“I bet you did.”
“The others now fear and respect me. That pleases me greatly.”
“The others?” Nessa murmured with a measure of pity. Astrid was a force to be reckoned with. “Be gentle with them. They are but men.”
Astrid pulled a face. “I’ll be gentle as long as they know that I’m in charge.”
“I’m sure there’s no doubt about that now.”
“There better not be. I ain’t running no charity. If they want to remain in the Wildcats, then they better show some respect and do what they’re told.”
Nessa’s eyebrows rose. “The Wildcats?”
“That’s our name,” Astrid said excitedly, going from a young girl to a strict leader in a blink of an eye. “We are small and fierce. We’re the Wildcats. We decided that we needed a name a few days ago after we gained a few new recruits. Makes it easier to know who works for who. Ya know?”
“I’m not sure how I feel about you running a street gang,” Nessa said slowly, all kinds of scenarios running through her head and none of them good. “It sounds a bit dangerous and…uh…unsavoury.”
“Don’t worry, miss,” Astrid battered Nessa’s concerns away with a wave of her hand. “It’s not like we’re dealing with the Guild of Thieves or the Alliance of Assassins.”
“Alliance of Assassins…?”
“We simply deal with the exchange of information,” Astrid said calmly. “If someone happens to pay for that information, we don’t turn it down. We’re running a legitimate business with no real main base. At the moment, the profits are quite small, but Alex says that, considering we’ve only been running for a fortnight, things are sure to improve. He’s still housebound whilst his ankle heals, so he’s taken over the role of being our accountant. He’s good at counting and stuff. Besides, it’s not like he’s going anywhere soon, even though he’s got quite good at hopping.”
“Your brother Alex?” Nessa murmured, finding it hard to keep track of all of them. “Isn’t Rox the one in the gang. Err, the Wildcats?”
“Oh, he is, too. But seeing as he only has one hand, he found the paperwork a little bit fiddly, so Alex took over. Rox is out and about, digging around for anything of interest in the streets. He knows lots of people, and if he don’t know them, he certainly knows about them.”
“Ah. So this is developing into a family business then?”
Astrid grinned. “Figured I’d make the most out of having so many brothers.”
“You’ve wrangled all of them into joining?” Astrid had a lot of brothers, and Nessa struggled to keep track of the handful Astrid had already told her about. She couldn’t handle having to learn more.
“Not all of them. Just most of them. Plus a few of their friends.” A calculating expression settled on Astrid’s face. “We have a nice, little network.”
“I’ll take your word on it,” Nessa murmured, absently wondering why Astrid had the notion that social constraints were holding her back. It sounded to Nessa like she was in charge of a rapidly growing organisation. “Speaking of the others, have they heard anything of interest?”
“Nothing much in the last couple of days,” Astrid said. “The report is being written up. I’ll have it delivered tomorrow if you want? But it seems to have been quite boring the past few days.”
“No sightings of any creepy mist?”
“Nothing major. A couple of people have claimed they’ve seen mist from afar, at the end of streets and such, but it was only at ankle height. So I’m guessing that we’re safe from any devils larger than a rat for the time being.”
“Can’t say that I’m particularly fond of rats.”
“I prefer rats to people-eating devils.”
“We don’t know for sure that the people disappearing are being eaten by them.”
Astrid quirked a brow, unimpressed. “People venture into the mist and are never seen again. Whether they are eaten or vanish is just a technicality in my opinion. I’d rather not have either happen to me or anyone I care about.”
“I take it that a list of disappearances is still being collected?” Nessa grimaced. This was what Astrid’s little gang had been formed for, to gather information on the mist and those who had been swallowed by it. A little over a week ago, Nessa had been attacked by a shadow monster, a spirit of light gone dark. A little over a week ago, Nessa had, by chance, run into Astrid once again. Astrid’s growing gang had already uncovered a string of disappearances that Hunter and Orm’s friends had so far missed; they were people who were easily overlooked: beggars, thieves and petty criminals. The ones who had no friends, no family. The invisibles. Easy pickings for the foul things that lurked in the darkness and the mist.
