Hugh groaned, took Alfred by the hand, and led the boy to their mother. “I’m not scared of some stupid slave, Mother.”
Beverly took her sons into her embrace and kissed them both on their foreheads. “I know you’re not scared, but I am. We’ve lost three men in as many nights. We’re still not sure it’s even a slave doing the killings. So until we find out, you two will have to be in before dark. Now, give your Auntie Harriet a kiss, and then off to bed.”
Alfred rushed to Harriet’s side and planted a wet kiss on her cheek. Hugh, however, marched like a convict to the gallows and offered only a dry peck. Then Hugh led his younger brother to a fate far worse than hanging: bedtime.
“I have to check on the kitchen staff. Will you be all right?”
Harriet nodded. “I believe I can manage a moment away from your side.” Beverly returned the nod, lifted her skirts, and rushed through the large house to the adjacent kitchen.
Harriet, meanwhile, took a seat on the porch beneath one of the lanterns and laid her Bible on her lap. She turned the pages to Second Peter, but before she began her daily readings, she looked to the stars.
The glimmering lights filled the sky. They reminded her of being back in Africa, although there were different constellations south of the equator. In London, there was too much noise and too many lights to be able to appreciate the stars. While the stars shimmered above, torches flickered in the distant shadows.
After the second body had been discovered, flayed of its skin and drained of its blood, Beverly’s husband, George, sent riders to Falmouth with word and coins. They returned with more riders, each man armed. Of the three murders, there were no witnesses, but Master Monroe was certain it was one of his slaves. No Englishman was so uncivilized to kill in such a brutal manner. Harriet didn’t voice her disagreement. She had seen how brutal civilized men could be.
“You read that book every day. You know you’re not on mission anymore.” Beverly set a glass of wine on the table next to Harriet and then took a seat beside her, a glass in her own hand—even though her own was filled to the brim.
Harriet took a sip. “God never takes a day off and I don’t see a reason to take a vacation from my devotions. I see Hugh and Alfred, however, don’t care much for them.”
“I told you so,” Beverly said with the accompanying look in her eyes.
The sisters sat beneath the lantern and watched the stars. They talked of their parents and Beverly’s move to Jamaica, the busy life of London, and the quiet, usually calm life on the plantation. Harriet started to talk of her experience in Africa, but Beverly finished off her wine, reached across the table, and helped herself to the last few swallows in Harriet’s glass.
“Please,” Beverly said. “Take a break from your devotions for a few minutes. I want to show you the silk cotton tree. It bloomed just yesterday and the flowers are gorgeous. Bring the lantern.”
“Should we be walking out at night?” Harriet, despite her misgivings took the oil lantern off the hook.
“Oh, don’t be such a worry-wart. George and the men are out patrolling right now. No one will come close to the manor house. Not tonight.”
Beverly led her sister down a crude trail hacked away between the trees. Harriet tripped over several roots and rocks, almost dropping the lantern and her Bible several times. Beverly, however, maneuvered around and over each obstacle with hardly any light to guide her. Harriet was perplexed. Beverly had lived nearly her entire life indoors. After a year and a half in Jamaica, she was more adept at navigating the forest than her more adventuresome sister.
A few minutes passed and they came upon the small clearing. In the center stood a great, gnarled tree with weeping branches. Even in the sparse moonlight, the bright red flowers covering those branches were stark and beautiful.
“Oh my...” Harriet gasped.
“You should see it in the daylight. It’s amazing.”
One of the branches rustled, and Harriet almost jumped out of her shoes. She turned to the noise and raised the lantern, while Beverly laughed at her sister’s startling.
Two large, black eyes within the tree reflected the lantern’s light. The owl gave a series of hoots, then sat still.
“Well, will you look at that. I’ve never seen an owl like that on the island before. All the ones here are brown, not black-and-white,” Beverly said.
The bird leaped from its perch and glided through the air toward the sisters. Harriet jumped away, but Beverly laughed as the owl took a perch on her shoulder.
