Mortiswood: Kaelia Falling (Mortiswood Tales Book 2)

by Gina Dickerson

  ‘I don’t have time for this. Don’t you understand? If I don’t reach Bran before he gives my baby to Hel she will be lost to me forever!’

  ‘Rules are rules.’

  Lifa clutched at her hair. ‘If I bring you a corpse, you will allow me access?’

  The giantess nodded.

  Lifa rose. ‘I will bring you a corpse from Margate; there are plenty of fishermen in the harbour. It will be easy for me to kill one.’

  The giantess licked her lips. ‘I do not wish for a rubbery old fisherman’s corpse. I want the corpse of a fresh babe.’

  ‘You want me to bring you a baby’s body?’

  ‘I do.’ Saliva drooled from the giantess’ mouth. ‘I much rather fancy a three-day-old babe. Seeing the necromancer with his delicious load has made me crave one.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘Unless you would rather I ventured after the necromancer, I am sure he has not yet left the other end of the bridge....’

  ‘No, don’t you dare!’ Lifa’s nostrils flared. She clenched her hands into fists, using so much force her knuckles cracked. ‘I’ll rip you to pieces!’

  ‘I will quake, petrified.’ The giantess laughed, the sound akin to thunder. ‘If you want to draw my attention from the scent of your babe, then do as I bid, Shadow Dancer, and you may have access.’

  * * *

  Margate harbour was busier than when Lifa had passed through earlier. The chatter of voices and bustle of those readying for morning’s early catch filled the air. Above the tang of salty water and damp sand Lifa’s sensitive nostrils could detect the smell of the humans. Not overly pleasant, it wasn’t quite as vile as the stench of a hellhound’s rotten breath—which would be the aroma to greet her in Hel’s realm once she was able to pass the guardian of the bridge.

  Lifa knew she stood out. The men’s breeches didn’t help; neither did her height, nor her long, deep purple hair. There were a fair few women along the curve of the Stone Pier now, setting up wooden stalls with fresh produce to sell. At least her shadow was out, behaving herself in the shadows, and thereby meaning Lifa’s skin was not tattooed with the shadowy pattern. No human women she had seen in the coastal town of Margate had a hint of a tattoo, let alone one covering a whole side of their bodies.

  Passing a group of five women, who were busy arranging loaves of fresh bread in baskets, Lifa wished she had worn her usual cloak; the large hood would have covered her unusually coloured hair and masked the brightness of her violet eyes. The women nudged each other as Lifa passed them, whispering to one another.

  Lifa, whose hearing was extraordinary, easily picked up their hushed words.

  ‘Is that a woman?’ A woman wearing a drab grey dress with a knitted shawl tied over her shoulders elbowed the woman beside her. ‘I ain’t ever seen a woman with purple hair.’

  ‘Must be one of those foreign lot who came over on the big boat yesterday,’ hissed a third woman, she stopped filling her basket with bread rolls and turned to stare at Lifa. ‘One of the men bought a loaf from me, he weren’t English, I tell you, he had a right funny accent.’

  ‘Where do you suppose she’s from?’ hissed the fourth woman, folding her arms across her chest. The material of her high necked dress strained against the ample shelf of her bosoms. ‘I don’t fancy the look of her. What lady wears a man’s riding breeches? I bet she ain’t even got a horse.’

  ‘She’s not a lady!’ the final woman said, with a huff. ‘I never seen a lady with legs so big...them are men’s legs, are them. Ladies have proper lady legs not ones with all those muscles. I mean, look at her backside.’

  Five pairs of eyes swivelled in Lifa’s direction. Normally, she would have bowed her head and carried on, and would have been wearing a dreary dress similar to the other women in an attempt to blend in.

  Not today.

  Today was different.

  She was different.

  She was a mother without her child.

  Raising her chin, Lifa slowly turned around. The women collectively gasped.

  ‘Look at her eyes!’ said the fifth woman, forgetting all about whispering. ‘What’s wrong with her eyes? She’s got something not right about her, she has, that one!’

  Lifa drew her shoulders back, her lips lifting in a snarl. She knew her eyes were blazing, she could feel the heat emanating from her irises. It was something she shared with Bran; blazing eyes. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my eyes. I suggest you take your own off their stalks and pop them back in your heads before I do so for you.’

  For a moment the women simply stared, stock-still, and then the outspoken woman reached into the basket laid out in front of her and grabbed a loaf of bread, swiftly lobbing it at Lifa.

