Charms & Demons

by Kim Richardson

  I let out the breath I was holding just as I heard the familiar flap of wings.

  Poe flew to me and landed on my arm. I gave him a tight smile and found that I was unable to get angry at him for leaving like that after Tank’s message. A dull sadness was growing in me, like I was losing him.

  “Gordon told me I might find you here,” said the bird as he moved up to my shoulder and shifted his weight until he was comfortable. “What? Cat catch your tongue?”

  I’d always hated that expression. I pulled my eyes away and continued walking.

  “Aren’t you going to yell at me or something?” pressed the raven, and I heard the tension in his voice as though he’d been preparing himself for the battle of words we were about to have. And on any other night, I would have.

  “No.”

  “Damn, then you really must be nervous.” The bird was quiet for a moment and then I felt the brush of feathers against my cheek. “Don’t be nervous, Sam. It’s probably just the usual job request. I’m thinking it has something to do about that vampire killing you told me about last night.”

  My breath came fast. “Then why didn’t they say that in the note? If it is a job, they would have left the message with Tank. I’ve done hundreds of jobs for them. And not once did they ask to see me. It doesn’t feel right. You know what I mean?” Nerves bubbled up again, making my stomach clench.

  “Well, for one,” began the bird, “you said the vampire had magic. That has to have the witches all worked up and tripping on their brooms. You know how they don’t like to share their magic.”

  “No. This is something else. I can feel it.”

  Poe settled closer to my neck. “Like what?”

  My heart did a summersault inside my chest. “What if this has something to do with my gift? Secrets always have a way of coming out. Maybe they found out.”

  Poe made a sound in his throat. “I doubt it. No. I think this is about a job. Think about it,” he said, balancing his weight on my shoulder. “All the jobs you’ve ever received from the witch court were always sent by a flying chicken. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Which tells me,” continued the bird, “that this is a job—or something along the same lines. Who knows, maybe they’re going to offer you one of those stiff seats at court.”

  I laughed. “Right. Like that’s ever going to happen. The Beaumont witches never had a seat in that court and never will. We’re not... court material,” I added, knowing we Beaumont witches hated to follow rules and regulations. We preferred to break them.

  “You never know,” commented the bird.

  “I do,” I said, though the smile I felt on my face was a welcomed distraction from the mountain of stress I had been feeling a few minutes ago. I felt marginally better with Poe by my side.

  After a three-minute walk, we came to a two-story building with a large metal door that looked like it belonged in the medieval ages, which was really out of place here in New York city. I could still read the faded, weatherworn sign above the door: OAK PARK THEATER.

  Glass display windows flanked the entrance door on either side, reflecting the moonlight like silvery mirrors. There was nothing in the windows now, just black curtains. The stone facade was dark and eroded from years of exposure to polluted air and acid rain. It had that old theater feel to it, but it had clearly been a graceful and luxurious theater, once upon a time.

  I stood for a moment, my legs seemingly cemented to the walkway and not wanting to move.

  “We could make a run for it,” said the raven after a moment.

  “You know I can’t.” I shook my head. “You know as well as I do what will happen if I don’t make that appointment.” Like boiling me alive in their cauldron. I’d heard the rumors.

  “Just as obeying the court could have lethal consequences,” came Poe’s breath, rubbing against my cheek.

  My heart pounded in my ears, and my skin broke into a sweat. “I don’t have a choice,” I replied, as I took another step forward.

  My skin pricked with ribbons of dark magic. It was everywhere—coming off the walls, the door, the roof. The entire building was heavily sealed and warded. The smell of sulfur intruded but then vanished.

  My gaze went to the doorknocker, an iron-cast gargoyle’s head complete with large ears, horns, a squished bat-like nose, glaring eyes and a mouth filled with canines that looked like they belonged to a Great Dane large enough to fit your hand. An iron ring hung from its open mouth. The face was carved in the likes of pain, its mouth appearing fixed in a silent scream. But the proportions were off, the mouth too wide, the forehead too high, the eyes warped.