One day, the man who lived in a shallow alcove in a lonely alley was there; the next, he was gone, his meagre worldly belongings left behind. The same went for the little girl who sat by the waterfront week after week, waiting for a father who had long since abandoned her to return, hardly daring to move in case she missed him. In what seemed like a blink of an eye, she was gone, like she had been nothing more than a ghost to start with.
They were the kind of people who others refused to make eye contact with, with whom they would never interact. They were the people about which others might faintly wonder “why is there a pile of blankets and an old backpack sat unattended in that alcove?” or “wasn’t there a little girl who used to wait over there in that spot for hours on end?” Any concern, any arising thoughts would disappear with a shrug and a turned back. And that was the end of that. It was like those missing people had barely existed at all.
“We have a list,” Astrid said, “but it’s a tricky thing to sift through and identify who might have been taken by the devil mist and those who have simply met their end on the point of a criminal’s blade.”
“Tricky indeed.”
“We’re mostly working with descriptions rather than names,” Astrid sighed. “It’s not easy.”
“No, I suppose it’s not.” Nessa placed a hand on Astrid’s shoulder. “But keep up the good work. It’s beyond valuable to me.”
“It’s no problem, miss. It gives us something to do when we’re bored. And with most of my brothers out of the house, it means that there’s usually more dinner left for me. And speaking of dinner…” Astrid shrugged, and a bag slipped free from her shoulder. Astrid handed a heavy satchel over to Nessa. “I best be heading home. Otherwise, I’ll be getting naught but scraps.”
“It’s quite late for dinner,” Nessa remarked, gazing up at the moon, noting how high it was in the sky.
“Pa works funny hours in the smithy,” Astrid explained. “Ma tends to revolve meals around his shifts.”
“Ah.”
“Good luck with that,” Astrid nodded at the bag clutched to Nessa’s chest, “I’ll see you soon.” She turned on her heel and began to amble away.
“Safe travels.”
Nessa went to leave, but paused in the mouth of the alley, casting a searching look behind her. A question was poised on the tip of her tongue. Astrid was nothing more than a dark shape in the near distance.
“The Wildcats?” Nessa asked, her voice echoing down the narrow passageway. “Where did you come up with that name?”
Astrid slowed but didn’t stop. The call for dinner was too strong. “I had a dream the other night. Something to do with you and a man, a bird and a cat. It just seemed…right. Ya know? It just clicked. Seemed as good a name as any.”
Nessa stood still; her lips parted even though she could find no words. Silently, she watched as Astrid disappeared into the shadowed gloom of the night, unable to shake the feeling that fate was in play.
You and a man.
A bird and a cat…
Chapter 36
Sitting cross-legged on her narrow bed, Nessa surveyed her hard work. Admiring it. Her gaze darted from the pages of her book down to the floor, making sure that the twin summoning circles were identical, double-checking that she had laid everything out correctly. If even the slig
htest line was in the wrong place, too thick or too thin, there was no telling what could happen. If Nessa had to guess, though, it wouldn't result in anything good or particularly pleasant. Pharawynn had yet to regale her with any pleasant stories revolving around spells gone awry. Horrifying ones, yes. There had been plenty of those. Chilling ones, too. But never a tale with a happy ending.
Nessa shook her head, sending such thoughts away. She needed a clear head, a focused mind. As Pharawynn often said, negative thoughts lend themselves to negative actions. Negative actions could spell death.
Death.
Nah, it will be fine…
Nessa envisioned a successful outcome as she continued to check the summoning circle, making sure that the nine-pointed star was painted in perfect proportion, that the seals adorning each point were drawn correctly. It was slow work, tedious. The personal seals of the nine high lords, leaders of the Atheals, were tricky and complex, similar to each other yet filled with subtle differences, a shorter line here, a curled dash there. If Nessa had more time to learn, she was sure that she would know exactly what each sigil meant and what they stood for. At the moment, she figured that they were like signatures, ones which could channel specific powers. Whilst the exact method of how they worked was beyond Nessa’s understanding, she knew that they did work. Even as she had drawn them with her stick of chalk, she had felt the seals’ strength, their power. Each time she had completed one, a rush of energy went through her, a deep and ancient force.
