The Second Coming

by David H. Burton

  “This soul is tainted.”

  He thought of the alleyway and the man that had lurked there. “Then I will deliver another afterwards.”

  “What you have given is not worth half the tithe. For what you ask, I want the soul you hunt. That will fulfill me for years.”

  John knew better than to ask how it knew what he wanted. He’d worked with these kinds of devils before. “That soul has another purpose.”

  The ghoul gurgled. John could not tell if it was laughter or irritation.

  “What you ask for will require much. The tithe is greater. I need something more substantial than the souls of whores.”

  “Then name your price.”

  The beast leaned down and crossed the barrier. John sucked in his breath. The thing should not have been able to enter the circle. His hands froze and he waited as it traced its fingers along his chest. It gestured some form of spell or hex over his heart and then pulled back into the waters.

  “I want something more succulent. Unless you can find something more pure than this tasteless refuse, I think your own will do fine.”

  John paused. He wondered what he would find that was pure enough to satisfy the appetite of this thing. Meega was now lost, and he felt ashamed that she had come first to his mind. Then he thought of another, one who was naïve and almost as pure as the little girl. The regret of it was temporary and then John nodded.

  “Done.”

  “Will you accept the assurance?” it asked and plucked a leech from the bowels of the marsh.

  John rolled up his sleeve and held his arm forth. He remained within the circle to see if it would cross the barrier once more. It did and it chuckled as if reading his thoughts.

  “You are not what you once were, heretic. You have grown weak.”

  With its slick fingers it seized his arm and placed the soul leech upon his skin. As the thing bit into him and latched unto his soul the ghoul shuddered.

  “You will do fine,” it said. It released him and the waters from its hands anointed John’s head.

  It recoiled back into the bog once more.

  John rolled down his sleeve. He would bandage it later.

  “You will deliver what I need?”

  The creature nodded. “You will have aid when you need it. You know what to do.”

  “How long after you fulfill the bargain will I be held accountable?”

  The creature shrunk into the bog. “Sunset of the very day.”

  Less than a day after the deed to get Miguel’s soul.

  “That’s not a lot of time,” he said.

  The ghoul said nothing and slid back into the waters.

  ***

  Sunshine beamed through a window, stabbing Brahm's eyes. She rubbed at them. They were dried and caked. She struggled to rise, feeling unbelievably weak.

  A young woman sat beside her in a chair of lumpy, brown cushions. Her face was easily distinguishable.

  There was something else about her and Brahm's memory grappled to recall. The girl did not smile, just offered a blank stare. And then she remembered. She knew this girl.

  “Lya.”

  The girl nodded. “How do you feel?”

  Brahm groaned. “Rough. You?” She stared at the girl's features, and something niggled at her, as if she was supposed to remember something. She had a sudden feeling of unsurpassed love for this girl. Then it was gone like a puff of smoke. She paused, waiting for her second soul within her to scream inside her head, but there was nothing.

  Lya then offered a timid smile. “Good.” She cocked her head to the side. “You look troubled.”

  Brahm felt her face flush. She had been staring. “I'm sorry. You look like someone.” There was no further doubt in her mind.

  It was her daughter; the woman whose soul was bound with her own.

  But there was something different about that woman’s presence. It seemed no longer invasive, but rather a part of her, and it scared Brahm even worse. As she looked at Lya, a part of her felt like this was her own daughter.

  I’ve got to get this thing out of me before I become her.

  Brahm looked around the room. Thin, yellow curtains framed a small window, allowing the morning sun entry into the otherwise dreary room. Her pack rested on a scratched and tilted table on the other side of the bed. The air in the room tasted stale and smelled of urine and shit.

  “Where are the others?”

  “Diarmuid is getting supplies with White Feather.”

  Brahm laid her head back down. “Where are we?”

  “We're on the western shores of the Mississippi, in a town called Bridgeport.”

  Brahm put her hand to her throbbing head. “How long have I been out?”

