Manx gleefully discussed the damage unfettered and unregulated witches caused society as we walked. He had nothing against me or my people, he said. It was his job to protect society, especially the children, from our influence. It was all loony bullshit, the sort of crap people tell themselves to justify all sorts of atrocities, little different than what that crazy Austrian had sold his people back in the thirties. It always starts with protecting the children.
I tuned him out before we’d gone five steps and concentrated upon how I could make the switch. I had to come up with small plans, little moves based on potentialities, rather than probabilities. I had no idea of what was waiting for me.
I was marched to a Quonset hut where Manx positioned the guards outside. “We shouldn’t be long,” he laughed before pushing me through the door.
I stumbled as I stepped through the doorway, which gave me an opportunity to look around. The space Manx had confiscated was fairly small, just large enough for the barber-style chair and a small shelf that held the tattoo gun, an empty ice cube tray, and a bottle of ink. There was only the one since Brands are always black. As far as I could tell, it looked like it was the twin to the bulb I cupped in my hand.
The only other person in the room was an old man who looked to be in his late sixties. He glanced at me and then turned quickly away, but not before I caught a glimpse of the ink on his neck. Even though I’d seen it for less than a second, I knew what it was, the Pentagram mark of the Wiccan Brand.
Chapter 16
Fort Benning, Sunday 20:00
Ihissed when I caught sight of the Brand. There’d been rumors that the OSS employed freed Wiccans to apply the Brand, but up until now, it had just been rumor. I couldn’t imagine that one of us would help the scum that hunted us down. But my refusal to believe didn’t change the fact that it was true.
Manx enjoyed my shock. “It’s always a surprise when you people meet,” he chuckled. “Twist has been with us a long time and he’s done this hundreds of times. It always starts out the same way. Go ahead,” Manx suggested. “Tell him about your common bond. Remind him that blood comes before all else. Everyone else does.”
I turned away, disgusted. His words stung too much not to be true. I’m certain that most of the men dragged before Twist pleaded and begged. They’d plead just as Manx said, calling on our common ancestry and gods. I wouldn’t give Manx the satisfaction, so I didn’t bother.
There’s a word we use to describe someone who’s abandoned his blood, turned his back upon his people and betrayed his coven. Twist had been called a Warlock many times before, I’m sure. He probably heard it in his dreams and in the empty echoes when he reached out to our gods. Surely, they would have turned away from him.
Surprisingly I felt a wave of compassion sweep over me. I don’t know where it came from. I’d expected bile, not tears welling up, but I couldn’t deny what I felt. Who was I to judge? I hadn’t the faintest idea of what had driven Twist to the place where he marked his own for men like Manx.
I looked down at the old man until I caught his eye and smiled. “Remember me,” I said. “I am Thorn.”
Twist’s eyes widened in surprise as if he recognized my name, but maybe he was just surprised I didn’t curse him. I don’t know and I don’t know why I didn’t either. I wanted to, but there wasn’t any point. He knew what he was and he had to live with it. Who was I to heap more pain upon this broken creature?
“Place your left hand upon the contact sheet,” Twist said softly. He pointed toward the crude pentagram he’d drawn upon the paper. I’d seen several Brands before and each had been uniquely stylized to convey the essence of the person it marked, but the design Twist indicated was crude and simple: a basic star bound by a circle.
I hesitated. Our left is our receptive side. We project our magick through the right side of our body, but the left is where we draw our energy. Dark magickians are frequently referred to as agents of the Left Hand Path, partially due to their perversion of the natural structure of magick. Everything is reversed for them.
By placing my left hand upon the sheet I’d absorb whatever formula had been inscribed. I’d be changed by it, rewritten. More than the tattoo itself, impressing my left hand upon the sheet would brand me. But more importantly, the substitute bulb was cradled in my left. I couldn’t place it upon the sheet even if I’d been willing to comply. There was no way to hide the bulb if I did.
