Chaos Born

by Rebekah Turner

  He gave a stiff bow. “I am Kronin, hailed from the Hell City of Cheol. This is my mate, Legara.”

  “I’m not a Witch Hunter.” I wasn’t sure what else to say.

  “Of course not. We know what you are,” the woman, Legara, purred. “You are a hidden one. Just like us.”

  “Who’s hiding? I’m standing right here.” My palms had started sweating and I adjusted my grip on my cane. Nerves pulled tight, my blood sang with adrenalin. The woman’s hint about hidden identities had my hackles raised. “Why did you attack us?” I demanded.

  “The soothsayer revealed you, gave us your description, told us where to find you.” Kronin was smiling, but it looked forced, like he hadn’t had enough practice. His eyes were pinpricks of darkness against his flawless skin. “We have searched the city all day for you.”

  “Do you know what they’re talking about?” Crowhurst murmured. I gave my head a little shake, and braced myself as I tried to read their auras. Nothing happened for a pulse-beat, then pain tore through my mind, shrieking like a soul ripping apart. I grabbed my ears, as if I could claw the sound out. It was pain, horror and above all, damnation. The faces of Kronin and Legara didn’t shift, though, didn’t even move. Bile tore at the back of my throat, my heart hammered like I’d just sprinted for my life. Fresh sweat broke out on my skin. Then, I felt Crowhurst’s hands wrapped around my upper arms. I blinked a few times, the pain receding as quickly as it had come.

  “Lora? What’s wrong? What happened?”

  I shook my head, not sure I could find the words. Whatever protected these two, it was like a glamour spell, but not something so fresh. This was something else, something ancient. I wiped my palms against my coat. My ears strained for any help approaching, but all I could hear was my own rapid breathing. The sound of the car crash hadn’t travelled far enough to alert anyone. The dogs hadn’t moved, they just watched us with their creepy, reflective eyes. I swore under my breath.

  “You’re the one they’re calling the Butcher of Applecross, aren’t you,” I said.

  Kronin shook his head. “That lovely distinction, I’m afraid, goes to my mate. She is the flesh-eater.”

  Legara patted her stomach with a hungry look and gave a girlish giggle.

  “We came to your house,” Kronin was saying. “You were not home. But now we have you.” He pulled out a tool from inside his coat. It looked like a bull-point chisel, made of silver. My eyes locked on the instrument, feeling the dark magic wafting from it. An acrid smell filled the air, making my eyes water. I tore my gaze from the tool in Kronin’s hands, meeting his eyes and seeing a cruel pleasure there. Whatever he held, it was a killing tool, charged with terrible death magic.

  “No, my love.” Legara put a hand on Kronin’s wrist. “The blood might not work with her dead. Hold your hand for now.”

  “A pity.” The tool twirled between his finger tips a few times before disappearing back into his coat. The sharp odour vanished and I blew out a shaky breath.

  “You should fall to your knees, Lora Blackgoat,” Legara said to me. “Thank the Soul Slayer for staying his hand.” Her eyes swivelled towards Crowhurst. “Your friend, however, will not have such luck.”

  The dogs began to growl, the noise so low it vibrated down my spine. Fear loosed its hold on me and rage lit inside my chest like a white-hot flame. I fanned the heat, trying to hone it into the strength and courage I needed. My instincts told me to run, that these two things were not human, nor full-bloods or otherkin. These shells of skin covered something that didn’t belong. My mouth was dry with fear at the thought. It was impossible, yet there they were, so very real. Hellspawn. “Who summoned you from the Hell Lands?” My voice shook. “How did they do it?”

  “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Crowhurst hissed at me. I gave him a curt nod and hoped he’d be able to accept the impossible. That hellspawn were in The Weald, slaughtering people in the city.

  “We were summoned by a master who abandoned us. As for how he called us over?” Kronin tapped the side of his nose. “Why, that is the reason we also hunt him, for the power he wields should not reside in the hands of a mere warlock.”

  “You killed a friend of mine.” I stretched my fingers around my cane. I needed them to admit what they had done. What they had done to Morgan.

