The Second Coming

by David H. Burton

  “I headed for a small town south of New Boston and spent the better part of two weeks there, searching.”

  Brahm focused the bird’s attention to Lya, to turn its thoughts towards her and spoke within her mind.

  -Lya. Can you hear me?-

  The girl’s gaze remained unwavering, towards the river.

  *Yes. I hear you. What craft is this?*

  Brahm spoke aloud her story to Mason.

  “I heard nothing from the locals, but did not trust them as they seemed to suspect I was from the Confederation.”

  -The Tongue is not a talent of the craft. We can communicate through the gull’s mind. Pay attention to its thoughts.-

  She paused for a moment, for Lya to sense the gull’s warning, and then continued speaking. “I had given up on my last night there and decided to entertain myself in one of the local bars. I noticed someone eyeing me, a wild-looking woman I was instantly attracted to. She was as tall, with tanned skin and dark eyes. She sauntered over to me with two beers in hand. I had no reason to suspect she might be anything more than a one night stand, so I accepted the beer and we talked through the night.”

  -Something tracks us. I have left a message with the gull to get help. We will discuss this later.-

  Brahm released her mind from the gull and it fluttered and rose upwards.

  “Gulls are stupid birds,” she muttered aloud.

  Mason nudged her. “Go on.”

  “Well, needless to say we woke up in each other’s arms the following morning. I spent two more days there, hunting and drinking with her, and falling hard and fast for this strange woman. We talked a lot during those two days, about the Confederation and the Hunters. We discussed different views on witchcraft, and I listened to what she said. On the third day, I told her who I was, deciding not to hide from her. She then told me she was a Missionary with a gift to speak with animals. I then realized she was the one I was looking for.” The gull perched upon the mast of the ship, seeming to watch them.

  Fucking gull. Fly!

  Mason shifted.

  “We argued that day, and fought; and nearly killed each other. Finally, she asked me a question: ‘Do you know who the man is that discovered how to control the Hunters? Do you know why it is kept a secret?’ I told her what I knew, that Senator Thurmond read an ancient text and found an herb to turn the tides, to prevent another Witch War from ever happening again. She told me the secret of that weapon was kept a secret so no one could learn to use this weapon against the Confederation.”

  She listened for Mason. Silence sat behind her. The gull took flight.

  “Gray Wolf also told me that Senator Thurmond was a former member of Haven. He was ex-communicated. Gregor ousted him because he wanted to use the herb to control the Confederation. Thurmond is a blood witch and the Hunters answer only to him.”

  Lya sat quiet, biting her lip. Brahm heard nothing from her brother.

  The gull flew towards the western shore of the Mississippi and Brahm nearly choked on her words as the bird dropped from the sky. She scanned the trees, and let her soul slip into its dance. She sailed the wind currents in unison with the bobbing of the small wooden cruiser, its sails unfurled and taut. She floated along the water’s edge, traveling towards shore. She searched for the remains of the gull, feeling for its broken body, and her soul gasped at what loomed over the dead bird. It was something dark, a blot on the fabric of life. The thoughts of the gull came back to her.

  Something from the Westwood.

  A chill swept through her soul as the shadow turned its attention towards her. She sensed some incoherent thought from it.

  *Seventeen. Seventeen. Seventeen.*

  She reeled back from its touch, fleeing for the safety of the ship.

  What is that thing?

  She soared over the water, and sensed a presence watching her. Her face stung from a harsh slap.

  Mason stood over her, shaking her. “No!”

  She thought he would not like her revelations about Thurmond.

  Her brother said nothing more as he pulled her to her feet and unshackled the chains from the ship’s rigging. He dragged her below deck, marching her through the bowels of the ship. His boots pounded the wooden floor. He shoved her forward and Brahm realized it wasn’t her tale of Thurmond that had upset him. It was that she had done something to defy him, right under his nose and bold as a peacock. She smiled, realizing her opportunity. The soul that had watched her was kindred.