  “Four days. You were gone pretty deep.” The girl bit her lip.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can't explain it. You were not sleeping, and not unconscious. It was like your soul was lost.”

  “It sounds like a coma. Gregor used that word once when we nearly lost Farin to the wolfen.” She peered about the room trying to fake her interest in other objects while taking note of Lya’s hand. It was bandaged, but the blood that stained it was fresh. “How did you get me here?”

  Lya leaned back, her chair creaking. “You can thank White Feather for that. He strapped you to himself and rode on Roan's back. He never left your side.”

  Brahm stirred, pulling back the thin blankets to rise. She was naked, but not soiled.

  “I don't suppose I have any clean clothes.”

  Lya skirted the bed and retrieved the pack. “Your other clothes are ruined. This is all that was left.”

  Brahm rose and steadied herself on legs that wobbled, gripping the bedpost to find balance. She dressed slowly, her mind still drifting through haze. She stepped forward, but her legs shook. “Can you help me out of this room? I need to eat.”

  Lya took her arm with a firm grip. “White Feather has been feeding and cleaning you. He insisted you were not to get out of bed without him.”

  She groaned. “I'm not some child to be coddled.”

  “But White Feather said―”

  Brahm cut her off with a quick look.

  The grip tightened. “You know what's best.”

  They headed down a drafty corridor and a worn staircase to the common room of the inn. Brahm leaned on Lya's shoulder more than she would have liked. The girl did not flinch and seemed to take her weight with ease.

  The common room was small, and Brahm sat at the first available table. The smell of bacon lingered on the air. The innkeeper muttered a hasty greeting and left her to gorge on stale bread and cold, greasy strips of fried pork. Brahm barely took time to breathe between mouthfuls.

  Lya sipped at a glass of pale liquid that Brahm could smell over the bacon — moonshine.

  “White Feather had to feed you mush and water,” she said.

  With her mouth still full Brahm nodded. “I am in his debt.”

  “He seems quite fond of you,” she said and put the glass on the table.

  Brahm snatched it and gulped the remainder of the liquid back, letting it burn its way down. She set it back on the table in front of her.

  She changed the subject.

  “How are you feeling? Did you know we were following you?”

  Lya eyed the glass and then nodded. “I hadn’t realized you had been following Talon.”

  “Without her, we would have had a hard time following you.” She paused, her mind still struggling for clarity. “Do you know why the Hunters are gathered?”

  “They thought I was from Lindhome and wanted to know about their weaknesses. They kept asking how to use the Soulstone Tablet. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Brahm hung her head.

  The Soulstone Tablet.

  She stared into the blueness of Lya's eyes, and there she found traces of the Firstborn-woman she knew was her mother.

  “It is said to be a tablet of great power, one that can track souls and the use of
witchcraft anywhere in the world. The Confederation tried to get their hands on it once, but failed.”

  Lya bit her lip. “I’ve heard that. Then they would be able to find every witch and necromancer in the land.”

  Brahm nodded. “But I heard from the Lastborn there is writing on it that only three souls—“ Her mouth suddenly clamped shut. Brahm couldn’t say why that was, something inside her was telling her to keep quiet. She followed its advice.

  From the corner of her eye a squat, bearded man watched them. He sat behind a table some distance off and picked up his stein. Taking a long draught that dribbled down his unkempt beard, he turned from her gaze.

  Lya was clutching at her chest briefly, her usually taciturn look now one of brief, but irritated occupation.

  “I need fresh air,” Brahm said.

  Lya did not object and they made their way out to the muddy road of the town.

  Bridgeport had the appearance of most towns with the single exception of a massive, white-walled church that stood at the top of the hill at the end of the road. Its doors were flung wide open as if to welcome one and all.

  The rest of the town appeared meek and humble in its presence. A few crabapple trees lined the street, their flowers long bloomed and lost to the winds. The dirt road was a thick carpet of mud that stretched across the town, the result of recent rains. The lingering moisture still sat on the air.

