“I guess. They drink an elixir.”
“Yes. After that, they don’t require a casting agent. A blood caster, though, they don’t even need an elixir to call on the ley-lines.” She raised her fingers and snapped a few times. “They can connect as easy as that. But that power comes with a cost, which is why the nephilim are bred and raised under strict supervision of the Grigori.”
My mind spun. “I don’t understand why would you hide something like this from me.”
“Blood magic is the nephilim’s curse, Lora. A gateway to the madness of the hellbound. It taints you, never leaves you, it erodes your soul.”
“But, nephilim can’t wield the craft.”
“Says who?” Orella snorted. “Their masters? The Church of Higher Path? Their potential is neutered when they are just children. Taught to revile magic, to consider it unclean.” She jammed her unlit pipe back in her mouth, chewing away. “You are the only female nephilim to exist, Lora. This anomaly makes you a nexus of power. You alter fate around you, just by being there. I had to hide you from those who might try to decide your fate for you, or worse, use you as a weapon. The charm clashed with what you were, made you smell like a Witch Hunter, turned your hair white. You’ve worn the charm for so long, even though it’s broken, its power lingers. But it’s only a matter of time before it fades completely. We need to buy a new one, or repair the old. Your safety depends on you remaining hidden.”
My mind spun faster at these revelations and I felt speechless. Orella got up with a grunt and disappeared into the kitchen. I picked up my cane and followed her, standing in the doorway and watching as she stirred the contents of the pot with wooden spoon. From outside, I heard a coach with a squeaky axle rumble by, chased by a barking dog. I felt angry, chased closely by a wave of hot, fresh guilt. Morgan had been killed because of me. It was my responsibility to avenge her.
“The Key of Aldebaran,” I said. “How is it involved?”
Orella lifted the metal spoon, taking the smallest of tastes. “I’d like to know who told you about that book.”
“How is it involved?” I repeated.
The elf-witch placed the spoon in the sink and faced me, arms crossed. “To make the spells in the Aldebaran work, it asks for a key.”
“A key.”
“That’s right,” Orella said calmly. “That key is blood. The blood of a female angel.”
I blinked a few times, trying to absorb this. Blood. The book wanted blood and what did you know, apparently I had a bit of angel in me. What a freaking coincidence.
“Worst yet, the only copy I know of the Aldebaran is within the Order of Guide’s library.” Orella’s words crashed against me mercilessly. “We are facing a powerful enemy, Lora. Someone who has uncovered what your blood can do.”
I opened my mouth, starting to tell Orella about the hellspawn, but her eyes flicked past me. Something shifted in the air, like a cold sheet wrapping against my skin. Turning, I saw Legara standing at the top of the stairs. Her dress hung in bloody ruins from the shotgun blast, and she grinned like a nightmare who’s escaped its dreamer.
“How sweet. The daughter flees to her mother and receives truth and sage advice.” She wagged a finger at me. “Naughty, naughty, little nephilim. Using an Outland weapon on me. Legara the Corpse Caller won’t let you do that twice.”
Chapter 31
I pulled my sword from its sheath and the blade came loose with a metallic sigh. Charging the hellspawn, I twisted for a head swing. Legara ducked and my sword swiped at empty air. My tired muscles didn’t let me think, they just moved. I whirled, and drove my sword through her chest before I remembered if a shotgun didn’t stop her, a sword wouldn’t.
Legara’s lips formed a little surprised “o”. I tried to pull the sword out, but found it stuck. I pulled harder, hearing a wet, sucking sound. A thin sliver of a dark liquid trickled from the corner of Legara’s mouth.
“You have absolutely ruined this dress,” she howled. Her hands darting out and her nails raked across my stomach. Cloth tore and I felt a sharp slicing pain. My grip faltered and I fell back. Legara’s hands slapped around the hilt and with queasy slowness she eased the weapon out, its blade coming away covered in a slimy black filth. She snapped her teeth at me, grey spittle flicking her lips and threw the sword to the ground. The wound in her chest oozed darkly, but didn’t look like it was slowing her down any. Orella shouted from behind me.
“Get down, Lora!”