  ‘Really?’ Lifa expertly caught the loaf in one hand. The crusty bread was still warm and smelt delicious. Lifa hungrily bit a piece of the corner before launching it back at the offending woman. ‘You don’t want to play games with me.’

  Lifa’s aim was sharp and the bitten loaf hit the woman straight in the face, breaking into crumbly chunks.

  ‘Aarrghh!’ the woman managed to splutter, rubbing at her eyes. ‘I can’t see!’

  The woman’s wails prompted the other four into action. Grabbing rolls and loaves they threw them at Lifa amid cries akin to those of battle. Lifa batted the bread away, not in the least deterred by what she considered to be the futile efforts of the humans. On the wall behind the women Lifa’s dancer hopped excitedly from one foot to the other. Being a part of Lifa she could taste the emotion surging through Lifa’s veins, feel the rise of Lifa’s temper. She may not have been able to have stopped Bran from taking their daughter but she could stop these women from their pathetic taunting.

  The woman wearing the grey dress poked the woman with crumbs in her eyes. ‘Stop your crying. You started this by throwing that loaf. This is your fault!’

  The five women drew closer together, edging behind the rickety wooden stand. A few fishermen in their boats in the nearest section of the harbour paused in their work of preparing nets and cages. Lifa reached the five women and beckoned her dancer down from behind them. A collective scream tore from the women as the shadow pounced over their heads and landed on the table, scattering the bread baskets. A man clambered up from his small fishing vessel, brandishing a gutting knife.

  ‘Elsie,’ he shouted, ‘you all right?’

  ‘No!’ shouted back the woman who had first thrown the bread. ‘A lunatic is on the loose!’

  Pent up rage and frustration bubbled up into Lifa’s mouth. Her words burnt her lips on the way out. ‘Lunatic? I’ll show you a lunatic!’

  Lifa dipped her head a fraction. On the table before the trembling women, her shadow did the same. With a deliberately slow and seductive sway Lifa made her way around the table, and again, still on the table, her shadow exacted the same movement at the same time yet remained astride the table. Violet light pulsated from Lifa’s irises, flashes forking across the whites. The man with the gutting knife charged at Lifa, holding the knife high in the air.

  With a hiss, Lifa span around and caught him by the throat, lifting the man off his feet. His face contorted in fear. He was as easily as tall as Lifa, and strong from his work, his face weather ravaged, tanned by the sun and wrinkled by the salt. He wasn’t very old. If Lifa had to guess she would have thought late twenties. Unblinking green eyes stared into the whirl of Lifa’s. She smiled. Shame, he was quite good looking, he would have been the type of human she would have copulated with given the chance. The length of Lifa’s thoughts was the time it took the man to react but he was too late. As he raised his knife Lifa snatched it out of his hand. The blade cut into her palm yet she did not cry out. He grappled with her, desperately trying to disarm her. Lifa laughed, oblivious to the blows the man rained upon her head as he struggled for breath.

  From over the man’s shoulder Lifa spied another approaching, this time brandishing a larger knife. Without flinching, she took aim and sent the gutting knife hurtling towards the second man. The
small knife impaled straight in his chest. With the breath knocked out of him he dropped heavily to his knees, his own knife clattering onto the Whitby stone of the pier, before he fell forwards, pushing the gutting knife further into his heart.

  The man in Lifa’s grasp kicked out, hitting her in the shins but Lifa refused to loosen her hold on his throat. Holding him aloft with one hand, she threw her free hand into the air. The man’s shadow, cast to the left of him, trembled. If anyone had looked carefully they would have seen Lifa herself did not cast a shadow, it was as if the man’s shadow was floating.

  On the table Lifa’s shadow waved her arms menacingly at the five women before her. One woman grabbed a loaf and hurled it at the shadow. To her dismay the shadow danced out of the way and waggled a warning finger.

  ‘What is it?’ the woman cried. ‘Is it a demon?’

  The woman next to her, quaked. ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘It’s the devil, I tell you!’ the woman named Elsie spat. ‘He’s inside that woman. Look at what she’s doing to my poor Archibald!’ With a scream, she charged around the table and jumped on Lifa’s back.

  Still keeping a hold of Archibald, Lifa span around so fast she dislodged Elsie, sending the screaming woman catapulting back into the table. The shadow sprang from the rickety wood and pounced down on Elsie, pinning her to the floor. More people put down what they were doing and edged closer, most of the men picking up tools to serve as weapons.