“Will you look at this?” Beverly couldn’t contain her laughter. The owl hooted. “Yes, hoot hoot to you too.”
The owl tilted its head, as if it understood Beverly’s words. Then it ripped off her ear and gobbled it down.
Both sisters screamed, but only Harriet’s carried on. Beverly’s pained wail had been cut short when the bird’s beak tore out her throat.
Harriet couldn’t move. She watched the owl rip chunks of flesh from her sister, not because she wanted to take in the gruesome sight, but because she was too frightened to turn away. Only when the lantern slipped from her grip, did she remember that she was still alive. Clutching the Holy Bible to her chest, she turned to the shadowed forest trail and ran.
She stumbled over giant roots and rocks. After a minute, she lost her shoes and decided it would be best to leave them behind. She ran on and could see the trees giving way to the open space around the manor house.
Her foot caught on a root.
She landed face first in a muddy puddle. When the bright stars in her vision faded away, she remembered to breathe again. She lifted her head from the mud and saw the porch’s lantern lights. She also heard a series of hoots getting closer and closer.
She pushed herself to her feet and pumped her legs as fast as she could. Despite the burning in her lungs and legs, she ran on, too scared to stop. The only thought in her head, beside fear, was a longing to be back in London.
The trees gave way and she ran for the steps. A moment after she burst from the treeline, she heard the owl’s wings flapping a short distance behind her. Her foot landed on the first step, slipped, and she was sent sprawling hard across porch steps. Harsh pain shot through her thin bones as they came to a jarring halt against the sharp edges of the steps. She gasped, but she knew she didn’t have time to recover from her pains.
She turned onto her back and saw the owl descending through the air toward her. Harriet shrieked and held out the Bible, opened to Psalm 28:7, as a shield against the terrifying bird.
The owl flew straight into the opened pages. It let out a human-like shriek and fluttered away.
Harriet took in a few trembling breaths, then lowered the Bible. The bird was nowhere to be seen. The forest was still and the stars twinkled on, all the universe uncaring of the recent and brutal loss of life.
Then Harriet turned her face to the heavens and shrieked. When her voice finally gave way, she heard the shouts of men and the charging of muskets.
*
The trees gave way and the silk cotton tree stood as it had for centuries. The owl glided to the ground. Its claws touched the earth, a flash of light drove back the shadows, and Ol’ Hige had returned to the form of a flaming beauty. She knelt before the old tree like a knight before an altar, awaiting his blessing before embarking on a crusade.
“Approach,” a deep, wise voice spoke from the tree.
Ol’ Hige stood, walked up to the tree, leaned a hand against it, and vomited Beverly’s blood onto the roots.
Glowing eyes looked up at the flaming abomination, the old witch whose youth could only be fueled with hellfire. Beneath the tree, imprisoned by the silk cotton’s roots shortly after the Christians arrived, Bazil, demon of death, contemplated his freedom.
“This was good blood you brought tonight. A shame you couldn’t bring me the sister’s as well. Her blood is pure. Her blood might have given me the strength I need to regain my dominion of this island and drive the holy men into the sea.�
��
Ol’ Hige cocked her head and shrugged at the demon’s words.
“Yes. I know you promised the slaves justice. I will give them justice, but first you must give me blood. Go. End this Monroe bloodline, and at last, I can finally be free.”
Ol’ Hige bowed before her hellish master and flew off into the night.
*
George Monroe reeled his arm back and drove his fist into the slave’s face, not to punish the man or to coerce more information from him, but to release his own boiling anger.
Garfield didn’t have the strength to cry out. He barely had the strength to spit his tooth and blood onto the wooden floor.
George wiped the blood from his knuckles with a handkerchief. “Take him away. Feed him to the dogs for all I care.”
The two men holding Garfield’s arms dragged him away through the manor house. “No…” he whispered. “I told you… everything. Please.”
