by Matt Ralphs
The tentacles probed closer. Hazel pressed herself against the barrier and closed her eyes. And then a familiar voice cut into her mind.
‘Hazel,’ it whispered. ‘Look out. And look up!’
She sensed a shift in the air directly overhead, as if something huge was moving towards them. Acting on instinct, she threw herself at Titus and David, pushing them towards the edge of the magic circle – just as the ceiling exploded.
She clapped her hands to her ears as the great church bell plummeted from the darkness of the tower in a hail of nails and smashed floorboards. The air vibrated. A trail of orange fire streaked from the top – it was Bramley, clinging on with both paws, eyes tight shut.
Hazel was sure that the world would split in two as the edge of the brass bell struck the magic circle dead centre, sending a fountain of sparks into the air. The floor bucked, knocking Murrell and several witches from their feet and slamming Hazel, Titus and David through the dissolving magical barrier and out of the circle.
The ground split open. Cracks spread, destroying the magic symbols. The world trembled again as the bell toppled on to its side and rolled in a cacophonous curve.
Bramley, his fur still aflame, leaped from the bell where he’d burned the mounting through, and scampered over to Hazel. With her ears still ringing, she gathered him up to her chest, feeling his heart beat fast against her own.
Someone grabbed her shoulders and pulled her backwards towards the altar. It was Hecate – she was shouting something – but Hazel couldn’t hear the words over the howl of the wind rushing up from beneath the cracked church floor.
The smashed stone floor under the bell sagged. Powerful otherworldly magic flashed from somewhere deep below the church, casting a sickly light over everything.
The disintegrating magic circle continued to crack and split – until the bell tumbled into the black pit, tolling dolefully as it fell. The panicked witches and their familiars ignored Murrell’s orders and fled for their lives, casting terrified glances at the gaping, jagged hole in the floor, which now stretched across the width of the church.
We’re trapped, Hazel thought.
42
THE VOICE OF BAAL
‘I don’t face death. It faces me.’
Witch Finder Captain Titus White
Hazel and Hecate cowered on the cold stone floor behind the altar. Tom prowled at their feet, hackles raised. The clamour of splitting rocks and fizzing magic died away. The air throbbed, as if pulsing in time to the beat of a malicious heart.
Bramley trembled. ‘I’m so sorry, Hazel. This is all my fault.’
‘You saved my life, my clever little mouse,’ Hazel replied. ‘And Titus and David too. You did what you had to do.’ Keeping hold of her mother’s hand, she peered around the edge of the altar.
The church looked as if it had been struck by a meteor. Pews lay scattered and shattered all over the floor, and a multi-coloured carpet of broken stained glass covered the paving stones.
A crevasse, many feet wide, split the floor like an evil grin. The air over it shimmered and gasped, as if some huge creature was breathing from its depths. Shadows backlit by hellish light swept across the church roof.
The woodsman, the witches and their familiars had gone – fled in terror, or lost into the abyss. Only Murrell remained, crouched on his knees, staring into the darkness with a face masked in shock.
‘Look – there’s Titus and his boy,’ Hecate said. ‘They’re hiding in the pulpit.’
Bramley appeared behind Hazel’s ear and sniffed the air. ‘Something’s coming,’ he said. ‘From down there.’
He was right. Hazel felt its approach like a sickness. She wanted to back away and hide, but she forced herself to watch as a vast red appendage unfurled from the crevasse. Muscle rippled, moisture dripped; it looked like a giant quivering tongue reaching up to lick the ceiling.
‘What is it?’ Bramley squeaked.
Murrell gazed up, his face slack with fear.
He knows, Hazel thought. He’s seen it before.
‘Look,’ Hecate breathed. ‘Something’s happening to it.’
There was a wet tearing sound as a split opened at the tip of tongue and ran down both sides. Hazel felt sick as the two halves peeled away, revealing the head and shoulders of a wizened old man. Pallid skin stretched tightly over bones, and only a few strands of hair clung to his scalp.
Hazel thought he must have been long dead, until he opened his mouth and took in a long, rattling breath.
Murrell cowered behind an upturned pew.