  It was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen.

  There was nothing remarkably witch-like or remotely interesting to look at. It was just... warped and grotesque and ghoulish.

  “This looks more like something you’d see in the Netherworld,” I commented. “Like something the demons would carve.”

  “Even demons have a better understanding of art. This is ... just wrong.” The bird gave a huff and said, “So, what happens now? Do we knock?”

  My gaze went to the thing’s mouth, to its very large teeth. “Feed the gargoyle with a drop of your blood,” I said, recalling the instructions from the note. Damn. That was creepy.

  “Excuse you?” said Poe.

  My mind raced as fast as my heart. “It was written on the note.” I drew a nervous breath and held it, stifling a shiver. “The building’s heavily protected with wards. You can’t just walk in.” I reached into my bag and pulled out a small Swiss Army pocket knife, the one I used to cut herbs from my garden.

  “You can’t pick a lock with that,” said the bird.

  “It’s not for the knocker. It’s for me,” I said and sliced a small cut on my left finger. A fat drop of blood seeped from the cut like a gleaming red pearl. Before it trickled down my finger, I moved my hand towards the knocker and squeezed my finger so the thick drop of blood fell inside the gargoyle’s mouth and splatted on its tongue.

  Dark witches. Only they would come up with something so disturbing.

  “Now what?” moaned the bird. “I’m not seeing anything.”

  I stepped back and waited. “Just wait,” I said, my nerves making me shake.

  Energy hummed in the air, my hair lifting and floating around my shoulders as dark magic glided over me, whispering of power and domination. Damn. Those were some powerful wards.

  My pulse quickened. “I’m feeling something.”

  Poe shifted his weight. “Like what? Indigestion?”

  “Halt, mortal! Halt, intruder upon the gates of the secret court of the dark witches!” boomed the doorknocker in an ancient voice like the grinding of rocks. Its mouth moved and worked in a disturbingly human way. I watched transfixed as the face shifted, not smoothly like a human face, but jerky and erratic as parts of the iron came together to form expressions.

  I smiled. A human would have passed out at the sight of a talking gargoyle doorknocker. I thought it was awesome. I loved being a witch.

  “Great, it speaks,” grumbled Poe.

  “Of course I speak, you insolent genus corvus,” barked the doorknocker, its voice a slightly higher pitch and sending waves of goose bumps over my skin.

  This was a whole new level of weird.

  “Can you just shut up and open the door, already,” commented Poe. “We’re going to be late.”

  The gargoyle’s eyes moved up to Poe, and his face screwed up in a contemptuous frown. “Only a dark witch can enter. The non-magical are not permitted.”

  “He is magical,” I interjected, a small feeling of panic twisting in my gut. I didn’t want to enter without Poe. If something were to happen to me, I needed him to go tell my grandfather. “He’s my familiar. We share our magic. We’re magically connected. He goes where I go.”

  The doorknocker made a face. If it had arms, it would have crossed them over its chest. “I’m afraid that is not possible,” it said in a matter-of-fact
tone. “As I said, the non-magical cannot enter,” it added, just as a wind howled down the street, sounding a lot like a big fat no. “I didn’t make the rules, but we all must abide by them.”

  “Like hell I am.” An awful feeling of dread settled in me, and my gut clenched. I frowned, my pulse spiking. This doorknocker was starting to irritate me.

  “It’s okay, Sam,” said Poe. “I’ll wait for you here—”

  “No.” Tension pulled through me. My voice rose as I took a calming breath. “He’s coming with me,” I told the doorknocker. “Or you’ll have to explain to the dark witch court why I wasn’t allowed entry after they specifically asked for me. I don’t think they’ll be pleased with you. Is that what you want?” I wasn’t exactly sure how a witch could harm a freaking iron doorknocker, but it was worth a shot. Perhaps they would melt him.