  She kept her pace through the stale wooden hull, and turned back to face him. “It was you. You sensed me in the Confederation camp. It was you just now. You are a Soul Runner. Did you see what was out there?”

  He stopped in front of a closet and flung open the door. The kahbeth sat upon the floor, still and lifeless. Mason grabbed a silver collar and clamped it about her neck. “I should have thought of this before.”

  He slammed the door shut and yanked the chains to drag her once more along the hall.

  “Mason, you have the same skill. It isn’t witchcraft.”

  He opened the door. “Convince yourself of what you want, traitor. No witchcraft runs through these veins.” Her brother pushed her in and locked the door.

  His boots echoed down the hall.

  White Feather looked at her with concern and then anger filled his eyes once more. He rolled over.

  Diarmuid sat up. “What happened?”

  “My fresh air was cut short. Mason sensed my abilities as a Soul Runner. He has the same skill.”

  “What? Is that why you wear the silver?”

  She nodded. “He thinks it’s witchcraft.”

  “Is it?”

  “I don’t think so, but then I’ve never been clamped in silver before.”

  Brahm released her soul from her body. It was heavier than usual, and could not travel more than a few feet in front of her. The familiar feeling of fatigue wafted through her. She slipped back into her skin and fisted her hands. “I cannot command its use more than a few feet from where I sit.”

  The second soul within her cackled.

  Chapter 21

  Friar John sat with the urn on the outskirts of New Boston. He had reset the sigils upon it so that he could take Miguel’s soul with it. He had asked of the Church within the city and learned that Miguel had taken up residence there. There were a few followers, not as many as the Church of the Ascension, but enough to warrant a humble structure within the port city. He did not contact the man; that would be done soon enough. Instead, he left the fat friar to his pious ways and headed for the forests to take care of the business at hand. He needed to find this gathering of evil and confine the soul of the Beast. He rubbed at the bandage on his arm and felt the leech wriggle beneath it.

  John pulled out the Baron’s mirror and spoke some words of incantation. With one of his newly sharpened tools he slit his own hand and smeared the blood along the edges of the mirror. This was a window to shadow if used properly, he knew, but he did not want to summon forth what lay within. He wanted only to listen. The trick was not to turn mad in the process.

  John propped the mirror against a stone and sat before it, waiting.

  He closed his mind to all else, and for twelve days and nights, eating only bread and honey, he waited for the dark whisperings, and temptation.

  ***

  Upon a damp, woolen blanket, Paine sat with Fang at his side, the warmth of her body seeping into his legs. Patches of cloud covered the evening sky, remnants of the days of rain that plagued the fugitives as they ran from the army of Hunters. It left in its wake a dusk of humid air, still and stagnant. Sweat slid down the back of his neck and he stroked the wolf behind the ears before shifting away from the heat of her body.

  He pondered what Truitt told him of his birth-mother, of who she had been before she abdicated.

  Through his parents he knew of the Church and the power it wielded across the sea.

  Had they known of her when they took the two of them in?


  In a clearing about twenty feet from where he sat, witch, Haudenosaunee and half-breed gathered by a blazing fire, and Paine’s gaze settled on Little Doe. He declined her invitation to eat for the third night in a row, his appetite abandoned on the shores of the Mississippi. He noticed the look of concern in her eyes over the last few days — days of little food and sleep, but did not let on what kept his mind occupied. Questions plagued him about his birth-mother and his own heritage.

  Who was he? And for that matter, what was he? Why did his mother give them up?

  The last thought he had been prone to during his youth, usually when Gwen had sought to use the rod on him. He eyed Little Doe once more. She doted on the Hunter, like a mother. He smiled, if only briefly, for that was how she also treated him.

  He turned his attention to the grimoire in his lap. He’d flipped through it plenty over the years. Some of the spells he knew by rote.

  Lya knew them all.

  He searched for the spell that Lya would have cast upon him. He was still angered with her for whatever it was she had done to him, but there was satisfaction in knowing that she was paying the price for it now, for when his heart ached so did hers.