The man worked his jaws up and down, left and right, as if he had not used them for years. When he spoke, his voice was dry as bone dust.
‘I am he . . . who was once the man called Petrov. I am he . . . who is bound to Baal. I am he . . . who is the Voice of Baal. I speak for Baal to those unworthy of listening.’
Hazel felt Hecate’s grip on her hand tighten. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest. Three days ago I was picking apples, she thought. Now I’m face to face with a demon’s envoy.
The appendage swept the once-man Petrov around the edge of the circle. ‘Baal demands to know what has happened to his circle,’ he said. ‘Baal demands to know why his gift has been squandered. Show yourself, the one called Nicolas Murrell. Show yourself to Baal, for Baal knows you are near.’
‘Perhaps the demon will take Murrell and leave us alone,’ Bramley said.
‘Baal would speak with you.’ Petrov’s voice hardened; there were shards in the bone dust now. ‘Come out, Murrell, if you want to keep your skin.’
The pew creaked as Murrell levered himself up. Petrov swivelled towards him. ‘Baal sees that the circle gifted to you is shattered. The souls promised to Baal have not been delivered. The bargain struck with Baal has been dishonoured.’
Murrell bowed his head. He was shaking and his words came in a whispered rush. ‘I prostrate myself before Baal the Destroyer and ask that he forgives his most loyal and humble servant.’
‘Baal does not feed on excuses.’ Petrov swooped, stopping inches from Murrell’s pallid face. ‘Baal is hungry for what was promised to him.’
‘Please, I know I have failed, but if Baal would give me one more chance . . .’
‘Your soul is ruined, Murrell, bitter, worthless and not pleasant to eat. But Baal is hungry now. Baal will feed.’
‘There are others here.’ Murrell wept, grovelling on the floor. ‘Take them as penance for my failure.’
‘The rotten tell-tale,’ Bramley hissed.
‘There are others here – Baal can smell them. But they are not yours to bargain with.’ Petrov swept back up into the rafters, sniffing the air and forcing Hazel to duck back. A shiver ran through him. ‘Ahh,’ he rasped. ‘Wielders.’
43
FLESH-BOUND
‘I have communed with the Great Beast.
He will come for me when it pleases him.’
Grand Magus L. G. Petrov
‘Hazel, whatever that thing is, it knows we’re here,’ Bramley said.
‘Quiet, Bram, I’m trying to think. Ma, do you think ...’ A stream of blood ran from Hecate’s scalp, frighteningly red against her pale skin, and her eyes, usually so bright, were dull and unfocused.
‘Ma?’ Hazel said, clasping Hecate’s face. ‘What. . . what happened?’
‘I must have hit my head... the debris from the ceiling she said.
‘This is all my fault. . .’ Bramley wept.
Hazel whipped a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it against the wound. ‘Can you heal yourself?’
Hecate shook her head and mumbled, ‘My magic’s still weak. Healing Nicolas sapped my strength . . . I can’t focus . . .’
‘Here,’ Hazel said, lifting her mother’s hand to the handkerchief. ‘Hold this tight.’ She looked around for a way out that she’d previously missed, but there was nothing but stone walls, and windows that were too high to reach. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get us out of this somehow.’
‘Wielders,’ Petrov continued, his voice now coming from high up in the eaves. ‘Two at least, brimming with magic. It would please Baal to talk to them. It would please him also to sate his appetite upon them, should they remain hidden.’
Hazel squeezed her eyes shut. She knew what she had to do, and it seemed that in the end she didn’t really have a choice.
‘Ma, stay here, and don’t make a noise.’
Hecate rested her head against the altar. ‘Don’t go,’ she mumbled.
‘I’m going to talk to . . . the thing out there, and get it to let us go. And if I can’t, I’ll at least put up a fight. And when I do, try to get out while it’s distracted.’
Hecate’s brow creased. ‘You know I’d never leave you, sweet-pea,’ she said.
Hazel kissed her brow. ‘Just stay here for now.’
‘Baal is waiting.’ Petrov’s voice sounded smoother, as if lubricated by use. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’
Hazel picked Bramley up and held him in her palm. ‘I can’t ask you to come out there with me,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you stay here with Ma?’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ he cried, scurrying up her arm and into her hair. ‘I’m not leaving you.’
