.

  “There’s plenty amiss and always has been,” he said with a weary breath. He was likely referring to the darker of New York’s supernatural inhabitants. “But perhaps more worrying than that, or even the soldiers, is that the Church is considering selling the site where St. Martin’s stood before the fire.”

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  Had this happened in our actual history with the Church ultimately deciding not to sell the land and its powerful fount of ley energy? Or was someone from the outside messing with the time catch?

  “The buyer in this case is not a secret,” the rector said. “He’s an aggressive financier.”

  “His name?” I asked with growing dread.

  “Mr. Thorne.”

  26

  “Arnaud Thorne is here?” Jordan asked. “Your Arnaud Thorne?”

  The rector had finished setting up our rooms, brought us basins and towels for washing, as well as two bottles of wine and some hard bread, and bid us good night. The five of us reconvened in what was in effect the men’s dormitory.

  “Yes and no,” I replied, pacing. “Arnaud came to the New World sometime following the war against the Inquisition in Eastern Europe. He ended up here, in Manhattan, where he began building his empire.”

  “But when you asked, the rector said the pimp’s first name was Renault,” Gorgantha pointed out.

  “He changed his name every few decades claiming to be a son or nephew so as not to draw attention to his undead nature. Much more easily done before the digital age,” I added. “So yes, Arnaud Thorne is here, but it’s the eighteenth-century version, not the twenty-first.”

  “Do we need to worry about him?” Malachi asked.

  “He’ll have no idea who I am, much less the rest of you. As for the proposed purchase of the church site, he could just be after the real estate. He’s ambitious, always has been. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s making similar inquiries into the other properties in the fire zone. He might also see that particular property as insurance. You know, keeping the church from shaping the ley energy into a force destructive to his kind.”

  “So to be clear, you’re not going after him,” Jordan said abruptly.

  “There’d be no point,” Seay answered before I could. She was the only one to have partaken in the wine, and she cupped a goblet of red in her lap. “The time catch is a bubble. Killing someone here would have no effect on our time stream. Arnaud would carry on in the present as if nothing had happened.”

  I nodded. “What she said. And if you’re still worried about my commitment—”

  “I’m not,” Jordan cut in. “So let’s talk about what we came to the time catch for. You tracked a name here. We need you to track it again.”

  “It’s not going to be that easy.”

  “Why not?”

  “I won’t be able to cast inside the chapel, one. The threshold stripped my powers. Beyond that, it takes my magic time to adapt to a new location. We’re technically in the same place, but the organization of energy here is different. I need to get a solid handle on the pattern before attempting something as delicate as tracking a demon’s name.” When Jordan pressed his lips together, I said, “I get it, we’re in a hurry. Normally, I’d wait forty-eight hours, but I’m going to attempt the spell in twenty-four.”

  “And what are the rest of us supposed to do?” he asked.

  “For now, everyone is safest inside the chapel,” I said. “No evil can enter, and that includes the former soldiers and whoever’s possessing them.”

  “I can’t do that,” he said.

  “Do what?”

  “Wait here.”

  When he strode toward the door, I grasped his arm. “Where are you going?”

  I e
xpected him to shake me off, but he stopped and turned. “A druid circle is stronger than its members. When the Stranger infiltrated ours, it damaged that whole, weakened it. My abilities aren’t what they were. And they’re even more out of sorts after the jump here, sort of like yours. I’m having a hard time telling natural from unnatural. But there’s a druid circle about forty miles north of the city.”

  “How do you know?” I asked, releasing his arm.

  “During the Revolutionary War, the British announced that slaves who fled to their side would be freed following military service. A forebear of mine, Lee Derrow, took the chance. Left his master in Virginia and joined up with the Redcoats. Served bravely and ended up in a fort on the Hudson. When the tide shifted toward the Americans, the Brits released him. Rather than risk capture, he made for Canada. He didn’t know the land up here, though. The Raven Circle found him in the woods, starved and half dead. They healed him and initiated him into their druidhood. It was the circle I was born into.”