  “The sour-faced woman?” Legara jiggled the sack in her hands. I glanced at it, afraid of what the contents might be, but knowing at the same time. Body parts to snack on later? The thought made me swallow and a sick feeling stirred in the pit of my stomach.

  “My mate was hungry.” Kronin parted his lips in a smile. “In fact, she is always hungry here. She is as I am…unable to be satisfied.”

  Legara rolled a shoulder. “While my mate has difficulty feeding in his form, I do enjoy the taste of the meat here. The fingers are so plump and tender. Doesn’t have that charcoal taste and bones don’t get caught in my throat.” She smiled with teeth that had been sharpened to points. “Do you want her back? The woman? I have some of my necromancy skills here. I could return her to you, in a manner of speaking.”

  “Why did you take her head?” I asked hoarsely.

  “To be sure.”

  My nose gave a throb and I held back a groan. “Of what?”

  “That what the soothsayer told us was right. The sour-faced woman didn’t know anything, though. You are hidden very well.” Legara opened the sack and reached into it. “Would you like to talk to her, to say goodbye? I can give you that.” Her hand withdrew from the sack, pulling a severed head out by a tangled mess of hair. The face was disfigured and smeared with dried, flaking mud. Its mouth hung slack and wide, a tongue half out.

  Crowhurst made a disgusted sound and looked away. My heart constricted. The eyes were closed, a small mercy. It was Morgan, I knew, but it had no relation to the woman I had once known. This was just a sagging piece of flesh and bone, a killer’s trophy.

  “Wake up,” Legara told the head sternly, “Tell your mistress the truth now. Tell her what you told us.”

  The dead eyes flicked open and Morgan’s mouth stretched, a high pitched cry dribbling out. I took a shuddering breath of horror. Legara rolled her eyes at me.

  “Sometimes they do that.”

  Rage roared through me like a gushing wave. It enveloped my vision in a red film and engulfed any rational thought. Right then, I didn’t care why they’d attacked us, or that they had two giant zombie dogs by their side. My hands pulled the goat-head on my cane and the blade slithered out. I levelled the line of steel at Legara. “You’re dead meat, bitch.”

  Legara gave a cruel laugh. The dogs lowered their heads, preparing to attack. The wailing from the dead lips stopped and I prayed it would remain that way. I glanced at Crowhurst, seeing his body give a violent shudder.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I hissed.

  Legara and Kronin exchange a knowing glance. “This city is full of those pretending to be something else,” Kronin murmured.

  “I haven’t eaten dog for a couple of days now.” Legara stared at Crowhurst, her tongue flicking out to wet her lips. She dropped Morgan’s head and the lump of flesh rolled a few times until it hit the gutter.

  Trying to keep my eyes on the hellspawn and Crowhurst, I stepped back nervously when I heard a crunching sound. Crowhurst’s face moved, distorting as if his jaw bones had shifted out of place. There was another crunch and his jaw dropped low, teeth elongating and jutting out of his mouth, covered in saliva. His shoulders swelled as I watched, muscles growing and tearing at his coat.

  “What the fuck, Crowhurst?” I gasped.

  “Run Lora,” he grated out. Then with a snarl, he sprung into the air and towards Kronin. The two dogs were waiting and met him in mid-air with a fleshy thud. They hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and fur. I bit out a curse and dipped my fingers into salt, flinging it out. But I panicked and the words came out wrong. The spell faltered, failing to activate and the salt granules fell harmlessly to
the ground. I went to grab some more, but in a blink, Legara stood in front of me. With a solid backhand, she smacked me on the chin. I flew back, losing my grip on my cane. I slammed into the side of Crowhurst’s car, and pain tore through my hip.

  Gasping for breath, I tried to stay standing as Legara stalked towards me. Behind her, Kronin watched Crowhurst grappling with the dogs. At least, I was pretty sure it was Crowhurst. His body was larger, muscle built on muscle, his face twisted into a feral mask. My eyes shot back to Legara, seeing her arms and legs began to jerk in a strange motion, her flesh rippling as if something within her wanted to escape. I blinked a few times, trying to kick start a plan. Any fucking plan.

  The shotgun.

  I ducked my head into the car window, pushed aside the bomber jacket and snatched up the weapon. Two shells were tucked in the crease of the seat and I grabbed them. With shaking fingers I loaded the gun.