It was exhilarating.
It was terrifying.
Nessa wanted to know more about the Atheals. She needed to know more about the Atheals. But Pharawynn’s teachings had made her wary of them, and more than a little fearful.
They were once akin to gods, worshipped and prayed to by lesser beings in a time long before humans roamed the land. A time when the mountains were young and the sun had only just flickered into existence. They were powerful and wild, and as unpredictable as the winds and seas. And, if you were inclined to believe the stories Pharawynn told, they were the creators, the architects of all living things.
They breathed life into the creatures of the sky and the sea, the beasts of the forests and the land. They breathed life into the very earth they walked upon with each step, shrouded in mystery and mists. The Atheals were not of this world. They belonged to a realm inaccessible to mortal flesh, a place between worlds. In their many absences, the concept of time was created, and the forests grew, the rivers swelled and the creatures became unruly.
The land needed to be governed, protected against itself and its untamed nature, and so the Old Bloods came into being, created in the Atheals’ own image, containing a touch of their powers. The Atheals divided their powers and themselves into nine groups; each high lord presided over a specific faction of power with their lesser dæmons serving under them, their own powers echoing those of the high lord they were bound to.
The division of the Atheals wasn’t nearly as clean-cut as Nessa had hoped for when she’d started learning about it. The lines between each high lord were blurred, overlapping. It made calling upon them a difficult and dangerous process.
Spirits are fickle things, Pharawynn would often say, toying with her necklace, stroking the bones like they had the power to calm her, to soothe her, and there are always two sides to a spirit, much like the two faces of a coin. There was great light to them, but there was also a terrible darkness. They were powerful and immortal, and while they were not susceptible to the changes of time, the world they frequented was.
Humans arrived and with them came change. Forests were cut down. Rivers were tamed with weirs and dams. Towns and cities were built. The spirits didn’t mind the castles and the bridges. They didn’t mind the swathes of land that were cleared for crops and roads. Not to start with. What they did mind, though, was the dwindling belief in the Atheals, in them and their powers. Gone were the days of unrivalled worship and wildness, of praise and honour. Gone were the sacrifices and tributes.
There was a conflict of beliefs between humans and the Old Bloods, a battle of will. The humans won, for the most part. The principle that the world was made by the Creator spread, growing and taking root like a voracious weed. Slowly but surely, the Atheals were relegated to little more than a faint memory of a long-ago time, the Nine Devils of the old ways.
The Atheals withdrew from the land, their hold over it weakening, dwindling. It was only because of a handful of people, Old Bloods and external users of magic, sorcerers and summoners like Pharawynn, that old ways still clung to life. Just. Whilst the Atheals may not be in the forefront of most peoples’ minds, or even known to most, that didn’t necessarily mean that they had left the land entirely.
They were there when the seasons changed, when the tide rolled in and out, when the sun rose and set. Just because they no longer took their physical forms didn’t mean that they had stopped existing. As Pharawynn often said, how else can one explain the power felt during summonings and spellcastings if not for the Atheals? No one ever felt so much as an inkling when calling upon the mighty Creator.
Pharawynn always talked about the Creator with scorn, taking every opportunity to point out that they were unsuccessful in stamping out the ways of old, even after thousands of years. Superstitions were still rife within the gypsy and seafaring communities. Stories were still told around hearths and at bedtimes. The legends lingered. People like Pharawynn were determined to keep the beliefs in the Atheals alive however they could, either by charming customers with secretly enchanted jewellery or converting non-believers, giving them a glimpse into the shadowed world of the arcane arts.
After all, it had worked with Nessa.