With shaking legs, Hazel stood up and walked towards the crevasse, doing her best to hide the crippling fear gnawing at her insides. At the same moment, Titus appeared from the pulpit, apparently also deciding to face Petrov. They nodded to each other and approached the edge of the fissure between their world and the demon’s.
Hazel leaned forward and saw a distant glow staining the rock walls red; the bottom, if there even was one, was out of sight. The tongue disappeared into the depths, its length impossible to contemplate.
Petrov swooped down to eye level, close enough for Hazel to see every line in his face and every withered fold of skin. The bands of flesh holding him flexed and pulsed.
‘A Fire Witch,’ Petrov hissed. ‘You burn like the sun – I see it even through my blind eyes.’
Hazel grimaced. ‘Yes, I am a Fire Witch,’ she breathed. ‘But what are you?’
He cocked his head. The wrinkles on his brow smoothed and the tension around his mouth eased. ‘I am . . . I am Lars Göran Petrov, from Sweden,’ he said in a voice now tinged with an accent. ‘I remember a lake. And Viveka and Birgitta—’ The muscles around the man tightened and his mouth jerked open in a silent scream.
‘What’s happening to him?’ Hazel cried.
Petrov slumped to one side. The tongue of flesh lifted him back up to the rafters and undulated left and right, as if soothing him to sleep.
A strong hand grabbed Hazel’s shoulder and pulled her away from the edge of the crevasse.
‘There’s nothing you can do for him,’ Titus whispered into Hazel’s ear. ‘He’s flesh-bound to Baal.’ He shook his head, gazing in wonder. ‘Lars Petrov. Can it really be you?’
‘You know him?’
‘Knew of him. Lars was a demonologist who disappeared in the tenth century, in very odd circumstances. It was always rumoured that he tried to consort with demons, and it looks like the rumours were true.’
A shiver ran down Hazel’s back. ‘You mean he’s been like this . . . ?’
‘For seven hundred years, yes.’
‘Look out – it’s coming back,’ Bramley said.
‘I am he who once was the man called Petrov.’ The tongue swooped down to them again. ‘Now I am the Voice of Baal. Baal is waiting for that which was promised. Souls to sustain him. Souls to give him strength in the prosecution of his wars.’
‘Take his,’ Titus said, pointing to the prostate Murrell. ‘He is the one who has failed you.’
Petrov curled his lip. ‘Baal has tasted that man’s soul and found it lacking. But the soul of a Wielder . . . they are most nourishing.’
Hazel’s legs threatened to collapse from under her, but she resisted the temptation to grab hold of Titus. Somehow she knew that showing weakness to the demon would be disastrous.
‘Baal knows that a soul offered freely is worth more than a hundred taken by force.’ Titus stretched his arms out from his sides. ‘And I offer him my soul, freely.’
‘What are you doing?’ Hazel hissed. ‘You might become like Petrov.’
Titus ignored her. ‘I offer my soul freely on the condition you let the others go.’
Petrov swerved closer to Titus, his lip curling with distaste. ‘You are old. Your soul fades like a dying star. Baal will not bargain with you.’
Titus reeled. ‘I am a man . . . a Witch Finder . . .’
‘Baal knows you, Titus White. He smells your sickness. He says it is time to make your peace.’
Hazel took Titus’s hand and directed her fiercest glare at Petrov. ‘He’s stronger than you’ll ever be.’
The ground shook, nearly knocking Hazel from her feet. Cracks appeared in the flagstones. Rock chips and dust cascaded into the crevasse. A great booming, hooting noise welled up from the darkness, battering her ears. She and Titus stumbled backwards. Petrov followed them, smiling.
‘What’s happening?’ Bramley cried.
‘Baal is amused by your words, little girl,’ Petrov said, as the shaking died away. ‘Your bravery puts most men to shame.’
Hazel thrust out her chin. ‘If I amuse him so much, let him take me. I offer my soul freely, in return for letting the others go.’
‘Don’t listen to her, she doesn’t know what she’s saying,’ Titus said, pushing her behind him.