  “What does she have?” I heard Kronin ask over the growling and snapping.

  “Nothing,” Legara laughed. “Nothing that can help her, at least.”

  I chambered the first round, barrel pointed at Legara. I held the shotgun low and squeezed the trigger. There was an ear splitting boom. The gun kicked back, knocking painfully into my right hip. Legara’s stomach burst open in a splatter of dark blood and she fell with a scream that sounded more surprised than hurt. Kronin roared something in Hellspeak I didn’t quite catch, then a fierce heat swelled from him, blasting my face like a shockwave. I shielded my eyes with a hand and when I looked again, Kronin had Legara in his arms. He was hunched into himself, shoulders curved inward. There was another rush of air, and his body shot up like a rocket. I tried to follow his movement, but he was too fast and all I could make out was a flicker of a shadow on distant rooftops.

  Chapter 30

  A cold wind kicked up, numbing my lips and swollen nose. My eyes fell to the decapitated head, but I didn’t have the nerve to pick it up. What if it started to scream again? I couldn’t bear it. Besides, Morgan was dead. Whatever that thing was, it wasn’t her.

  Feeling liked I’d just aged a lifetime, I threw the shotgun back into the car, covering it up with the bomber jacket. I hoped Crowhurst was all right. Whatever breed he was, whatever monster hid under his skin, he’d saved my life, and I owed him.

  I considered trying to drive the crumpled little car, but couldn’t find the key, so I just sheathed my sword and started walking towards Abraham’s Alley. My bad leg trembled and I leant heavy on my cane. My thoughts tumbled about, thinking of what the hellspawn had said, and then about Orella’s concern with my charm. I thought about how nothing had gone right for me since the night I’d beheaded Sigwell. The night of the red moon.

  The charm.

  This mystery was something more, something that spanned back to my childhood. What was Orella hiding? My feet felt like they were teetering on a shifting precipice, one that would drop me into a landscape I wasn’t going to like. I kept moving, my nose a ball of throbbing pain.

  Night had fallen by the time I arrived at Orella’s shop and let myself in. It was dark inside, light from the alley’s street lamps filtered through the front windows, casting shadowed nooks and gloomy crannies. Bookcases lined the walls up to the ceiling, stacked with bottles and jars, and the air was a cauldron of familiar spices. On the service counter, velvet bags of herbs sat in heaped piles around a large glass jar of boiled sweets. I picked up a fresh bag of salt from a shelf and tucked it in my belt.

  Then, with heavy feet, I walked up the old, creaking staircase that led to Orella’s living quarters. The top opened into a sitting room, cluttered with lounge chairs, wooden stools and benches groaning under vases of all manner of herbs and flowers. A window had its shutters closed tight. Pine logs burned in the stove in the room’s corner. From the tiny kitchen out back, I could hear something bubbling, and the air carried the smell of liquorice. Orella sat by the fireplace in a rocking chair, a romance novel with a well creased spine in her lap. Her furry eyebrows knitted together as she stared at me, looking surprised.

  My mouth went dry, my throat dusty. A tumbleweed rolled through my mind and all thought left me. I stared around the sitting room, blinking dumbly. Memories flooded. This was where I’d grown up, this had been my home. I knew that Orella loved me as a mother would. I also knew she had never approved of the direction I’d chosen for myself. She’d wanted me to follow in her footsteps and take over her shop. But I hadn’t been able to settle into the quiet lessons, to keep my feet so still. I longed for the excitement of the Applecross taverns with their brawling and hustling. It made my blood sing, my heart beat. It was Gideon who had sensed my restlessness and offered me a role as a Runner and with it, an apprenticeship of violence.

  “Lora?” Orella got out of her chair. She wore a patchwork dressing gown, feet in fluffy slippers. “What happened?”

  I didn’t say anything, just touched my nose gingerly. The pain had receded a little, though I could hear a whistling sound coming from my nostrils when I breathed.

  Orella huffed and puffed across the room, disappearing into the kitchen. She returned moments later and tossed me a small jar. I caught it with one hand, leant my cane against a table and unscrewed the lid. Soothing peppermint managed to make its way through my clogged nostrils, with an undertone of garlic. The smell cleared my head of fatigue and strangely triggered memories of when I’d been recovering from Sigwell’s attack.