  ‘Grab her!’ yelled a man.

  ‘I’ll knock her out!’ screamed another.

  Murmurs of agreement rose from the gathering crowd. On the floor, underneath Lifa’s shadow, Elsie groaned. The shadow poked at Elsie with her cold, grey fingers, causing the woman to scream out in pain.

  ‘Let me go!’ Elsie cried, convulsing under the shadow’s touch. Every prod, every poke sent surges of ice-cold pain through her body. Her eyes rolled back in her head, exposing the whites, and then rolled forwards again. Attempting to grab the shadow her hands went clean through the apparition, doing little more than to cause a temporary hole. Fragments of shadow clung to Elsie’s hands, chilling them so she was unable to move them.

  Elsie’s friends screamed and grasped onto one another, shivering and shaking, each afraid to risk helping their friend. A braying crowd circled Lifa. Armed with an array of items ranging from fishing knives to wooden brooms they held their tools aloft. Their eyes shared a joint look, one Lifa recognised well. They wanted her to bleed.

  ‘Don’t come any closer!’ Lifa said with a laugh. ‘Or you will all be sorry!’

  ‘Put Archibald down and we will be gentle with you!’ ordered a man brandishing a cobbling hammer.

  Archibald went limp in Lifa’s grasp, his face a pale shade of purple. Her fingers were so tight around his neck, flesh bulged from between them. She shook him, hoping for a response but he was unconscious. She usually preferred them responsive but this would have to do, she thought, at least the onlookers would see what fate awaited them if they did not down arms.

  Lifa swayed, her hips sashaying from side to side although she remained in one spot. Her shadow dancer sprang up from on top of Elsie, who was, by now, convulsing with seizures. The dancer danced around Lifa, swaying and twirling like a snake entranced. On the ground Archibald’s shadow quivered before rising from the ground.

  The crowd collectively gasped and shrank back. Wide-eyed they watched as Lifa’s dance drew Archibald’s shadow up into the air until it floated as free as Lifa’s own shadow. In her hands Archibald turned pale. Colour drained from his face, his eyebrows and hair turned white, his skin grew hard and cold. His eyes were the last to change, turning from bloodshot grey to balls of stone.

  ‘This is the devil’s work!’ A woman in the crowd pushed to the front. ‘Kill her before she steals our souls!’

  ‘I don’t want your souls.’ Lifa tossed Archibald’s hard, stony body to the ground, where it shattered loudly upon impact. ‘I want your shadows, I am THE Shadow Dancer, behold my power!’

  She pointed to the fragments of what had been Archibald and pointed to his shadow, still suspended in mid-air. Throwing her hands up for dramatic effect Lifa inhaled deeply and Archibald’s shadow moved obediently towards her. Once it reached her, Lifa leant forward, inhaled again and sucked his shadow in through her mouth. Instantly, her own shadow dancer burst into cool, violet flames and increased in size.

  Lifa burped, giggled, and then said, ‘Tell me, Humans, do you want to die today?’

  For a moment no-one spoke. A child’s cry broke the silence and the crowd erupted into action. Tools were dropped; some people ran, some jumped over the harbour into the water, yet some remained and brandished their weapons of choice.

  ‘I will enjoy this!’ Lifa screamed.

  The wind had picked up and whipped its salty breath through her hair, streaming the strands wildly behind her. Her eyes glowed with the same vibrancy as her shadow dancer as they both twirled faster and faster through the crowd of people, sucking their shadows from them and turning them into stone.

  Lifa had consumed a further twenty shadows by the time she caught a whiff of something sweet. A babe in arms. The very child whose cry had broken the earlier silence. Leaving her shadow to immobilise people with her chills, Lifa followed her nose. She pushed her way past several men and women, deaf to each of their cries as she tossed them into the air. The smell was intoxicating.

  This was it, her ticket to having her baby back, her Rosalie.

  Tears prickled behind her eyelids but Lifa gritted her teeth. She would not cry. She could do this. She would reclaim her child, even if it meant tearing her from the arms of Hel herself. Lifa had never known her own mother, being raised as an orphan in Helheimr had not been so bad but she did not know, and could not risk, that her daughter would be sacrificed not nurtured. Rosalie was hers and she would never give up on her. If Lifa’s heart were torn from her body, it would scream the name of her daughter.

