The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil

by Heidi Cullinan

  Jonathan clenched his hands at his sides and stared down the pack of somber women. They moved silently into a semicircle before him, filling the foyer with the heavy whispers of their clothes. Their veils were thick and dark, letting him see nothing at all of their faces, and he knew beneath the swarthy black they were completely hairless, every one. They were cold and stale and ugly, frozen monoliths of control.

  The one who had stopped him lowered her hand, and then she reached up and lowered her veil as well. She looked at Jonathan with serene empathy. “You loved her, which is to your credit. But it is your passion that undid her, young man.”

  “No,” he shot back. “That was your cold communal heart. You didn’t even hear her! She said there would be no trial, just destruction. Nothing—no defense! No posits, nothing! No chance for retribution! The fucking Cloister monks are kinder!”

  Even when he swore at her, the witch would not be moved to anger. “There was no need. We knew what she had done, and what she had not done, as soon as we entered the parish.”

  “Did you see, then, that she saved me? That she sacrificed herself on your perverted altar to save me from—” He cut himself off and swore under his breath. “You don’t care, do you. You don’t care for her or for me or for anyone. You are like the damned monks. You only care for your creed. All else is so much noise on the wind.”

  “You cannot be expected to understand the intricacies of the Craft,” the witch said, still unmoved.

  “I’ve lived your cursed Craft,” he shot back. “I’ve grounded her as she stepped into the Void. I’ve fetched her from the Void. I’ve watched her suffer to serve. I’ve watched her peel herself away by layers—all for this!”

  “You upset yourself for nothing, young man.” The witch opened her hand. “She is of Us now. She is returned to the magic from which she pledged herself. Her Circle is complete.”

  She was my circle, not yours, he wanted to shout, but he said nothing. They would not hear. He would not waste his breath.

  Madeline. Madeline was gone forever.

  The witch closed her hand and nodded, apparently taking his silence for acceptance. “Our work is finished here. A new witch will be assigned when her name is revealed to us. We Sisters of the Council now depart.”

  Jonathan choked on his rage. “You—what?”

  “We go. There is no more work here for us.”

  Jonathan pointed to the lake. “There is a demon loose in the parish, and you propose to leave?”

  The witch looked surprised. He watched her lift her head, and he knew she was tasting the air, reading it, checking for the demon. She lowered her head and smiled at him as one might a mad, amusing puppy. “There is no demon here. This is your passion run away with you again, child.”

  “Then you are blind as well as stupid!” Jonathan shouted back.

  “Yes, well, that’s the trouble with witches,” a voice said from the balcony above. “To see the truths they need to see, they must close their eyes to so many, many things.”

  Jonathan looked up, and his heart broke all over again. The demon stood there, smiling brightly. It was wearing Charles.

  The witches looked at each other, wary for the first time. They broke their circle carefully, reforming it in the other direction to face the speaker on the balcony. The demon looked amused and leaned over the rail, tucking one of Charles’s feet behind its leg, and it dangled one arm casually over the side as it watched and waited.

  It hurt Jonathan to look at him. The voice was the same. He looked the same, and yet he was so changed. It was Charles’s body, and yet Jonathan knew at once it was not he who stood there, the boy he had called brother all his life. Even without the eyes, which were now nothing more than sucking points of darkness, he was wrong. His face, his mouth—it was as if someone had unfastened Charles and put him on as a suit.

  The demon held out its hands, smiling blithely at the witches before speaking to Jonathan again. “Poor lambs, they can’t help it. They have to choose, you see. It’s why they remove themselves so completely, why they cannot marry. You’re not stupid, Jonathan. You understand it’s passion that makes life. The pain. The sacrifice. The loss. These crones, they think hair and sex are sacrifice enough. They are wrong. That is only sacrifice of pleasure. But you—oh, you. You have bled for so many, and you will bleed again before this day is through, your sweet blood washing over my tongue. You will be my first, my sweet first. You, and then the rest.” It extended Charles’s hand to Jonathan, palm cupped and ready for offering. “The cup, love. Fetch my cup and your demon. Put the latter on and bring the other to me. We will meet in the tower, the place of your choosing. We will fight, and I will eat you up.” It grinned a terrible grin. “Such an honor for you. The last Perry. The one who lost to me.”