Nessa shifted on the bed, tucking the loose pages ripped from Pharawynn’s grimoire into the back of her own, and turned to the section she had dog-eared. It had taken her days of careful reading before she had come across a spell that fitted perfectly with Pharawynn’s, complementing it. For all of the time spent on her study and tutorage, she hadn’t uncovered a singular spell that would do what she desired. That would have been just too easy, wouldn’t it? Eager to get the ball rolling, Nessa decided to embrace the true spirit of spellcasting and do a bit of careful experimentation.
Such things were frequently done. The grimoires were evidence of that. They chronicled the evolution of spells throughout generations, tweaked and improved slowly over time. If others had done it, could do it, then why not Nessa? She’d found two spells, each one focusing on a single key outcome, half of what Nessa hoped to achieve. Combined, surely the two halves will make a whole.
Past and present was the theme of one of the spells. The other’s theme was healing of the mind. Together, Nessa hoped they’d give her some control over her mental block. She deduced, from the notes in her own grimoire, that they would work together in harmony and give her back her memories. And perhaps, if she was really lucky, allow her access to a small measure of her powers. That’s all Nessa wanted, her memories and a glimpse of what her powers might be.
Content as she could be that the summoning circle was at its best, Nessa rose from the bed, careful of where she trod. The complex shape of the summoning circle took up all of her room’s floor space. The last thing she wanted to do was smudge a line and have to start all over again. She didn’t have time for that.
Tiptoeing to the window, Nessa pushed it open, shivering as the winter air rushed in, crisp and oh-so cold. She stood there for a heartbeat, gazing up at the moon she’d had to wait for. Heavy and full, it hovered just above the city’s skyline. A forest of roofs and chimneys were shown as silvery-grey silhouettes, and Nessa knew that if she was to lean out of the window and crane her neck, she’d be able to catch a glimpse of the castle in the near distance, nestled into the side of the mountains, gleaming with darkness and gold.
She didn’t search for it, because if she did, then she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from thinking about King Kaenar and his Riders, namely Margan and Shadow. Nessa
knew she shouldn’t think about them. She couldn’t think about them. There were just too many emotions, too much conflict and blackness, and those were the worst things she could dwell on when casting a spell of light and new beginnings, of healing and growth. She shoved away the negative thoughts, telling herself that everything would become clearer once she regained her memories. She would be able to draw her own, unclouded conclusions. She would remember and she would know.
Nessa reached out and plucked the mug of rainwater from the windowsill and moved around the summoning circle, pouring a small amount into the little bowls that were positioned above each seal. She didn’t have much, having collected it during the brief rainfall on the previous day. There was only enough to cover the bottom of the bowls. It was meant as a tribute, an acknowledgement that she appreciated the works of Grið, the Seeker of Secrets, for it was he who would aid with the mysteries shrouding her memories. It was he who created new beginnings from past things, and rain was a representation of that. Rain was something that had been around since the dawn of the Atheals’ awakening and was, therefore, something from the past, but it was also tied to new beginnings, to new starts. It washes away stagnancies from the air, encouraging flora to grow, to bloom, and sustains each generation so that the next can be welcomed.
With one tribute done, Nessa busied herself with the next.
She set aside the now empty mug and pulled out a small box from the bag Astrid had handed her. She set it down on the edge of the bed and flipped back the lid. Inside, nestled together, was a collection of stumpy candles, three sets of three different colours. Fire was Nessa’s tribute to Fæle, the Player of Passions. It was he who would help her heal and grow, he who would help her discover herself and her powers.
Hopefully.
Nessa positioned the first group of candles equal distances away from each other, along the outer line of the summoning circle. Then, she carefully arranged the other two sets between them, creating a ring of alternating coloured candles: white to promote open-mindedness, green for healing and growth and silver for vision and clarity. Nessa didn’t light them prematurely, although the added illumination would have been nice. She was currently working by nothing more than moonlight and the glow of a single small oil lantern. She hadn’t lit the fire, nor had she dared to light any other candles in fear of them affecting the spell somehow. Not even the lantern was burning at its brightest; the little knob was turned down to the lowest setting. She also didn’t want anyone to think that she was awake and disturb her.
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