Before either of them could react, I lunged forward knocking aside the tray of ink and flinging the original bulb into the shadows under the desk. I sent a prayer after it hoping that it would remain hidden. At the same time, I dropped the doctored bulb. It rolled across the top of the table and came to a rest at the edge of the table.
Manx stunned me with a vicious backhand, his second of the day. It split my lip, splattering blood across the contact sheet where it bubbled and hissed.
“Sit your ass down, Julie!” Manx pulled his sidearm, leveling it at my head. “We could have done this the easy way, but if you want to make things difficult that’s fine by me. You move again and I’ll splatter your brains across the back of this room. I wouldn’t even mind the extra paperwork.”
I sat down heavily, wiping the blood from my lip and spit on the floor. “That’s the last time you lay your hand on me,” I growled deep in my throat. “I swear by the—
“Don’t finish that,” Twist said. “Don’t give him the excuse.”
I swallowed the rest of my curse. Manx was already itching for my blood. If he thought I was casting a curse, the paranoid fuck would carry out his threat and blow my head clean off my shoulders. Paperwork be damned.
Manx eased the hammer back on his 9mm. “Put your hand on the paper Julie, right now.”
“There’s no need,” Twist said pointing to the contact sheet. “His blood already made the connection stronger than his hand would have done.”
Manx and I both turned to see what Twist was talking about. The change was startling. My blood had transformed the crude drawing into a work of art. The simple pentacle became an intricate star and its once blank center was now embossed with a paw print and cross. Where the circle had been there was now an intricate Ouroboros; a snake curled about biting its tail.
“What the Hell is a cross doing in the center?” Manx barked. “Take it out or redo it. It’s insulting!”
“It’s not a cross,” Twist whispered. “It’s the Gladium, a sword.” He stepped back from the paper and glanced down at me. “I will not Brand a son of Madera.”
Manx shifted his gun away from me and pointed it at the old man. “His father’s name is Calvin,” he said. “And I don’t care who you think he is. You lay the Brand on him or I’ll put one between your eyes and bring in someone who will.”
Twist shook his head and slowly raised his hands. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand that your wife’s about to become a widow and spend the rest of her days back in Pelican Bay,” Manx said. “I don’t think the boys there will even care that she’s old and shriveled. Your daughters, they’ll be passed from cell to cell cursing your name every second they’re left alive.”
A terrible pressure grew inside my head. The Swords of the Goddess were more than just law enforcement among the clans. Camp rumor fingered my father as one, but I’d never bought into it. He was too kind to act as judge and jury, but the Sons of Madera were a secret order within the Swords. It’s said that there’s no karmic tie to their actions, nor were they bound to the Goddess or her mercy. They answered only to the Horned God Cernunnos. They were nature’s red tooth and claw and their judgment knew no mercy. If the Swords were judge and jury, the Sons were also the executioner.
I reached up and grabbed Twist’s wrist. “I will not be the cause of your family’s suffering,” I said. Glancing over to the bulb of ink lying on the desk I added, “Draw the Brand exactly as it is, high and on the right.”
Twist jumped at my touch, his gaze swinging from the contact paper to t
he bulb of ink spinning lazily on the desk. Glancing down I knew he spotted the other bulb under the desk.
“It’s the God’s will,” I said, placing emphasis on ‘God’s’ so he’d understand.
“My children?” he asked.
“They will not bear your guilt.”
“Fuck him,” Manx screamed. “You do it and you do it now or I swear your children will pay.” His hand was shaking with anger, the gun jumping up and down in his fist. I could have taken him then and there I knew. Manx didn’t have enough control over himself or his weapon. For a moment I considered it, but I let the revenge fantasy pass. It would only make things worse. I’d have to kill him and there’d be nothing left for me but a quick trial and a firing squad.
Twist nodded and then directed me to remove my shirt before guiding me back into the chair. His hands were shaking as he picked up the contact paper and moved to my right. Manx stopped him before he smoothed it across my neck.
“The left,” he said. “Brand him on the left like the others.”