  Stains dappled the parchment; some fresh from Lya dripping blood on them. The others had been there when they found the book. The page in front of him was a spell to summon a soul that would create a plague on livestock. Towards the back of the book were the more complex spells that involved invoking multiple spirits into your body. He pulled the parchment from his pocket as he realized something.

  The handwriting was identical to that of the grimoire. He thumbed through the pages until he reached the end.

  A sheet was torn from the final page and he looked at the serrated edges of the parchment he had in his pocket. He held it up against that of the book. They matched, as did the script; not only the writing with the spell, but the other side as well. That meant the grimoire was from his birth-mother, written in her own hand.

  The spell on the sheet was one that summoned five spirits, all powerful names: Agares, Morax, Balam, Tephros, and Vepar. Each one had different powers and were a deadly combination.

  Where did she learn such spells?

  Paine sighed and closed the book. He picked at the dirt, pulling small pebbles from the earth. He recalled the statue in Lindhome, how the sharpness of its features were familiar to him, so familiar he had missed it in his own sister.

  He looked up when a shadow settled upon him.

  Little Doe stood over him, blocking the light of the fire. Even in the failing light he saw the worry in her eyes.

  “I am glad to see you smile, Little Badger. You have been distant since the night you freed Mira.”

  As if on cue, the Hunter stepped from behind the Clan Mother, her mouth set with an awkward curve.

  “Hello.”

  It was the second day in a row that the Clan Mother had brought Mira with her. The former Hunter warranted little from him; certainly no longer fear, but the anger still smoldered. He was biding his time with her, deciding what he wanted. In the meantime, he wanted nothing to do with her and felt the unease of two strangers who had little to say to each other.

  Paine tucked the grimoire away and spread out the woolen blanket on which he sat, the dampness leaching into his pants. The two women sat across from him. Fang opened an eye, seemingly to ensure they did not invade her space, and then returned to her nap.

  The Clan Mother placed some flat bread wrapped around some spiced meat before him. “I thought perhaps you might eat something.”

  His tongue bathed in saliva at the smell. Though he wouldn’t care to admit it, he was actually hungry.

  “Thank you.” He accepted the food, taking a bite immediately. Warm juices escaped his lips and he wiped his face with his sleeve.

  The Clan Mother smiled. “It is good to see you eat.”

  More liquid dribbled down his chin.

  The Clan Mother sighed and pursed her lips for a moment. “I suppose you wonder why I have brought Mira over to you again.”

  Paine stopped chewing.

  “I hoped your presence might jar her memory. I tried to bring her to Puck, but he refused. Perhaps he cannot accept she is released, or perhaps he cannot forgive her. I do not know.”

  Paine swallowed and the food inched down his gullet like half-eaten sawdust. He put it down.

  “Perhaps I will let Mira speak. Is that all right with you?”

  Paine remembered that Diarmuid was once like this woman, controlled. He knew what he felt about Diarmuid, but his parents were dead. And this woman had had a hand in it, if even an unwilling one.

  Mira shuffled closer to him. She still shook from the withdrawal, but the Clan Mother’s tea helped her cope.

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I remember little. I remember your face and the hunt. I remember the Westwood and I waited for you. I took your sister. I had to. I had orders. Please forgive me.”

  “Orders from who?” The words spat from his mouth.

  She looked him in the eye. “I do not remember.”

  “Lies!” he spat.

  The Clan Mother put her hand in Paine’s. “Little Badger, would you mind telling us what you remember?”

  The scent of the spiced meat and onions tickled his nose, yet it no longer tantalized him. He wanted to retch. He opened his mouth to speak, but was distracted by movement in the distance; Puck, staring at them with a look of anger etched into his thick eyebrows. The young man turned away after one last sulky look. Paine looked back at Mira.

  “Perhaps another time.”

  Mira nodded her head, and regret swam in her eyes. The Clan Mother took his other hand.