I ducked, hearing Orella shout out a powerful spell, the Sanskrit words spilling over each other. A line of fire shot over my head, like Orella had found a flamethrower somewhere back there. Burnt hair singed the air and I hoped to hell it wasn’t mine. I rolled away, trying to get clear of Legara’s path of attack. A hum vibrated through my bones. I looked up, seeing Legara’s hair rise up about her as she drew on her power. She shot out a hand, directing power towards Orella. Air compressed inwards, shooting at the elf-witch like a spear and she shot back, hitting the far wall.
Then Legara surged forward, ignoring me to swarm over Orella. Her thick fingers wrapped around the elf-witch’s head. Orella’s body was loose, arms limp by her side. Legara looked back at me, making sure I was watching as she pressed her thumbs against Orella’s eyes.
“I will take everyone you love from you, little nephilim,” she whispered. “And it is your blood that gives me the power to do it.”
I tried to pull myself to my feet, but my lame leg had no strength though and I stayed down. My fingers fumbled with my belt, trying to get a good pinch of salt. But my hands shook and I spilt most of the salt on the ground. Taking a breath, I pinched more, sobbing as I saw blood run down Orella’s weathered cheeks.
“Stop it,” I screamed at her. “What do you want?”
Legara let go of Orella to stand up. The elf-witch slumped to the side, not moving. My eyes moved over her, desperately looking for signs of life.
“Let’s see what all the fuss is about, then, shall we?” Legara reached for me, pulling me to my feet. I didn’t fight her, I didn’t have the strength. The hellspawn gave a snarl and then darted in, teeth sinking into the tender flesh of my neck. Her teeth pinched hard and a piercing pain shot through me, running like an iron spike. My heart drummed like it wanted to burst from my ribcage, the sensation of Legara at my neck was obscene. My legs buckled and her arms tightened around me, her mouth working faster, breath hot and ravenous.
My hands scrambled for the throwing knife at the back of my belt. I’d remembered something, of Morious talking about a pressure point, a death touch for hellspawn. The knife came free of its sheath. I took my best guess and swung my arm to plunge it between Legara’s eyes, the knife jarring against solid bone. Legara pulled away from me with a feral cry, blood spilling from her lips.
Then I was free and I stumbled forward. Pressing a hand against the wound on my neck, I backed up, trying to get my bearings.
The dagger had dug right up to the hilt, right between Legara’s eyes. Problem was, the hellspawn didn’t look dead, just pissed. She wrapped a hand around the hilt and yanked hard. The blade came away with a crunching noise. She threw the knife at me with a disgusted look. The throw was clumsy and the hilt hit me on the shoulder.
“Why don’t you just die, you fucking bitch?” I screamed. Legara laughed and launched herself at me, nails raking the air. I stumbled to the side and she missed me.
A deep growl rolled through the room.
Legara dropped Orella and spun around, hands rigid and clawed. I kept where I was on the ground, too scared to stand. Behind Legara, a shape rose, towering over her. It was something I’d never seen before, but recognised from the books of legend and then I knew what manner of monster Reuben Crowhurst was.
Griorwolf.
The beast was tall, standing on hind legs and covered in torn clothing and rough reddish-black fur. Its eyes were rabid yellow, gums scarlet and teeth littered its jaw like broken bones. A ruby earring pierced one blackened, pointed ear.
Snot blew from its wide nostrils as it exhaled, then inhaled, staring at Legara.
I pulled Orella to the side of the room, trying to find cover for us. Orella was a dead weight, head rolling around, loose. Half her face was caked in blood and I tried not to look. Tried not to see what damage Legara had done. I couldn’t help anyone if Crowhurst gutted me, or Legara drained me dry.
Legara had backed up, her plump figure quivering. She crooked a finger at the beast. “Here, kitty, kitty.”
The griowolf snarled and leapt at Legara, claws slashing. It crashed into the hellspawn and they rolled along the ground. Legara’s skin ripped and tore where the griorwolf clawed at her, but she just laughed, her teeth snapping back. The griorwolf threw its full weight at the hellspawn. They both tumbled back, hitting the shuttered window and going through with a crashing sound.