  Its face cracked in an attempt of a frown but came out looking like a grimace. “I’m a doorknocker. I have no wants. I’m a magical being created for the simple purpose of guarding this door and letting only the magical step through. Your blood is the key.” His eyes flicked to Poe. “I’m sorry, but familiars are not on the list of magical beings. He simply cannot pass.”

  Anger slowly burned in my gut. “Fine. Then I’m leaving.” I turned to leave and took three steps—

  “Wait!” came the gargoyle’s terrified voice and I whirled around, trying hard not to smile.

  “Yes?”

  The gargoyle’s expression shifted from worry to contempt and finally twisted into something that looked like resolve. I could have sworn it looked a shade darker.

  “Fine,” grumbled the doorknocker in a voice reminiscent of Poe’s when he didn’t get an extra piece of fruit. “Your familiar may enter. But only this once.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Jackass,” whispered Poe.

  Sure enough, a tingling rolled across my skin, and the air thickened with a pulsing energy. I heard a sudden loud click, like the sound of a deadbolt slipping into place.

  The tingling lifted. And then the door swung open, revealing high, arched ceilings and floors of polished stone laid with strips of red carpet that led past a grand foyer.

  “Welcome,” said the doorknocker, “to the dark witch court.”

  My pulse leaped and I took a shaky breath. “Here we go,” I said and stepped through.

  4

  The thick red carpet stifled the sound of my boots as I stepped into the foyer, as though I was walking on grass. The door shut behind me, and I jerked as I felt the sudden prickling of the protection wards closing around the building, shutting it off from any supernatural access.

  The foyer was large and decorated with elegant wood panels. A grand, winding staircase, richly carpeted in red and leading to the second floor, served as the centerpiece of the room.

  But I wasn’t going to the second floor. The stage was on the ground floor. That’s where I was headed. I passed the grand staircase and moved towards another set of double doors with a sign above that read MEZZANINE.

  “You know where you’re going?” came Poe’s voice next to my ear.

  “It’s a theater. There’s only one place the witches would convene.”

  “The stage?”

  “The stage,” I agreed as I made my way towards the large double doors. When I thought about it, the dark witches choosing the old theater as their headquarters was perfect. They were all drama queens and in need of a stage to perform.

  I was both flattered and alarmed that the dark witch court had asked to meet with me. The sheer notion of it all was staggering. Worse, I was five minutes late. The fiasco with the doorknocker had taken longer than I’d expected. Great first impression, Sam.

  I strained to keep from shaking and tried to keep my face neutral, taking it all in. I was a Beaumont witch, after all. I could handle a group of wrinkly old witches.

  Bracing myself, I pushed open the double doors and strolled through.

  The muffled noise hit me first, and then the musty smell of old carpet. The air thrummed with dark magic, and I knew it was a show of strength and power. They wanted visitors to know they could kill with a snap of their fingers.

  All righty then.

  The magic reached out around the room, circling me and resonating different strains of the craft. Each one felt utterly different from the next.

  The theater looked like any old theater in New York City of moderate size, lit by hundreds of candle sconces along the walls and a great candelabra that hung from the ceiling with three rings of candles. I could totally see it hanging from the entrance hall of a great medieval castle.

  By human standards, the room would have fit hundreds of people comfortably in the seats. However, they now sat positively empty, save a few dark witches lurking along the aisles or standing along the walls. I didn’t recognize any of them, and that somehow added another layer to my unease.

  I walked down a slight slant between the rows of seats towards the stage. A half-moon table rested in the middle of the stage, holding six chairs and facing the audience.

  In each chair sat a black-robed dark witch.

  There were three males and three female witches. Was it equally balanced on purpose? Who knew?

  The female on the far left could’ve easily passed for my aunt’s older sister—frail, bent, and emaciated. Her one hundredth birthday had come and gone long ago. She was bald, and the black robe accentuated it even more. She sat hunched in her chair, but dark eyes stabbed me with sharp intelligence.