  Lya pulled up the hood of her tunic and Brahm slid it back off her head.

  “Do not cover up. You need to be careful, but don't make it appear as if you are hiding. It will gather more attention. Have you already worn your hood around the town?”

  Lya shook her head. “After we arrived last night, Diarmuid told me to remain with you and not to leave the inn.”

  Brahm nodded. “Then perhaps things in this town are not too friendly. We should go back.”

  As the words fell from her lips, Diarmuid rounded the corner, with White Feather in tow. The Haudenosaunee ran to Brahm. His embrace almost knocked the air out of her.

  “Orenda.” The name escaped his lips in a whisper.

  For a brief moment she thought he might kiss her, so she returned his fierce hug before he had the chance.

  He let her go, but did not step back. “It is good to see you up again. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, thanks to you. I am in your debt.”

  “You owe me nothing. I had a chance to have my arms around you for days. What more could I ask?” The ridiculous grin was planted on his face. Strangely, a similar one stretched across her own. She shook it off.

  “Hi, my name is Diarmuid.” With a wink, the pepper-haired man extended his hand.

  Brahm laughed and pulled him close. “It’s good to see you too.”

  White Feather still stood close, one arm extended as if to steady her. His eyes sagged with concern.

  “I'm fine,” she reassured him.

  He took a small step back, but the look lingered. “What happened to you?”

  “I pushed myself too hard. Soul Running takes a lot out of me. I would have passed out sooner had Night not done something to me.” The confused look on their faces was enough for her to realize she should continue. “I'm not sure what he did, but he helped me to keep going. I feel rested now.” The lie escaped her mouth so easily she thought she might laugh. “I just hope I won't have to do that again. I can't overindulge.”

  Lya eyes looked eager. “What talent is this?”

  “I don’t know what it is. I have never met anyone with this skill.”

  Yet there was one, one who was watching.

  “I thought I felt you while I was amongst the Confederation army,” she said.

  Diarmuid looked down the road. “We should get Lya back inside.”

  As they made their way back, Brahm's legs failed her, buckling under a wave of fatigue. She felt as if she’d been suddenly shoved from behind and tripped forward. She fell into the mud, slicing her palm open on a sharp stone that protruded from the ground. Her knee twisted, the pain of it soaring up her leg. Brahm moaned.

  “Orenda!” White Feather pulled her to her feet. Small trickles of blood stained the muddied ground.

  Brahm checked her footing and hobbled on her good leg. White Feather ripped a piece of his shirt and bound her hand. Diarmuid then led them back to the inn.

  White Feather offered to carry her up the stairs. Though she refused the offer, she was forced to accede to at least an arm around her waist. He then left her in Lya's care at the girl's insistence.

  In her room, Lya washed Brahm's hand in the basin and put a salve on it that stopped the bleeding. She then held the hand to her lips and muttered some words over it. The wound warmed, to the point Brahm almost jerked her hand away. When she finished Brahm no longer felt the pain from it. Lya bandaged it and knelt at Brahm's feet. She rolled up the ripped pant leg and her pale, white hands ran over the surface of the knee. At first her hands were cold, like she was dead. Over time and mumbled chants they warmed. She whispered strange words over the leg and rocked. The knee continued to warm and then grew hot. Lya continued to rock, her head bobbing back and forth, her hands running over the knee. Searing heat filled Brahm’s leg, penetrating to the bone and she bit back her scream. Then the pain receded and Lya sat still.

  Brahm rose and tested her weight upon her leg. “There is almost no pain now. Where did you learn that?”

  Lya shrugged. “I had a book growing up — a grimoire of spells.”

  “It is a rare talent. Thank you.” Brahm took stock of her clothes, covered in mud. “I need to get out of these. Where is my pack?”

  “What you are wearing is the last of the clothing you had. Everything else was lost or thrown away while on the run.”