Harriet had watched the entire beating. She had wanted to plead for the man’s mercy, but the images of Beverly’s blood-soaked corpse stayed her voice.
“Harriet.” George’s voice pulled her back to reality. “Go check on the boys. Make sure they’re tucked in tight and they don’t leave their room.”
“You’re not leaving us, are you?” Her voice cracked like glassware on stone.
“You heard what the slave said. The only way to defeat this thing is to leave rice out at the crossroads. Come morning, when it’s still there, counting the grains, we can kill it. Everything else he said corroborates what you saw. We’ll have to trust him.”
Harriet sniffed back her tears and lowered her eyes. “Go with God.” Master Monroe nodded and turned to the horse and the posse of torch-bearing, armed men awaiting him in front of the manor house.
Once the men were away, Harriet turned to the house’s creaking stairs. Each step let out a sharp sound that reminded her of the owl’s pained shriek. She breathed a sigh of relief when she at last reached the top. Then she knocked on the brothers’ door, turned the handle, and eased the door open. Both boys looked up from the figurines of soldiers with which they played, then leapt into bed.
“Are you two doing all right?” Harriet asked.
“Yes,” sweet Alfred squeaked. Harriet took a seat at the foot of the younger brother’s bed.
“Is Father going to catch the murderer now?” Hugh asked, eyes bright.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She was amazed how the young boys were holding up after the death of their mother. She could learn a thing or two from their strength.
“I need you two to do something for me,” she said. “You two promise you’ll do this for me.” Both the boys nodded. “Good. I need you each to say the Lord’s Prayer three times before you go to bed. If you do that, it will help keep the demon away.”
Once more, the boys nodded.
“Good,” their aunt said. She stood, kissed them each on the forehead, blew out the candles, and closed the door behind her.
Hugh counted to ten after the door closed, then bolted out of bed.
“What are you doing?” Alfred watched his older brother resume setting the soldier figures into formations. “Aunt Harriet said we have to say our prayers or the demon will come.”
“There isn’t any demon, you baby. She’s just saying that to scare us. It’s one of the miserable slaves who killed Mother, and Father’s going to get him tonight.”
Alfred considered his brother’s words. Then he hopped out of bed and began arranging his own figures. The two boys were halfway through recreating the Battle of Quebec during the Seven Years War, when they heard a bird chirping close by. They hadn’t heard any bird sing like what they had just heard. Their eyes went wide, and Hugh grabbed his brother by the hand and led him to the window. He pushed the two panes open and looked down out at the pear tree growing outside.
Sitting on the branch closest to their bedroom window, sat a fat, white bird with black and gray spots.
“Look,” Hugh said. “An owl.”
26
ace of swords
c. l. wilson
Upright: Triumph, conquest, great force on love as well as in hatred
Reversed: The same meanings with disastrous results, conception, augmentation, multiplicity
A Tairen Souls Story
It was a good day to die.
Shannisorran vel Celay, First General of the Fading Lands, stood on the cliffs of Sardomar, the southern continent far from the lush beauty of his homeland, and watched the golden brightness of the Great Sun rise on the day that would be his last. In a short time, Shan would lead a small army into the hive of one of the oldest and most powerful Drogon Blood Lords. Malvern, he was called. A monster who had slaughtered millions, and who was the main power behind the war that had raged across Eloran for the last two years. The fight would be brutal, and high casualties were expected.
Shan expected himself to be among them, but even if he wasn’t, he would not live to see another sunrise. Today would bring him death in battle or by his own hand in sheisan’dahlein, the Fey honor death.
For three thousand years, he’d walked the earth of Eloran. For three thousand years, he’d served as a warrior of honor and a Champion of Light in the armies of the Fey. For three thousand years, the souls of all those he’d killed in that service clung to his own like burning stones, weighing him down with the vast accumulation of the pain and darkness and lost hopes of the slain until he could no longer feel anything but the constant agony of their torment and despair.
