A Witch's Feast

by C. N. Crawford

  They’d passed through something called Devil’s Milk Square, where a statue of topless women spurted milk into a stony basin, and they’d continued north through winding lanes along the city’s eastern edge, just inland from the Harbor.

  Thomas wore an itchy woolen shirt and trousers loaned to him by William, his own clothing having been torn beyond repair in the battle. Of his own belongings, only his jogging shoes and watch remained.

  A sludgy gutter ran along the center of a glistening cobblestone alley. Top-heavy, timber-frame houses threatened to topple into the street, and a few girls hung laundry from overhead ropes between the buildings. A woman with auburn hair and thin lips stopped to stare at Thomas, nudging her elderly friend. Nervous hands flew to their mouths as he passed.

  Thomas stepped gingerly to avoid the refuse embedded in the cobbles. The neighborhood smelled of old fish and urine, but it was in better shape than Tobias’s. At least the buildings remained standing.

  He glanced at Oswald’s profile—the frosty blue eyes and strong jaw obscured by his unkempt curls. He’d tried making conversation about the weather a mile back, but Oswald had merely glared at him. Worth another shot.

  “Have you ever been to a Theurgeon?”

  Gray eyes flicked toward him and back. “No.”

  That went well.

  The alley opened into a large square. Lullaby Square. Thomas recognized the fountain, a stone cube inset with the petrified head of a succubus that spewed water into a basin. Images of the battle flooded his mind—the men who’d died at his hands. With a shudder, he realized that a part of him ached for that terrible power.

  His throat tightened, and he glanced at Oswald. It was above the fountain that Oswald’s sister had swung lifelessly just days ago. If Oswald knew that, his stony face didn’t betray it.

  They crossed the square, its rough-hewn stones still marred by splotches of dried blood. The Throcknell Fortress towered over them, its stone walls shining white in the morning sun. The last time he was here, he’d been too gripped with panic to study it. He could count five outer towers, like points of a star. Thick stone walls stretched between them. Two guards in tunics of blue and gold stood on either side of a tall portcullis, pikes gripped in their hands. Above the guards, five mountain lion heads floated in the air, their faces animated in snarls and roars. The Throcknell herald—Celia’s herald. Instead of iron barring the entry, thin streams of golden light crossed the opening, a magical barrier.

  Within the fortress’s center, a constellation of towers reached to the skies. They varied in width, but each had a gleaming spire, sharp as a rapier. He could have sworn some pierced the clouds. Assuming this isn’t a complex hallucination, that is. Assuming I’m not dosed up on Thorazine in a psychiatric hospital right now, dribbling onto a mint-green hospital gown.

  “Are you going to stand there all day?” Oswald’s voice interrupted his staring.

  He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It’s not for people like us. Except the Iron Tower. And no one makes it out of that except to meet death in the square.”

  The phrase “death in the square” sent a shiver crawling up Thomas’s spine, bringing with it the sound of cracking bones and gurgling blood. It was all real, wasn’t it? All those people he’d slaughtered. Worse than the death was the thrill of power he’d felt as he’d snuffed out their lives. He didn’t even know how many he’d killed. You were supposed to remember all the faces—that was what he’d read in books. But it was a blur of spraying blood and shattering skulls. Nausea spread through his gut.

  “Are we done staring?” Oswald pivoted to stride across the square, and Thomas tried to clear his head of the bloody images.

  He followed Oswald to a row of steep-peaked buildings marked with colorful signs. Barefoot children in ragged clothes stared at him as he walked past, and a few more lingered around vendors selling bread, hoping for scraps. A cold sweat prickled his skin as he noticed their pale lips and dark-shadowed eyes.

  A young girl in a dusty brown dress approached them from behind an empty cart. She must have been about six, her brown eyes large in an emaciated face. Tangled brown hair hung past her shoulders, and her bare feet padded on the stones. She stopped, close to Thomas, and pointed to an abandoned, overturned cart. A filthy dark-haired boy of about four slumped against it, a dazed look in his eyes. Purplish lumps bulged from the sides of his neck. Thomas’s heart dropped into his stomach. The Black Death.