  A nervous twinge struck her. “What about the kahbeth?”

  A spider crawled across Lya’s hand. She crushed it between her fingers. “Those were strapped to White Feather's back. They're over there, on the other side of the bed. I can sense the rage in them.”

  Brahm nodded at the glittering sight of them, relieved. She looked about the room, with its lumpy bed. “What am I going to wear?”

  The girl clutched the bed and pulled herself up. “You should take a bath. I'll check with the inn keeper and bring some clothes.”

  Lya left her and Brahm descended the stairs to the musty bathing room. With kettles of hot water that warmed over a wood-burning stove, she filled the tub. She tossed in a few rose petals to take away the smell of the mud and grime. After a quick whiff of her body, she decided she had better add a few more.

  The hot water soaked away her hurts, and Brahm rubbed her muscles. Days of little use and already her legs and arms were feeling like mush. The water turned lukewarm and she climbed out of the tub, careful not to slip on the floor. Another whiff of her body and she exhaled.

  Too many rose petals.

  Now she smelled like an ugly whore.

  Brahm dressed in a garment that Lya had left for her. It had taken her quite some time to arrive with it, but in the end all she managed to acquire was a thin violet dress that was something close to cheesecloth. Brahm muttered obscenities as she slipped it over her head. It hugged her body.

  Brahm abhorred most things feminine. Yet as she stared at her reflection in the mirror, she was forced to admit she cleaned up fairly well.

  She shuffled to the common room, gripping the wall for support, where she found the others waiting. Diarmuid and White Feather were nursing a large mug of ale each and Lya now sipped at a glass of a dark red liquid. Brahm asked for ale as well and laughed at the unpleasant look she received from the barmaid. She supposed she did not appear the ale-drinking type at the moment.

  White Feather rose as she approached the table and she smiled inwardly at the look on his face.

  If his eyes open any wider, they'll fall out.

  He had never seen her in anything so form-fitting, and the dress accentuated every curve she had. She sat with her ale and the talk stopped. />
  “What? Never seen a dress before?”

  Both men were speechless.

  Brahm knew Diarmuid had no reason to stare. He was probably surprised at the sight of her. White Feather was another matter. His eyes shifted, as if not knowing where to put them.

  “Well, I can see I am going to have to buy some new clothing, as this doesn't seem to be very popular.”

  Diarmuid laughed. “You look great. You've just never looked so … feminine.”

  White Feather cleared his throat. “You look very nice.” He choked on the rest of his words, grabbing his ale and taking a hard swallow.

  His comment lacked the usual insinuation and Brahm smiled.

  “Thank you.”

  An assortment of characters filled the establishment, a low hum of chatter filling the air. Brahm sipped her ale. The foursome talked of little as they sat, listening instead to bits of conversation that flitted about the room. After a time, Brahm felt a sickness at the talk. Two men in the corner talked of the Confederation attacking the monsters in the Westwood and that Haven was destroyed by something they had conjured in the night. There was also mention that none could cross the Mississippi at the moment, under Confederation orders. Any ship caught crossing without the Confederation’s permission would be sunk without question.

  Others muttered the same. Diarmuid and White Feather had a drawn look upon their faces that she knew was a match for her own. When the food arrived, she pushed her plate away, feeling she might retch. There was a powerful feeling in her gut.

  She looked around. Outside the window stood ten horses, all bearing the emblem of the Confederation Guard. Then she remembered the little man she saw previously, and with the recognition of him came horror.

  Imp!

  “We have to leave. Now. Get up quietly.”

  She did not wait for the others to respond and rose from the table. Her legs wobbled and she clutched White Feather for support. The feeling in her stomach worsened. The others did not question and rose, but too late. Into the common room marched ten guards, armed with swords. At their lead was a tall, black-skinned man with eyes that matched Brahm's. The crest on his cloak showed him to be a captain of the Confederation Guard. She faced his hard stare.