Twist stood and backed away. “The Brand won’t work without his acceptance,” he said. “That’s why we use the left hand on the sheet, it signals his acceptance of the mark.”
“Then drag his hand to the sheet,” Manx hissed.
Twist sighed and placed the sheet back on the desk in front of me. “I can draw up another and spell it. It will take twenty-four hours to set, but it won’t be as effective.”
“I don’t have twenty-four hours to wait for this shit,” Manx said. “Why won’t it work?”
“Because his blood already sealed this one,” Twist explained. “Anything created afterwards will be an inferior product. I’ll do it if you insist. It’s your choice.”
“I will kill you where you stand,” Manx threatened. “I can drop you now and no one will care. You’ll just be another dead witch.”
Twist folded his arms over his chest. “Then do it. No one else will Brand this man. They won’t accept that debt on themselves or their families.”
“God damned witches,” Manx muttered. “Fine, just do it. I want him bound and sealed before sunrise and don’t think I won’t test your work.”
“Have I ever failed you before?” Twist asked. “There’s a reason you chose me for this Brand.”
“Do it. Do it now and do it deep. He’d better bleed ink or I swear your family will pay.”
Twist turned away from Manx and picked up the contact sheet, carefully touching only the edges with his fingertips. Sliding his body between Manx and myself he carefully pressed the sheet against my neck while whispering in my ear. “You’ll keep your promise?”
“You have my word,” I replied.
Satisfied, Twist placed his right hand across the sheet and chanted under his breath. After removing the sheet, he held up a small mirror so that I could see the result. He’d placed it high on my neck, the top of the snake’s head resting just below my jaw line, the body wrapped around the intricate star swooping down to my collar bone. There would be no hiding his work.
I nodded once and told him to get on with it while Manx bent to examine the design. “You’ll never be able to hide that,” he chuckled, “even if it’s on the wrong side.” Turning back to Twist he reminded him to make me bleed.
I watched while Twist moved back to the table and emptied the bulb into the tray. He opened a leather satchel and selected three tattoo needles, two of them with multiple heads like tiny forks. No wonder they used a Wiccan to perform the Brand. It was all done Old School, by hand. There were no tattoo guns. I briefly wondered if I should have insisted that he shrink the design as well. This was going to take all night.
Throughout the process Twist muttered and chanted. At times I could tell he was spelling his work, sealing portions before moving to the next, but at others I think he was offering up prayers. I didn’t speak or move while he worked, though I did have him take several breaks so that I could stretch pained muscles and rest my abraded skin.
Manx kept a sharp eye on both of us throughout the procedure. After a while he stopped telling him to work faster and I had to wonder if he’d ever watched a Branding before. I felt the hooks Twist was leaving in his magick, places where he’d hang a binding or twist a feedback loop. It was solid work from what I could tell, true artistry.
The Brand itself is more than a tattoo, though that’s all the mundanes see. It’s a magickal binding woven in ink, similar in structure to a Celtic knot, though it bears no external resemblance. It’s only inside, under the skin and within the ethereal where you can see the similarities. It’s a beautiful piece of work obscuring an obscenity. As the design progressed, I understood why a Wiccan had to do it.
A sorcerer could do something similar, but it wouldn’t hold together under Wiccan blood. Our bodies would reject the foreign magick. There were stories about the first Brandings . . . men died undergoing the procedure. It hadn’t stopped the law or the practice though. The OSS kept working at it until they stumbled upon the solution.
By the time Twist finished the first of the bindings I knew my instinct to demand a right-side Brand was correct. The change in position altered the character of the interlocking spells. Twist felt it too, but like an artist encountering an unexpected knot in a wooden sculpture, he modified his design. Working with the flow instead of against it, Twist created something unique. Instead of binding me, I could use this Brand to channel my magick more effectively.
Twice Twist walked me outside to let the Georgia moonlight bathe my wounds. Manx objected, but Twist set down his needles and refused to continue until Manx relented. He stood guard over us to ensure we wouldn’t talk.