  The girl squinted in the sun, blocking his path. “Are ye a pennywort?”

  Thomas nodded, glancing at the little boy, who seemed to struggle for breath. “Yes. And who are you? Are your parents around?”

  “Dead.” She took a step closer, her face drawn. “I’m Chloris. Does ye have pennywort simples? My broder, Ayland, ha’ the token.”

  He frowned, glancing at Oswald. As if sensing the danger of infection, Meraline took flight, soaring for the rooftops.

  Oswald crossed his arms. “She wants to know if you have medicine from the outside world.”

  Thomas shook his head, holding out his empty hands. “I don’t have anything.” He inhaled, his chest filled with a hollow sadness. If by some miracle he’d had access to modern antibiotics, this would have been his chance to wash the blood from his hands. But he had nothing.

  “Are you coming?” Oswald jerked his head toward a storefront—a narrow building, the color of tobacco-stained teeth, crookedly jammed between two darker buildings.

  Chloris’s eyes brightened, and she pointed to the building. “Do they have token simples there? For my broder?

  Thomas fiddled with his silver watch. “Yes, but you need…” He looked away. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” A lump rose in his throat. This isn’t right. Four-year-olds can’t just die in the streets.

  She wrinkled her nose, her eyes shimmering. Judging by the sickly pallor of her skin, she wouldn’t be far behind the boy. She scratched her head contemplatively before turning to wander back to her brother.

  Thomas swallowed hard, turning toward the Theurgeon’s temple. Beams of dark wood divided the façade into three stories. A large, circular sign hung above the door, its surface painted with a snake wound around a staff. The Rod of Asclepius—the ancient god of healing. He ran a hand over his chin. The same medical symbol used in my world. “The serpent sheds its skin, bringing new life and death alike. The dual-edged responsibility of a healer.”

  “What are you clavering about?” Oswald spat.

  Thomas blinked. He’d been staring again. “Sorry.”

  Oswald approached the wooden door. A golden lion’s head protruded from the rough wood, holding a ring in its mouth as a knocker. Oswald banged the ring against the door. A few seconds of silence passed before it creaked open.

  A young man, barely older than Oswald, stood in a long stone hall, around a hundred feet long and fifty wide, with a vaulted ceiling two stories above their heads. Vertigo washed over Thomas. It wasn’t possible for such an imposing space to fit into a cramped building, but Thomas was beginning to rethink the possible.

  The young man before them wore a long black robe and a conical black hat with a live, golden viper writhing around its base. The man’s skin was the color of unbaked bread, and a mere suggestion of a chin curved from below his crowded smile. “Welcome to my temple. I’ve been expecting you.”

  Of course. He has to say that. Thomas glanced back into the square before the door shut. He caught a glimpse of the little Tatter girl staring at them. She was still hoping for her medicine.

  “You may call me Brother Asmodeus.” The young Theurgeon motioned to a long banquet table in the center of the hall, its lurid red cloth marked by golden threads that formed shifting alchemical symbols, erasing and rewriting themselves in a slow crawl of script.

  Colored lanterns floated near the ceiling. Or at least, they seemed to be floating. Thomas couldn’t see any strings. High-backed chairs lined both sides of the table. Around the
room, vines swooped down from the ceiling, their leafy tendrils curled tightly around spell books.

  Asmodeus gave a slight bow. “Please, follow.”

  Thomas and Oswald followed Brother Asmodeus to the other end of the table where two guards in blue and gold uniforms hovered before a dais. Just like those in front of the fortress, they gripped pikes.

  The Theurgeon’s heels echoed from the marble flagstones. Around the room, the walls were lined with shelves of colored and bubbling potions. Between the shelves, painted statues stood in alcoves depicting lavishly dressed royals in jeweled clothing. At the base of each statue was a tiny, golden lion head. The Throcknell likenesses.

  As he approached the far end of the hall, Thomas surveyed the two grandest statues enthroned on the dais—a crowned king and queen in golden robes. The queen’s platinum hair tumbled over her shoulders, its paleness contrasting with the vibrant red of her lips.