All the while, as he’d bloodied his steel in war after war and burdened his soul with death upon death until he could barely stagger beneath the crushing weight, he’d waited for that promised beacon of Light, that singular, shining soul born to complete his own. A truemate. A woman who was his match in every way. Equal in power. Equal in strength. A woman brave enough, strong enough, and fierce enough to draw him back from the shadowy abyss that whispered his name every passing moment.
Alas, she had never come. And now, at last, he could admit to himself that she never would. At least not in this lifetime.
He had dedicated his life to slaying monsters. Best to end things now, before he became the very thing he had so often hunted, before his growing indifference to dealing death became a hunger for it. Gods willing, he would take this one last monster with him when he went.
Shan closed his eyes and let the the golden brightness of the Great Sun caress his face. If he’d ever found his mate, she would have touched him thusly, the softness of her fragrant skin feather light, leaving warmth in its path. He lifted his arms slowly, like an Elf singing thanks for the blessings of the day, and crossed them over his chest.
“It’s time,” a low voice announced from behind him.
Shan released the red wrapped hilt of his lethally poisoned red Fey’cha daggers as the individual whose near-silent approach he’d been tracking for a full chime finally announced his presence. He turned to regard Anaris Feyreisen, Tairen Soul and King of the Fading Lands. “Aiyah. I was just about to head back.”
The Tairen Soul regarded Shan solemnly. “Are you sure I can’t talk you out of this?”
Shan’s answer was a flat stare.
Anaris hadn’t liked the plan since Shan proposed it. In fact, they’d argued quite combatively last night over the wisdom of the First General of the Fading Lands personally leading his troops into the literal maw of the beast. Normally, the Earth masters of the Fey would simply weave away the rock and soil of the Blood Lord’s lair, leaving the hive’s inhabitants exposed to the sun and open to attack. But Malvern was a wily son of a petchka. He’d established his hive in ground liberally veined with sel’dor, the vile black metal that burned Fey skin on contact and disrupted their magic weaves. Earth weaves were useless and digging wasn’t an option. The hive was simply too deep, burrowed beneath enormous, rocky mountains. There was no way they’d uncover the bowels of the hive before nightfall, and at night, Dro
gons held the advantage.
The Tairen Souls couldn’t help infiltrate the Blood Lord’s lair either. As they had learned when destroying previous hives, the tunnels were too small and narrow for a Tairen Soul to Change into the great, winged cat that was his most powerful form. They were much more useful above ground, where they could circle above the hive and flame anything that tried to escape.
Anaris changed the subject in a silent admission of defeat. “An Elvian ship arrived half a bell ago. They brought another two dozen healers, including that Elf-kin shei’dalin from Tehlas that everyone’s been talking about. The one who healed Axen vel’En Dahn’s mate when all the other shei’dalins said she couldn’t be saved.”
Shan had heard about the famous Elf-kin shei’dalin from Tehlas. Their paths had never crossed—she split her time between her great-great-grandmother’s home in Elvia and the Tehlasian Hall of Truth and Healing on the Fading Lands’ west coast, while Shan rarely left Dharsa except for war—but word of her impressive skills had been circulating for decades.
That she should arrive today, just before the Fey launched their attack on Blood Lord Malvern’s hive, could be no coincidence. Elves had foresight. If they had brought the greatest healer in the Fading Lands as well as two dozen of their own to Sardomar, it was because they knew the healers would be needed.
“Look on the bright side, Feyreisen. At least the Elves have Seen we’ll have more lives in need of saving than we can currently accommodate.”
The Tairen Soul scowled. “You’re not funny. You know that, right?”
Shan hadn’t meant it as a joke.
Anaris squared his shoulders. “Time to get going.” He held out a hand. When Shan reached out to clasp the younger man’s forearm, the Tairen Soul said, “Good luck to you today, Chatokkai vel Celay. Light be with you.”
Never Fear - The Tarot: Do You Really Want To Know? Page 48