  “Bishop’s Balm.” Orella walked back to her chair, knuckling the small of her back. “Use it sparingly, or your body will get used to the effects and it won’t work as well.”

  “Smells familiar.”

  “It’s what I used to heal your back after Sigwell hurt you.” Orella sat down and began to rock gently in the chair. “You only need the smallest amount.”

  I rubbed the cream on the bridge of my battered nose with my fingertips. Relief followed quickly, spreading out from my nose and pleasantly numbing my face. I went to give pass the pot back, but Orella waved it away.

  “Keep the rest. You’ll use it more than I.”

  I nodded and tucked the small jar into one of my belt pockets. My thoughts were chaotic. Orella and Gideon were my family. The thought Orella had concealed something from me made my guts clench in anticipation. I pulled out my broken charm, holding it for her to see.

  “My charm broke, the one you gave me when I was little. I tried to get it fixed, but was told there was a spell holding it together. What kind of spell, Orella? You told me it was a family heirloom. Was that the truth?”

  Orella stopped rocking. Her eyes latched onto the pieces of metal, face falling into bleak lines. “When did it break?”

  “A week after the exorcism.”

  Orella’s mouth moved around a bit, like she was searching for the right answer. “I’m sorry, Lora.”

  “Sorry for what?” I asked, impatient for the truth and dreading it in equal measures.

  I saw shadows around her eyes that looked like bruises. “You have to understand, Lora. We had to.”

  “We?”

  “Gideon and I. We were friends of your mother. It was us she turned to, begging for your safety.”

  “Why?”

  “Three months after your mother disappeared, you were left on my doorstop with a note pinned to your clothes. It was from your mother. She begged me to look after you, to hide you from the Craft Aldermen.”

  “Three months? My mother was pregnant when she disappeared?”

  “No.”

  I opened and shut my mouth a few times, not sure where to go with that. “It was a magical pregnancy?” I finally said. “You’re not going to tell me I’m going to save the world, are you?”

  Orella gave me a tired smile. “Your father had everything to do with the short term of the pregnancy. And no, I don’t know who he was. Your mother had reason to worry though. You would have been considered an abomination in the Craft Aldermen’s eyes and sentenced to death.”

  “Why would
I be a threat?”

  “There is only one type of pregnancy that takes but a few months,” Orella said. “And when I found you, your eyes were as black as midnight.”

  “Stop.” A chill rolled over me like a winter wind. I didn’t want to hear anymore. I just wanted to go home and have a nice long sleep. Eat some of Morgan’s tea cake, washed down with a mug of gin.

  Morgan.

  The image of her screaming head flashed through my mind. Orella started talking again, her lips forming words like they were fragile china. “You are nephilim, Lora, and I’m sorry you found out this way. I’m sorry you found out at all.”

  I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, then tucked my hands under my armpits, then wiped my mouth again. I couldn’t keep still; it was as if I didn’t want her words to settle on me, to be real. “I guess that explains my white hair, right? Why people think I’m a Witch Hunter. It’s all so clear now,” I said sarcastically.

  Orella made to get out of her chair, her hands held out to me, but I stopped her with a sharp look. She settled back, crossing her hands in her lap. “Gideon knows this as well. He is the only other with this secret.”

  The revelation broke apart in my mind like black oil; coating every thought I had with a slimy residue. “I’ve never heard of a female nephilim.”

  “There hasn’t been, before you.”

  “And the charm? How does that fit?”

  “It contains a concealment spell.”

  “Not a precious family heirloom?”

  “A deceit, I’m afraid,” Orella said. “The witch I purchased it from said it was necessary, to hide you.”

  “Why? Why couldn’t you tell me?”

  “It was complicated. The spell also acted as an inhibitor to your abilities. All nephilim are born blood casters, a dangerous gift.”

  I wanted to push Orella’s words away. The boundaries of my world were crumbling and falling around me in ruins. “What are you talking about? What’s a blood caster?”

  “You understand how the Witch Hunters access the ley-lines?”