  The guards in front of the platform had to be seven feet tall, and their long golden beards gave them the appearance of Viking warriors. They guarded something on the center of the platform—it looked like a small marble bowl on a gold stand.

  “Admiring Queen Bathsheba’s beauty, I see.” Asmodeus smiled, his freckled cheeks flushing. A servant rushed forward and pulled out a chair for him. “How could you not?” Sitting, he thrust out a hand toward the nearby seats. “Please. Sit.”

  Thomas took his seat, partially distracted by the shifting symbols on the tablecloth. Oswald folded his hands behind his head, leaning back. From the way he seemed to make himself at home, Thomas almost had the feeling that he would cross his ankles on the table.

  “You wish to return home to Boston,” sad Asmodeus. “My scrying stone told me.”

  Thomas nodded. “Very impressive. And you have a lot of… grand things in here.”

  He beamed. “I was at the top of my scrying class in Sortellian College.”

  Thomas cleared his throat. “I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans.” He pulled off his silver watch, dropping it onto the table with a clank. “What sort of plague-healing spell can I get for this silver?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jack

  Jack unlocked the door to his apartment in Salem, eyeing the sofa with longing. It had been his retreat from Boston. Now, it would be his new home.

  He liked his hometown, and the spacious, wooden-floored apartment would be perfect for a respite. He needed some time to restore himself after the Tatter forces had driven him out of Maremount.

  He pulled off his gray peacoat, hanging it on a wooden rack. If he could ever bring Fiona in for a visit, she’d be impressed by the skylights that bathed the room in ivory morning light. At night, they could lie on the floor and look at the starry sky with hot cups of tea, wrapped in a downy blanket.

  He ran his fingers through his dark hair and set his keys down on the countertop. What is she doing now, anyway? Her whole school had burned down. Scrying had shown him that she was in a mansion somewhere with her peasant friend, but he couldn’t tell where it was. Papillon, his moth familiar, was looking into it.

  He walked over to a window overlooking the old burying ground and rested his hand on the rough granite wall. Of course, what really made the apartment perfect was that it came with enough reminders of death to keep him on task. The memento mori were his sword of Damocles, preventing him from becoming bloated with luxury. If something rendered him incapable of completing his Great Work, death was inevitable—for him, Fiona, and everyone else.

  He caught a brief glimpse of his own reflection in the windowpane. This building had once been the old Salem jail, and his apartment overlooked a crooked-stoned cemetery. The graves jutted out of the ground at odd angles like hags’ teeth.

  He could even see the spot where, during the witch trials, Sheriff Corwin had slowly pressed Giles Corey to death under the weight of stones. It had taken several crisp September days to finish the task, just as the leaves were starting to turn orange. The old man’s eyes had bulged, and his tongue had lolled out of his mouth. The sheriff had poked it back in with his cane.

  Giles had been a stubborn old bastard. If he’d falsely confessed to witchcraft, it would have been over a lot quicker. It wasn’t a great loss to the world, anyway. The man had beaten one of his servants to death and condemned his own wife as a witch.

  Jack turned back to his living room. Apart from the lone granite wall, a remnant of the old jail, each wall was covered from ceiling to floor with oak bookshelves. There were old grimoires, poetry books, a first edition of Paradise Lost, and his guilty pleasure—Gothic romances. And of course, now he had the most important book of all: the Voynich manuscript. It would be the key to completing his work. For all his time torturing people in Maremount, they had been able to tell him remarkably little about the Relic of Genesis. He knew only that the Purgators had possessed the relic at one point, as had the philosophers of Maremount. But after the creation of the magical realm, the Throcknells had sent the relic back to where it came from. Wherever that was.

  That was where the Voynich manuscript came in. It would tell him of the relic’s history.

  He glided over to the bar, nestled between bookshelves, and pulled out a wineglass, still thinking of Giles Corey’s bulging eyes. It was odd that he remembered his early days so well. He couldn’t remember a thing about the 1950s, but he’d probably spent most of it around here, skulking around cemeteries with a martini. He walked over to his dusky green sofa and threw himself down, leaning back into the cushions to stretch his muscles.