  The witches, who had been glancing at each other in stunned silence, turned back to the demon and faced it down. “Who are you, strange young man, to say such things?”

  The demon turned that smile on the witches, eyes glowing a strange, uncomfortable green. “I am an important lesson. Let us see what you and your Craft do with this.”

  As Jonathan watched in horror, the demon grew, extending out of Charles’s body as a great dark shadow that spanned over the entire hall. Like a breath of wind, it swooped down and ate them up, all twelve, all at once.

  Jonathan fell back against the wall, shaking as the demon wiped its mouth daintily with the tail of Charles’s coat. Then it laughed.

  “Oh, that was fine.” He burped, then rubbed his stomach. “Chewy.” He sighed and tilted his head at Jonathan. “Not first then, I’m afraid, for you. I apologize. But this is better. Thirteen. Such a powerful number.” He grinned and waved his fingers in an eerily Charles-like gesture. “See you upstairs.”

  Then he was gone.

  Jonathan stared at the quiet foyer, empty now save himself. After several seconds, he remembered to breathe. Then, shaking, aching, dying over and over again, he let the sadness rise inside him.

  Failed. I have utterly, utterly failed.

  He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he let out a strangled sob when he turned and saw Timothy beside him.

  “Timothy, Goddess save you, run! Charles—he’s gone, and the demon—Madeline—”

  Timothy squeezed his shoulder gently. “Hush. It’s all right. It will be all right, I promise you.”

  Jonathan’s laugh was mad. “Timothy, they’re dead. The witches killed Madeline, and the demon killed Charles.” His laugh broke and he began to sob again. He felt his mind unhinging inside his skull, which was the worst cut of all. And on top of it all, I will go out a madman, like my father before me…

  Timothy kissed his hair, a soothing gesture. “Come with me now. I will show you where I put the cup. You must take it to the tower room and face him, as he said, but you will not be taken by the demon, and you will not face him alone. I will go with you.”

  “Timothy—” Jonathan tried to protest, but he didn’t have the heart to speak any longer. So long. I fought it all for so long, and now it is all lost…

  “We must hurry.” Timothy tugged on him insistently now, and more from lack of energy than anything else, Jonathan let himself be towed. He went with Timothy through the halls, up the stairs, down again, round and around until they were in the courtyard. For a moment, with no warning, Timothy disappeared. Then just as quickly, he was back again. He was carrying the Elliott cup in his hands.

  Jonathan shook his head, dazed. “Here? You hid it here? In a bush?”

  “Not exactly.” Timothy put the cup aside and took Jonathan’s hands. “You must listen carefully now. We do not have much time, and I will not be able to speak to you this way again once we are in the tower. You will take the daemon inside you once we arrive, but you must use what you learned by carrying it in Catal, in fighting the monks, to keep yourself separate from it. Let it wear you, but do not give in to it.” He reached out and touched the medallion in the center of Jonathan’s chest. �
��She will help you. She will be waiting for you. Her spell will help strengthen you and keep you safe.”

  “Timothy, she is gone—”

  Timothy shook his head. “She is hiding. You must help him to find her. Tell him to fetch her, to look for her in the place where he has found her before.”

  Jonathan dared to hope, but it almost made the pain worse. “Him…?”

  “Charles,” Timothy said. “But no more questions. You must listen now.” He waited until Jonathan nodded; then he continued, still holding tight to Jonathan’s hands. “In the tower, let demon fight demon. This is very important.” Timothy nodded to the cup. “Let your House demon use your body, but do not fight the Elliott demon yourself, no matter how it provokes you. Wait. I want both of them weak and tired before I act, as weak as they can be made, but you must conserve your strength.”

  “You—what can you do?”