  I saw where this was going. “So you’re thinking of…?”

  “It would only take me a couple hours to fly there. Once I’m connected to the circle, I’ll be able to locate the Stranger.”

  “And the druids will let you in?” I asked.

  He tapped the symbols on his temple. “I have the mark.”

  “Let him do it,” Seay said, knowing the Stranger in question could just as easily be the one holding the half-fae as the druids.

  Still, Jordan’s plan was dicey. Forty miles. Communicating through the bonding sigil over that distance would require powerful magic I couldn’t afford to cast. We would never know if something happened to him. But his fellow druids were missing, including his wife. Hell, if it were Vega, I’d fly four thousand miles to get her back.

  “I’ll walk you out,” I said, picking up a candle.

  We returned through the nave, this time along the center aisle. I unlocked the main door and peered out. The front of the chapel was clear. So was Broadway for as far as I could see. The soldiers must have given up their search and resumed patrolling. I backed from the power of the threshold.

  “You’re good,” I said.

  “I’ll be back by noon tomorrow.”

  “If you get into trouble, call us,” I said, referring to our bond. I preferred to deal with the consequences of the ripple effect than leave Jordan to fend for himself. He started to edge past me, then stopped.

  “Delphine is close,” he said with trembling lips. “I can feel her.”

  “We’ll find her,” I assured him.

  With a determined nod, he crossed the threshold and ducked around the edge of the chapel into darkness. I remained in the doorway, sword in hand, listening for signs of trouble. A minute later, Jordan flapped past the front of the church in his raven form, tilted a wing, then climbed into a night sky of pale clouds.

  Rector Harland returned the following morning to check on Malachi’s arm. The gash was ugly, but there were no signs of infection. Seay and Gorgantha entered the room as he was wrapping the wound with fresh linen.

  “Where’s the other one in your party?” the rector asked.

  “Jordan left on an errand,” I said. He hadn’t signaled us during the night, which seemed like a good sign—unless of course he’d been taken out before he could activate it. But I needed to stay optimistic.

  “And what will the rest of you be doing today?” he asked.

  “We were about to discuss that,” I said, which was true.

  The rector straightened from Malachi’s side and looked us over. “If you wish to go out now, it should be safe. There are fewer rebel soldiers about during the day, and their vision doesn’t seem as keen. Still, I would advise that you not go out as a group. That’s what they’ll likely be looking for. No more than two of you together.” He reached into a pocket in his robe and drew out a pair of iron keys. “These will get you back inside the chapel if I’m not here. Just be certain to lock the door when you leave. I’m sorry I can’t give you sanctuary beyond tomorrow morning.”

  “We understand, Father,” I said, accepting the keys.

  “There’s more wine in the kitchen, and I’ve set out bread and cheese.”

  We all thanked him.

  When he left, I turned toward the others. Seay and Gorgantha were wearing the same dresses from the night before. If we wanted changes of clothes, we were going to have to purchase them in the city, but that was low on my list of priorities. “I think we should venture out,” I said. “I need to study the ley energy. Plus, there are some ingredients I want to gather for a stealth potion.”

  “I could be looking for Darian and the others,” Seay said. She turned to Gorgantha. “Wanna come with?”

  “Sure, but I’ll need to take a dip at some point.”

  As I handed Seay a key, Malachi looked up at me. “I can go with you.”

  “I’d rather you stay here and heal. You lost a lot of blood last night.”

  He set his jaw. “I came along to help, not be a convalescent.”

  “Hey,” Gorgantha said, “you got us in the chapel here, didn’t you?”

  “She’s right.” I lowered my voice. “And you can actually be of help here by picking the rector’s brain. I get the feeling he knows more than he’s doling out. He might be more comfortable just talking to you.”

  Malachi seemed to consider that before nodding importantly.

  “Let’s all plan to meet back here around noon,” I said.