  “Something weighs heavily on your shoulders, Little Badger. I am a good listener if you need one.”

  The warmth of her smile was the exact opposite of Gwen’s. It was less calculated, genuine.

  “I do not know who I am,” he said.

  The Clan Mother stroked his face with her gnarled hands, a touch of soft leather.

  “We are who we are meant to be. Before me, I see Little Badger, but if you must know more than that, perhaps the answer lies in the nature of your heritage. I know little of such things, but there are others here more knowledgeable in these matters.” She cast her glance towards the gathering by the fire. Paine’s eyes slid across the blur of half-breed, Haudenosaunee and witch to settle on someone who sat with Gregor, head lowered in a private conversation —Alwhin.

  The Clan Mother patted Paine’s knee and groaned as she rose, Mira helping the older woman up. As she did so, Paine noticed on her shoulder the marking of a goat.

  “Just be wary, and come see me when you need to talk, Little Badger. My tent is always open.”

  Mira took one last look at Paine. “Thank you.”

  Paine nodded his head in return and the two women walked away as he ate what remained of his meal. Mira veered off to join an awaiting Great Bear, his wide face chiseled with the smile of the crescent moon. He had taken a keen interest in her recovery.

  Fang nudged Paine with her nose, her tail thumping the ground. Dark now settled upon the land and the only light by which to see shone in the distance like a fading, orange beacon.

  Paine scratched the wolf behind the ears.

  “All right, let’s go.”

  The she-wolf sauntered at his side as he walked towards the fire, the dying flames taking low, rhythmic breaths. The night air embraced him with an uncomfortable warmth, sapping the energy from his legs.

  To the north of where he walked, three Lastborn stood guard in the shadows of the trees. Every day was the same, with guards posted at the four corners for signs of danger. It gave him some sense of safety, but he wondered if it would last.

  He approached the fire.

  Gregor smiled, and Alwhin seemed to search him, stripping him down to his soul.

  “What can we do for you, child?”

  Paine ran his fingers along the edge of the folded parchment
in his pocket.

  “I want to know about Sephirah, my mother.”

  Paine failed to read either of their eyes in the dim light of the fire. Alwhin rose and offered her hand to Gregor.

  “Let us walk together.”

  The clouds lingered in the sky, dawdling over the surface of the nearly full moon. The smell of pine was faint on the air, masked by the lingering scent of burning wood. The singing and voices faded to a distant murmur as they walked through the trees. Finally, they stopped at a fallen log, and Paine sat across from the two.

  Alwhin’s face was unreadable. “I see you know more than when last we spoke.”

  “Did you know?”

  She nodded.

  “When we last spoke you said you knew nothing of my parents.”

  Alwhin cast him a sidelong glance. “I said I could not tell you.”

  His neck and face warmed. An angry fire stoked within him.

  “I don’t understand. Why could you not tell us?”

  The woman’s face was blank and unreadable in the dark. “Because of your sister. My Sight eludes me again, so I am unsure if it is wise to tell you this, but she is heir to the throne of Valbain.”

  “What?”

  “I knew from the moment I saw her. And there are those among the Lastborn who would delight in her slaughter, or who might use her to their own ends to get back at the Firstborn.”

  “So Sephirah is our mother?”

  She nodded.

  “And our father?”

  “I believe you have different fathers.”

  “But we’re twins, that’s not possible.”

  She laughed. “Breeding with only one male is an anomaly reserved for humans. The beings of the Fifth Day commonly breed with multiple partners. I myself had two fathers, both Revenant. Assuming Lya had more than one father, the most important one is the heir to Valbain, Dïor. He remained in Sephirah’s shadow when she came to us, always hooded. I caught a glimpse of him when they thought they were alone. There was no mistaking his face, for I was once slave to his family. I spoke with Sephirah about his presence in Lindhome. I knew the others would want him hanged, and she begged my silence on the matter. When I set eyes upon Lya, I knew she was the seed of Dïor.”