  Lifa stopped and sniffed, the scent was strong. Tilting her head she listened carefully and picked up a hushed murmur coming from behind an upturned wooden boat that was in a state of mid-repair. Gleefully, Lifa wrenched the boat away, exposing a cowering woman. The woman was dressed in a dark dress with a grubby shawl knotted around her shoulders. A soft, cloth hat topped her messy curls. Dirt streaked her face, tracked by tears. She lifted her watery gaze to meet Lifa’s and her lips wobbled.

  ‘Don’t hurt us,’ the young woman whimpered. ‘We will be quiet. We won’t tell the police a thing.’

  Lifa pointed at the bundle of dirty material in the woman’s arms. ‘Is that your child?’

  The woman hugged the small bundle closer, and sobbed. ‘She’s only three days old. Please, Miss, please don’t hurt us!’

  ‘I won’t hurt you,’ Lifa promised, raising her voice to be heard over the wailing of the infant. ‘If you hand over the baby.’

  ‘No!’ The woman broke into noisy tears, snot bubbling from her nostrils. ‘Not my baby!’

  ‘If you want to live, and for me to disappear, then you must hand over the baby.’ Lifa held out her hands.

  ‘No, you’ll have to kill me first!’ Fight lit up the woman’s watery gaze. ‘I won’t give her to you; I won’t give her to no-one. She’s my baby and I’m going to look after her!’

  The covers had slipped from the baby, exposing her small head with its soft, downy blonde hair. Tiny fingers curled around those of her mother, a heart splitting wail streamed from the infant’s tiny mouth and its eyes crinkled shut in anguish. The woman averted her gaze from Lifa for a moment and cooed to her child in an attempt to calm her. Lovingly, she stroked the baby’s head and kissed her forehead.

  Lifa remembered that feeling; how Rosalie’s baby-soft skin felt against her lips, how she felt in her arms, the way her tiny grasp had been strong around her finger, how she smelt of new baby freshness. Before Lifa realised she was doing it, she backed away. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She could not do it. She could n
ot take the child from its mother and kill it for it to be eaten by the guardian of the bridge.

  She could not kill a three day old baby.

  Lifa collapsed. She could not rescue Rosalie. Rosalie was lost to her now; it was probably already too late. She had failed her daughter, failed herself. All over the sake of a human baby that may not even grow into an adult if the state of the rags she was wrapped in was anything to go by.

  ‘No!’ Lifa screamed, her pitiful wails echoing around the harbour. ‘Rosalie!’

  She dropped her head into her hands and sobbed, huge wracking sobs that shook her entire body.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Now

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t kill the woman’s baby.’ Bran reached into his coat pocket and offered Lifa a handkerchief as she stopped recounting her story. ‘It shows you have some humanity.’

  Lifa blew her nose and bunched the handkerchief into a ball. ‘Because I couldn’t kill the wretch I lost my only daughter.’

  Bran stared straight ahead and folded his arms. ‘So you went crazy and turned a load of people into stone instead?’

  ‘I was hurt and angry. It was your fault; their deaths are as much on your hands as they are on mine.’

  Bran squared his shoulders. ‘I accept that. What happened to keep you away for so long?’

  ‘These three women turned up, shrouded in columns of smoke. They brought with them a tremendous thunderstorm. Before I knew what was happening, they had entrapped me!’

  Bran drew a whistle in between his teeth. He had heard of the three who appeared in columns of smoke. Sure, there were only three of them but according to what he had heard, three was scary enough. He had heard when they appeared, lives were lost yet some begun. Nothing could touch the three hidden within the smoke; they could not be destroyed.

  Lifa unscrewed the handkerchief and twisted the cotton between her hands. Her eyes took on a faraway glaze as she remembered. ‘The ghostly buggers swept in, froze all of the people, blasted the stone people into the sea, and shackled me. They caught my dancer in a smoke net. They hurt her so much. I know she can’t make a noise but I felt it, her pain and my own.’ She rubbed her wrists. ‘They placed some kind of invisible restraints around my wrists. Did you know they sear into the skin and fuse until you can’t tell where your flesh ends and the invisible cuffs begin? Yes, I know they’re invisible but they can still be felt.’ She shook her head. ‘I was weak, I admit it. I should’ve sensed them before they even arrived on the scene. I would have if I hadn’t been so fraught. They only caught me because they captured my dancer. If I had called her back to me, we both would have escaped unscathed.’