  Timothy pressed his fingers to Jonathan’s lips. “Do not ask. All I can say is that you must not stop me, no matter what you see. Trust me that what you see is not the only thing that is happening, and that whatever happens is what I choose. If you try to stop me, many, many people will die. And you will never see Madeline again.” Jonathan opened his mouth to argue, but Timothy shook his head and let him go, reaching for the cup again. “Come. We have no more time. We must go.”

  He led Jonathan across the courtyard, but he let go of him when Jonathan took up the cup. Jonathan could feel it, could feel the demon writhing. “You will take the demon inside you.” He was sick at the thought. He did not want to take it in again, not willingly, not unwillingly. He did not want to fight it again.

  “Will—” He shut his eyes in a long blink. “Will my injury return when I take on the demon?” As soon as he asked it, he felt foolish. How would Timothy know?

  But Timothy nodded. “You will endure worse as well, but to your body only. This is why you must stay so removed. Let the demon tire. Keep yourself strong.”

  They were on the main floor of the abbey now. Jonathan glanced uneasily at the cup. “Can’t it hear you?”

  “Not in its prison, no. It knows nothing. It will know everything once it takes over you, but it will not believe it is in any danger. It will behave as any Perry, certain it will win the battle, letting its arrogance carry the day.”

  There was an insult in there somewhere, but Jonathan could not bring himself to be offended. He carried himself on heavy feet up the stairs and down the hall, but outside the door to the tower, he could bear himself no farther. “Timothy, this is madness. How do you even know all these things?”

  Timothy stopped and smiled.

  “I love you, Jonathan Perry. I have always loved you, and I will always love you.” His eyes grew shiny with unshed tears. “But the time of our partnership in this life has ended. Let me go in grace to the battle I must fight.”

  “Timothy…!” Jonathan reached for him, dying for a third time in less than half an hour. Do not go. I cannot bear to lose anyone more.

  Timothy stepped back from the touch. He shut his eyes, let the tears fall, then opened them again. “Remember what I have told you, mira,” he said and pressed the cup into Jonathan’s hands. Jonathan hissed, gasped, then fell still as Timothy pressed his mouth to his, holding him fast in a lover’s embrace as the demon raced inside his body, clawing at his flesh until the only thing that remained of Jonathan was that kiss—and then he was nothing, nothing at all.

  Chapter Fifteen

  D’lor

  Lady

  The Lady is the feminine incarnation of the Goddess.

  The Lady is dual. She possesses the aspects of both male and female,

  and she can shift between them as it pleases her and as she finds the need.

  The Lady is brighter than any sun and darker than the deepest shade.

  The Lady carries the world in her arms. She bears. She nurtures. She sustains.

  The Lady gives life, and the Lady destroys life to return it

  to the cradle to be born again.

  Jonathan was gone.

  And then to his surprise, he found he wasn’t.

  He was still inside his body, but he was small, slight, and very compressed. He could feel the demon everywhere, but it had not consumed him somehow. It had, in fact, flooded him and pushed him back and down. He felt himself rushing through his bloodstream, swimming, flying…and then he stopped. He felt scrapes, pain—

  “Enjoy your stay,” the demon snarled, and Jonathan gasped as the pain pulled him down and he was pressed into a tight, close space.

  But he could see. He was crammed into a corner of himself, pinched and bent and wrapped like a mummy in the pain, but he was still there, and as if through a long, thin pipe, he could see what the demon was doing with his body. It was clutching the cup to his chest, and it was moving swiftly but with a heavy limp up the tower stairs. Jonathan thought he saw Timothy for a moment, but then he saw nothing but the stairs and the tower, first the door of his study, then his bedroom, and then at last the turret room itself.

  The trappings of Timothy’s bower were gone. The only thing left in the room was the Elliott demon, still wrapped in Charles’s body. It was waiting.

  The Perry daemon thrust the cup forward at it. “Give me my weapon, coward,” it spat, literally drooling as it spoke. The pain, Jonathan thought, feeling its echo. Everything Madeline had done to heal him had been undone. His body was fevered again and full of poisons, scars… The demon bore it all, sending what he could to Jonathan in his prison, trying to extinguish him with it. It didn’t work, for Jonathan knew how to redirect it back to the demon, and so the pain kept cycling, round and round and round.