‘Yes, I do,’ shouted Hazel. ‘I’ll do it to save Ma – you and David as well.’ She reached out her hand to Petrov. ‘Baal the Destroyer – take me.’
44
SOUL SACRIFICE
Our healer was arrested by Witch Hunters.
When we are sick, we have no one to look after us.
The Bee and the Honeysuckle by Katherine Agar
A thousand thoughts and a thousand fears charged through Hazel’s mind as she said the words, but one shone harshest and most painful of all: I’ve condemned Bramley to this fate too.
Holding an image of her mother walking in the sunlit Glade, she teetered on the edge of the crevasse and whispered, ‘Take me, please.’
Petrov edged around her, sniffing, studying, assessing. ‘You magic is strong . . . but crude. Baal knows there is another Wielder here. Where is she?’
‘I’m here. I am the witch, Hecate Hooper.’
Hazel whirled around and saw her mother emerge from behind the altar, still holding the bloodied handkerchief in her hand.
‘Yes,’ Petrov hissed. ‘Hecate, the Wielder of Life. Baal has heard tell of you.’
‘Then he knows what use I could be to him,’ Hecate replied.
A pit of despair opened up in Hazel. ‘Ma,’ she shrieked, ‘don’t you dare!’
Hecate nodded to Titus, who returned the gesture and took a firm but gentle hold of Hazel.
‘Your mother knows best,’ he said, as Hecate walked towards Petrov with Tom clutched in her arms. ‘This is the only way we get to stay alive.’
‘No, no, no!’ Hazel struggled to free herself, kicking and thrashing, but Titus held on grimly.
‘If you will let the others go unharmed and seal this rift forever, I will go with you willingly,’ Hecate said.
Petrov’s smile nearly split his face in two.
‘Baal . . . agrees.’
The flesh around him loosened and slipped down, releasing his skinny arms. He held them out towards Hecate. ‘Baal gives his word, but you must come now. Other events demand his attention.’
Hecate turned to Hazel, her face calm, her eyes bright. ‘I’m sorry, dearest daughter. But try to understand why I’m doing this.’
With a hungry leer Petrov swooped down, gathered her and Tom up in his arms, and lifted her from the ground.
With a scream, Hazel sent out a burst of fire, forcing Titus to let her go. The world blurred as she dashed after her mother, trailing sparks and tears. Knowing it wa
s already too late, Hazel jumped over the edge.
Already far below, the tongue coiled back into the Underworld, carrying her mother away.
The breath caught in Hazel’s throat as her cloak drew tight around her neck. She hit the rock face with a bone-shaking thud, her arms flailing, then felt herself being dragged back into the church and away from the edge. ‘Let me go!’ she screamed. ‘I want to go with her.’ In her fury she didn’t feel the floor shake as the crevasse closed up, or hear Titus trying to calm her down. All she saw was her mother disappearing into blackness, before she did the same.
A fog engulfed Hazel’s mind.
The cold stone floor pressed against her back, Bramley warmed the nape of her neck. She was dimly aware of strong arms gathering her up, rough material against her cheek, bumpy movement, glass crunching underfoot, and words spoken in a baritone rumble. Then a rattle, a blinding light and a breeze.
She opened her eyes and saw she was outside under a perfect blue sky. But how could the world still turn unhindered when it had been knocked so far off its axis?
Her mother. Gone.
A voice came to her as if through a wall. She forced her eyes open. Titus, looking down at her, brow furrowed. Blood pumped, magic gathered. She shook her head clear and the world encroached again.
‘Can you walk?’ he was saying. ‘Hazel, come back to me.’
Come back to me.
‘I’m all right.’ Her voice sounded far away. ‘You can put me down now.’
Her legs wobbled, but Titus stayed by her side, his shadow cast long in the morning sun. Tombs and crypts came into focus. Ahead, at the entrance to the Garden of the Dead, was David, pushing a hunched, bound and blindfolded Murrell ahead of him.
‘I’ve arrested him,’ Titus said. ‘But we need to leave quickly before his people regroup.’
Hazel stopped, aware of a presence behind them. Before she even turned around, the smell told her what it was.