We didn’t stay out for long, just long enough to let the moonlight mix with my blood. The first time I stepped out I spotted Nunez standing across the square. The second time I thought I saw Ramirez’s cigarette flaring briefly in the dark. The Company had gathered to observe. I don’t think Manx noticed or cared. He should have, but he didn’t.
When Twist brought me back inside the last time he began working on the pentacle. Though each bar would appear solid, I could feel him weaving the strands of magick together like braids making up a rope. To the naked eye they would appear to be a solid piece, but underneath my skin they were a writhing mass of individual lines. Each of the five pads of the wolf’s paw was distinct knot of energy, as were each of the four quarters of the Gladium in the center.
Once he finished, Twist held a square of white silk to the wound and let it bleed through. Manx yanked it out of his hand before Twist could present it to me. The blood and ink were a powerful anchor. With that piece of silk Manx would be able to find my anytime. I’d substituted the ink, which would keep him from locking onto that, but nothing provided as clean a link as blood. It’s why we’re so careful about what happens to the stuff.
Manx held the square between his fingers and concentrated upon it a moment until he was satisfied. I could feel my Brand tingle while he worked his tracer over the silk, but I didn’t change my expression to let on that I knew. Manx wasn’t just a Hunter; he was also a Special Agent with the OSS. He wasn’t supposed to be a sorcerer and he didn’t wear one of the mandated bracelets. Perhaps he tested just below the threshold, enough to activate a trace, but not enough to register on the scale. Perhaps there was something more.
I wasn’t sure what I could do with that information, but I tucked it away in case it would be useful later. I’d also have to do something about that silk, but now wasn’t the time.
I turned to Twist and glanced over towards his bloody needles.
“You know what you have to do.”
Twist didn’t say anything, but nodded. I felt some guilt about it, but it was the right decision. He was highly skilled and he’d have to pay his debt for what he’d done to every other witch that had come under his fingers.
I nodded once and pushed passed Manx as I turned to leave. Let him wonder about that last exchange. He’d understand soon enough.
Chapte
r 17
Fort Benning, Monday 07:00
Thorn’s Quarters
Three hours, that’s all the sleep I got before Manx started pounding on my door. Thank the gods I’d warped the wood before I’d tumbled into bed. It’s a neat little trick, just coax the wood into accepting some of the moisture in the night air and you’re done. It’s more subtle than placing a ward and a Hell of a lot easier. Wards aren’t my specialty anyway and it would have taken me too long to do the working. Besides, I didn’t want it to be obvious that I’d sealed the door.
“You son of a bitch,” Manx yelled. “Open this goddamned door!”
“What’s got you so riled up this morning?” I called from the bed. “It’s not locked, come on in.”
Over the next several minutes Manx pushed, pulled, tugged, banged and kicked at the door, but it wouldn’t budge. I nearly pissed myself laughing, but that only drove him into a frenzy of kicking and screaming. The door shuddered as he threw his body against it, but it held fast. I must have warped it more than I’d thought last night.
“You come out here right now or I’ll shoot you down where you stand!”
Several long minutes ticked by before I pulled myself out of bed. Figuring that the rest of the unit must have heard Manx’s threats by now, I reached out to unravel the binding and release the moisture back into the air. I’d barely twitched my fingers through the opening glyphs before wisps of mist billowed across the door’s surface.
Shocked by the quick response I withdrew my will, but the spell continued unabated. Within moments the door was obscured by a fog that quickly faded revealing a web of cracks running across the inner surface. It appeared as if it had been flash-dried in a kiln, the wood aged and brittle with all its moisture removed.
Holy crap, what’s this thing done to me? I reached up to run my fingers across the ink tingling on my neck. There hadn’t been any resistance at all. Normally I’d have to gather the energy, building the internal pressure high enough to overcome my body’s natural resistance. It’s that pressurized energy that I release to power a spell, but what I’d just done was something completely different. If this wasn’t an isolated incident, I’d have to be extremely careful before I learned control.
The Dead Pools Page 11