I stumbled down the staircase, willing strength in my lame leg, ignoring the painful clicking that had started in my hip, the knee that grated, bone against bone. The pain meant nothing. I fell at the bottom of the stairs and screamed as my knee twisted painfully. Sobbing, I pulled myself up. Orella was sprawled on the ground, but I knew I couldn’t pick her up again. I stumbled outside, falling to my side. I realised numbly that it was raining.
“Gideon!”
I screamed as loud as I could. A few passers-by pulled disgusted faces and moved to the other side of the road. I tilted my head to the grey skies, feeling the cool rain sprinkle my face. People leant out of windows, looking to see what the fuss was. My vision blurred, and I swiped the rain and tears from my eyes.
“Gideon!”
A door opened behind me and I heard a gasp and then shouting. Hands grabbed me, pulling me inside to Blackgoat. I looked up to see Gideon leaning over me, face pale.
“Orella,” I rasped. “Orella is hurt.”
Chapter 32
Orella had been carried upstairs to Gideon’s office and a surgeon called. I stayed downstairs and raided the icebox in the kitchen, feeling numb. I found some beer and a mouldy cheese sandwich. I took a beer, thought about the sandwich, then decided I wasn’t that desperate. Runners’ began to turn up at Blackgoat, bristling with weapons and wearing sombre faces. Bad news travelled fast in Applecross.
I’d told most of the story of what had happened and it had been met with disbelieving faces. But Orella had been badly wounded, that couldn’t be denied. Runner’s had been organised into hunting parties, looking grateful they could get in on the action. I didn’t go with them, wanting to keep close to Orella in case she needed me.
Someone had lit the fireplace in the sitting room and I settled in front of it, sipping the beer. A few Runners milled around, talking in subdued voices about setting up sentries on the street.
I peeled open my coat, checking the damage. Legara’s nails had gone through my clothes, leaving faint red marks, but my coat and dress had taken most of the damage. The Bishop’s Balm helped soothe the ache in my neck from Legara’s bite, which looked like a hickey from hell.
A hand landed on my shoulder. I turned to see Gideon behind me; eyebrows bristling, nostrils flaring. He wore a grey jacket and a purple waistcoat with a floral motif. I looked into his green and gold flecked eyes and knew Orella had managed to tell him something of our conversation. True to form, there was no apology in Gideon’s expression, merely a so what. I took a long drink, keeping back the accusations I wanted to hurl at him. He settled himself next to me.
“How is she?” I asked him.
Gideon stared blankly into the fire. “She’s going to lose her right eye. But she is strong. The surgeon said she will recover.”
I felt cold shiver at the news. Would Orella blame me for this? A small voice told me it was the best outcome. After all, Legara could have torn her throat out.
“Did you know Crowhurst was a griorwolf?” I asked.
“Uh huh,” Gideon grunted. “Main reason I hired him. A nose like his, we could find our targets in half the time. Good for business. I’ve got some boys out looking for him now; make sure he gets back to us all right. When he gets here, you’d better thank him for saving your life.”
I stared blankly into the fire for a bit, thinking about that. Fine. So I’d give the big shaggy dog a sloppy kiss. But I was getting pretty tired of secrets being kept.
“The Grigori priest.” I turned to Gideon. “The one who hired me to track Roper in the Outlands. You realise he’s probably the one who called the hellspawn over.”
“How would he know anything?” Gideon humphed, fingers twitching and pulling at his chin.
The pieces clicked together in my head with a mental snap. “Seth said the surgeon at the hospital has the Sight. That’s how the Grigori knew in the first place. That’s how they got my blood.” My thoughts shifted to Roman. What a coincidence he, of all people, would come and find me. Had the Grigori sent him to spy on me? To test me? The elixir had worked, but maybe that meant the elixir would work on nephilim as well as Witch Hunters. Roman hadn’t hurt me, a small voice reminded me. He could be trusted. The pain in his face when he spoke of his friend had looked too raw for pretence.
“Were you ever going to explain why you never told me what I was?” I pinned Gideon with an accusing glare.
“Why cause such worry? There was no need.”
I finished my beer. “I’m not a child. I’m not a teenager. I’m a real, grown-up woman. I had a right to know.”