  The wide lane of Broadway was bustling with horse-drawn carriages and all class of people, from uniformed soldiers, to laborers in dusty shirts, to stately women in colorful dresses, to street urchins scampering the rutted road on bare feet. I could see only one of the soulless soldiers, and the rector was right. The man in grimy clothes stared around blankly, at one point seeming to look right at me, before wandering off in another direction.

  I headed north past a triangular park that would one day contain City Hall. After several blocks the street traffic thinned and the structures separated until I was coming up on a plain brick building—the sugar house the rector had mentioned. Several British Redcoats stood guard at the entrance.

  Must not have released all the prisoners.

  I continued past the prison to avoid suspicion, surprised when Broadway ended a few blocks later. Hilly farmland with clusters of trees stretched beyond. I considered how my future apartment in the West Village would be about a mile north, Midtown’s iconic skyscrapers, like the Chrysler and Empire State buildings, rising beyond. But now it was all pleasant countryside and bird song. When I passed the sugar house on my return, the British guards were opening the front doors. Two of them bowed as a young woman exited.

  What do we have here?

  Though the woman wore a plain dress and bonnet, something in her bearing marked her as upper class. She started south at an efficient clip, a large basket hanging from one arm. My destination was south anyway—the prison had been a side trip taken out of curiosity—and now my gut was telling me to follow her. I remained on my side of the street, slowing until I was about a half block behind her.

  As Broadway began to bustle again, I closed the distance to a quarter block. We passed St. Mark’s Chapel and approached the ruined grounds of St. Martin’s. Several blocks ahead I could make out the walls of a military fort. The woman turned left onto King Street and then right onto Broad Street. With fewer people, I hung back again, pretending to become interested in the passing homes, many of them mansions.

  A scream made me snap my head back around. The woman was being pulled into an alley by two men. As my legs kicked into a run, I reminded myself that this was a time catch, that I shouldn’t get involved.

  She doesn’t know it’s a time catch, I shot back.

  27

  I arrived at the mouth of the alley to find the two men dragging the woman by the arms toward a third man whom I recognized from the tavern the night before—the burly, ginger-bearded soldier. The other two were
his ratty cohorts.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the woman demanded, sounding more furious than afraid. Her bonnet had gone askew, and she was kicking her legs. “Unhand me!”

  Her midsection wasn’t tightly strung in what seemed the common fashion, and I saw why. A swell showed above her waistline. She was pregnant. In an explosion of rage, I yanked my cane into sword and staff.

  “You heard the lady!” I shouted.

  The soulless men stopped and looked up, the pocked-face one bracing a dirty dagger between his teeth. Beyond them, Ginger Beard pulled a revolver and leveled it at my chest. He wouldn’t miss from this range.

  I uttered a Word, and the air sparkled before hardening around the bore of his weapon. An instant later, the revolver fired in a cracking gout of flame and smoke, and the muzzle blew off. Ginger Beard staggered back. His compatriots dropped the woman and eyed me, daggers now in hand.

  “Get out of here!” I shouted, slashing the air between us with my sword.

  The soldiers peered back at the big man. He was staring at what remained of his weapon with dead eyes, coils of smoke rising from his tangled beard. My breaths cycled harshly. I’d already cast a minor invocation, which had been risky enough. I didn’t want to have to go bigger.

  At last, Ginger Beard dropped his weapon’s wooden stock and lumbered away. The other two backed from me, then turned and shambled after him. I waited until they’d rounded a bend in the street before sheathing my sword and exhaling. The woman was sitting up, one hand holding her stomach.

  I rushed to her side. “Are you all right?”

  She turned toward me, eyes bright with shock. She was younger than she’d appeared from a distance, no more than twenty, twenty-one. A length of brunette hair had fallen across her soft face, and I had to stop myself from brushing it aside. But for the period dress, she could have been one of my students at Midtown College. At last she nodded, tucking the strand behind an ear herself.