  After being chased from Maremount, he’d decided to assume a false name—Cooper Smith. At this point, he had no way of knowing how much the Purgators knew about him. They hadn’t been much of a threat in the past century or two, but they seemed to be regaining strength.

  So for now, he was Cooper, chipper and modern. He’d say things like Nice to meet ya, I’m Cooper. Nice weather, huh? How about the Sox? He’d wanted a contemporary name, and everyone these days was named after a medieval tradesman. He rubbed his sore biceps. Might as well be a barrelmonger. He hadn’t yet met anyone named Basketmaker, but it was only a matter of time. He reached for the bottle of Bierzo on his coffee table and uncorked it. He poured himself a small glass of red wine, inhaling its earthy aroma.

  As he leaned back to sip it, he closed his eyes. His left calf muscle spasmed painfully. The flesh-eating wasn’t working as it should anymore, even after he’d devoured Elsa. He set down his glass and reached into his shirt pocket, pulling out a golden pocketwatch and inspecting its surface. He was well overdue for a tune-up. A haunted and skeletal man decorated its front—a reminder of what would happen should the mechanism fail. He examined the tiny cogs through a small window on the back, but he really didn’t know what to look for. It was time to pay the Earl a visit. He suspected the old watchmaker had set it to slow down every few decades just to get more gold out of him.

  A flickering motion caught his attention, and he looked up to see his death’s-head moth, Papillon, dancing in the spring air outside his window. He sprang up and ran to the window, unlatching it and swinging it inward. Papillon fluttered around his head, whispering into his ear in her high little voice.

  As he listened, he began to understand that some of his plans had entirely backfired. Not only had his Harvesters strung Fiona up on the Tricephalus, but that filthy Tatter boy had saved her. This would only bring her closer to Tobias.

  Jack would rip those Harvesters to shreds if they weren’t dead already. He closed the window with a scowl. Papillon still hadn’t found her, but Jack would pay her a visit soon enough.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Fiona

  Fiona’s footsteps echoed off the high, arched ceiling on the second floor. As she walked to her new bedroom, she ran her finger along the dark wooden wainscoting.

  Painted a deep maroon, the top half of the walls were hung with oil paintings: wolves, an iron castle in a forest, a forlorn Roman soldier. Antlers hung between the g
olden frames.

  Bloodstain seemed an odd color choice for walls. If it hadn’t been for the light streaming through the large bay windows, it might have looked like the corridor of a wealthy Victorian serial killer. Though for all she knew, that could very well be an integral part of the Ranulfs’ family history.

  As she drew closer to one of the closed doors, she heard muffled voices through the oak. She pressed her ear to the door, holding her breath. The clipped cadence sounded like Mrs. Ranulf, speaking to her daughter in hushed tones.

  “Mom.” Munroe’s voice pierced the wood. She was obviously less concerned with discretion than her mother. “The doors are locked. Relax.”

  “Just make sure no one goes in,” Mrs. Ranulf snapped.

  Fiona bit her lip. Goes in where?

  Creaking floorboards hastened her toward her own room. She scuttled down the hall, pushing into her own bedroom just as Mrs. Ranulf left Munroe’s.

  Fiona pulled the door shut behind her and surveyed the large bedroom she’d been assigned to share with Mariana. Mariana had chosen a four-poster bed in the center of the room, and she lay flat on her back, her arms outstretched.

  A threadbare rug with a twisting floral pattern covered most of the floorboards, and the ticking of a ship’s bell clock on the dresser echoed off the high ceiling. The room smelled of mothballs and rose perfume. Green, floral wallpaper covered the walls. There was a grandmotherly feel to the space, but at least it wasn’t as creepy as the hallway.

  Mariana stared at the ceiling. “Of all the things to throw down about, you chose to pick a fight over the legitimacy of IQ tests?”

  Fiona crossed to her own bed. She’d chosen a smaller one nestled into an alcove. “The IQ test I took said I had poor impulse control. That part was accurate.”

  Mariana sat up. “Why were you tested?”