  The demon in Charles’s body made a moue with its host’s lips. “Poor sot. Such inferior stock you must work with, who cannot even keep your token of power safe. But yes, of course I will give it to you. I would hate for the legend of my victory to have its roots in my prowess as a bully. I wish to win by my wit and intelligence, as is fitting my superior consciousness.” He held out Charles’s hands, and Jonathan trembled as he watched the sword appear there, forming out of the air. “Here you are.”

  With a roar, the Perry demon tossed the cup carelessly onto the stones as it reached for the sword. The cup rolled to Charles’s feet, where the demon picked it up and palmed it happily, like a child returned its favorite toy. The Perry demon was regarding its sword in much the same way.

  Jonathan shivered as it ran his hands over the magical steel, inscriptions and all restored. The last time he had seen it whole, it had been hot with his father’s blood. It was clean now, but Jonathan knew the blood was still there, as was Andrea’s and every other who had died upon it. It was a terrible sword, one he had never wanted to see again. Now here it was in his hands. In the demon’s hands, the place it should never have been allowed to rest, no matter what the cost.

  “You are such a fool, Elliott.” The Perry swung the sword through the air, and the demon reveled in the way it hissed and glinted in the early evening light. “You still think, after all I have done to your House, that your ugly little cup will have any power against my blade? Whatever magic you pull from, it will be useless against this steel. It will cut you from your body like a knife through butter.” The Perry laughed, its entire being buzzing with the thrill of the death to come. “Prepare to end.”

  It swung the sword again, aiming right at Charles’s head, and the Elliott did not move, nor did it stop smiling. It stayed exactly as it was, calm and serene as the magical Perry blade passed straight through and out the other side again, leaving the demon and Charles’s body exactly as they had been, undisturbed.

  Jonathan felt his demon pause.

  The Elliott demon practically purred as it spoke. “This is what I mean, Perry. You have always relied on your might, your influence, and your arrogance. You have clung to the title and to your things. You sold us all for them, and you sold those whom we protected. You filled your sacristy with money and steel, and you ha
ve laced both with magic, thinking that will be enough, that it can replace that which you destroyed.”

  “Our charge was to increase our power,” the Perry demon hissed. “We have done nothing more than that for which we were designed.”

  Charles’s face turned angry. “Power to protect them. Not yourself!”

  “It was our nature! We did nothing more than we were told!”

  The Elliott demon rolled Charles’s eyes and waved his hand, dismissing the argument. “Enough. This is your end; your bid for power failed. You have been so confident for so long. You cannot fathom that anything at all can destroy you, which is precisely why you have failed to see the one thing that can.”

  It held Charles’s hands wide, and as Jonathan and his demon watched, the Elliott daemon changed.

  It was Hamilton Elliott now—or, rather, it was wearing his skin, as it had Charles’s. But it was eerily like him, its tics and shape changing to match what Jonathan remembered of the man. His voice pitched to the tone Hamilton Elliott had spoken with, his body growing slightly taller, somewhat thinner. Jonathan thought, fleetingly, that they had all been blind idiots not to see Charles’s true father, for the resemblance between the two when seen so close together was blazingly obvious.

  “I let my pride slack,” the demon said in Hamilton’s quiet voice. “I whispered to them of justice, but I made myself appear the slighted beast, the underling, the hopeless case. It was warming, to see the way they nurtured me. The more I reduced, the stronger they protected me. This one”—he tapped Hamilton’s forehead and curled his lips in a rueful smile—“tried to trick me, tried to restore him, but he has lost, as has his daughter, and even his sweet, pitiful son, the fruit of his painful labors. But the rest of my blood was loyal and true, and they gave me more victory than I ever dreamed.”

  “You were imprisoned!” the Perry demon said. “They threw you in the lake! You were weak, the weakest of them all!”