  The female next to her was equally old, though she had a head full of black hair that spilled over her front. The last female witch didn’t look a day past fifty. Plump with coffee-colored skin and short curly black hair, she watched me with a knowing half smile. Creepy.

  The males, well, the one on the far right looked older than the two old witches combined. The male witch next to him was plain and forgettable, middle-aged and slightly overweight, with short brown hair streaked with gray at his temples. Oscar Lessard.

  He was the only dark witch I’d ever met on the court. He’d showed up at my home five years ago to offer me a full-time job—to watch the Veil on behalf of the dark witch court. Kind of like private security for the witches.

  Red spots marred his pale face like he’d been arguing. Either that, or he’d had a hard time climbing up the stairs to the stage.

  The last male witch, with gleaming black hair, looked only a few years older than me. His dark, almond-shaped eyes watched me accusingly.

  And suddenly my warning flags tripped.

  My heart thumped, and my legs felt like they were made of cement. But I never stopped moving and kept my face blank. Poe’s grip on my shoulder tightened as he sensed my unease.

  Darting my eyes around the room, I made mental notes of the exits—the one I’d just come from and two more emergency exits that flanked each side of the stage—in case I needed to make a run for it.

  “You know any of them apart from Oscar?” came Poe’s voice, as the stage grew bigger and bigger.

  “No.” Oscar and I weren’t friends, though it would have been nice to get a heads up concerning this meeting. At least I could have come prepared. I tried to make eye contact, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  When I reached the stage, the young male witch jumped off his chair and pointed at me, making me halt.

  “Do you see? She’s brought her demon with her,” he shouted, the anger in his tone igniting my own. “She has no respect for the court. I told you she was the wrong choice.” A murmur of consensus reverberated about the table.

  Swell. Things were starting out great.

  The elderly male witch with four strands of white hair left on his bald head cleared his throat. “Samantha. Were you not told to leave your familiar outside the theater?” he demanded, his voice low though kind and with a lilt of an accent I couldn’t place. His white beard was long enough to tuck into his belt if he’d had one. A thick scar started from his forehead and slashed all the wa
y to his chin on the right side of his face, as though the claws of a bear had ripped his face apart. Though his eyes were small, kindness shone from them.

  Knowing he must be referring to the gargoyle doorknocker, I opened my mouth and answered, “Yes.”

  I’d barely gotten the word out of my mouth before several of the court members and the witches standing in the aisles rose to their feet with outraged shouts. The court broke out in a cacophony of cries, threats, and disapproving grunts from the ancient ones.

  Like I said, they loved to perform.

  A scowl creased my forehead as I watched their performance. I felt like a child standing before a group of disapproving parents. Screw them. I didn’t come here to be scolded, and now they were starting to piss me off.

  And yet, seeing them bothered like I’d just opened the gates to the Netherworld on purpose also made me feel slightly less nervous. No one paid any attention to my gloves. That’s when I knew this had nothing to do with my gift.

  This was something else, perhaps equally as important in their eyes. Curious.

  Still standing, the younger male witch made a loud judgmental noise and placed his hands on his hips. “She disobeyed the simplest of instructions—to leave her wretched demon at the door,” he accused with an overdone dramatic flair in his speech. “And you think she’ll keep her mouth shut? She won’t. She’s just like that old Evanora Crow. She can’t be trusted.”

  Oooh. You’re going down, buddy, I told him with my eyes. No one talks badly about my aunt without a little broom beating.

  I hated this guy. He had the wild eyes of the ambitious wanting to climb the dark witch court ladder and fast. His stance said he wasn’t afraid to eliminate everything and everyone who stood in his way. I hated the overzealous, the kind who stepped over the weak to get ahead.

  That’s it. I’m making him a voodoo doll.

  Poe shifted on my shoulder, feeling my discomfort. “Maybe I should have stayed outside.”

  “It’s too late for that now,” I whispered. The female bald witch looked as though she wanted to cook Poe in her cauldron later.