“Rights?” Gideon’s eyebrows shot up. “Orella and I raised and protected you. We knew what was best.”
“I deserved to know.” I stared blankly into the fire, my words lacking any conviction. “I bloody deserved to know.”
Chapter 33
I spent the rest of the night at Blackgoat, curled up on a spare couch. I woke to the smell of bacon and eggs cooking in the kitchen. Stretching my stiff back, I stumbled into the kitchen and grabbed myself a plate. I sat down at the kitchen table with two other exhausted-looking Runners who nodded hello. Gideon came downstairs to get some food and gave everyone a status report: Orella was still sleeping, but doing well. Gideon loaded two plates with food and disappeared back upstairs. After I’d finished eating, I realised I had a plan. A really, really good plan. I was going to find Caleb and beat the shit out of him.
I still wore the mourning clothes I’d put on for Morgan’s funeral and was starting to smell funky. But deciding I wanted answers more than clean clothes, I walked to the end of Abraham’s Alley and hailed a rickshaw. A light fog had come with the cold morning, and I was relieved my lame leg wasn’t too stiff in the chill. The Bishop’s Balm had taken most of my aches away and I was feeling focused, calm and more than a little pissed off.
Caleb’s home was on the south end of Pinker Street. I’d visited this house once, many years ago. Back then, I’d stood outside his front gate, trying to work up the nerve to knock on the door. I wanted to see what Caleb’s life looked like, if it lived up to his dreams of a happy ever after. In the end, I’d just turned and left, feeling that Caleb had moved on, put his past behind him. Why would I go where I wasn’t welcome?
All these years on, his home was more or less how I’d remembered it. The roof had red tiles with pale blue gables and flower boxes hung from the windows, overflowing with leaves that were brown from frostbite. The neighbourhood looked respectable, the sort that was populated with families of professional working men. The street was lined with healthy looking chestnut trees and street lamps. A post-office sat on the corner a few houses down, next to a grocery shop with a blackboard in the window listing their weekly specials.
This time, standing at Caleb’s gate, I wasn’t consumed with feelings of inadequacies. Anger boiled my blood, and I wanted to explode. I kicked open the little iron-wrought front gate with my good leg and hurried up the pathway, my cane tapping loudly. My fist thumped against the front door.
“Caleb!” My voice was a hoarse roar. “Open this door, or I’ll bust it open.”
There was a rustling sound behind me. I
spun to see a lanky teenager clutching a long barrelled flintlock musket. His head was cocked to the side, aiming the weapon at my head. “I’ve got her,” he shouted towards the house.
The door opened behind me. A woman stood there, framed by the glow of the room behind her. She held a multi-shot crossbow in one hand and it was aimed at my head.
“Where is he?” I snarled, ignoring the weapon.
“Who are you?” the woman demanded. I saw her finger wasn’t on the trigger of the crossbow. Taking a gamble she wasn’t going to shoot me, I pushed past her. I could hear the teenager stumble in close behind me, but I ignored him.
Inside was small, but warm and accommodating; the feeling of a family home. A lit fireplace warmed the sitting room, a kitchen sitting to the right and a staircase leading to the second floor beside it.
A table sat in kitchen, with five plates of porridge and five empty chairs. I noticed the rug in the sitting room was rolled up, the lounge chair slightly askew. The teenage came up behind me, standing a little in front of his mother. I turned to face them. The kid dropped the musket a little. “I’ll shoot you if you try to hurt us. Don’t think I won’t.” He gave me the once over, eyes falling on my nose, then the teeth marks on my neck. “You don’t look so good.”
“It’s been a rough couple of days.” I answered him without thinking, an automatic smart-arse reply. There was a suffocating sense of fear in this home, I could see the fear on the woman’s face, and it disarmed me of my rage.
“I am Ester. Caleb’s wife,” the woman said. “You’d better explain to me why you’re here, and fast.”
I rubbed my tired eyes, my legs heavy as the adrenalin faded. “Tell Caleb that Lora Blackgoat wants to speak to him. You tell him he’s got some fast explaining to do about the shit-storm he landed on my door and he’d better have some good answers for me.”
“Are you threatening my husband?” Ester’s face paled.
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