A Witch's Feast

by C. N. Crawford

  The King gestured to a gray-haired man to his right. “We honor another guest here tonight.” Thick eyebrows swooped up the man’s forehead, and a small hedgehog perched on the shoulder of his red tunic. He nodded as the King continued, “Sir Caspar is a great philosopher visiting us from Mount Acidale.”

  Thomas had no idea what Mount Acidale was. He flashed a quick smile, wondering how long he had to wait before he could eat.

  The King clapped his hands. “We are here to celebrate! Let the wine flow!”

  As he spoke the words, three women strode into the hall, each wearing a small gauzy tunic. Their hair and bodies gleamed with gold, and they carried pitchers in both hands. They moved gracefully around the table, filling goblets with red wine.

  “Let us dine and enjoy ourselves.” The King raised a goblet, and the guests followed suit.

  Thank God. Thomas sniffed the wine, swirling it in his glass. His mouth watered at the thought of consuming anything, but he paused with the thought that it could be enchanted. What was the rule? If you ate the food in a fairy land you’d be trapped there forever?

  He eyed the pies in front of him, and the beautiful russet-haired woman to his right. Sod it. They’re not really fairies, and being trapped here wouldn’t be so bad anyway. He lifted his glass, taking a long slug of the wine—a fruity and delicious red. This was the first thing he’d ingested in days, and he had to force himself to put down the glass. He didn’t want to end up under the King’s table before the night was through.

  The gauze-clad servants moved around the table, cutting off chunks of duck and rabbit to serve onto people’s plates. When a large chunk of rabbit landed on Thomas’s, he tore into it with the ferocity of a wild dog. I’ve never been this hungry before, not even after a two-day bender through Soho.

  A scoop of a meat pie landed on his plate, followed by corn bread, stewed pumpkin flavored with nutmeg and butter, and stuffed quahogs. The bread was fresh and hot, and he dipped it into the pumpkin before taking another bite of rabbit. The meat dripped with a rich cranberry and plum sauce.

  He closed his eyes, ecstatic in the rich and savory flavors. This was heaven. Maybe they don’t need to send me home. Maybe I can stay here under the stars and wildflowers eating wild rabbit, even if I have to dress like an absolute twat.

  “I see you like the food, Thomas Malcolm.” The King stared at him, a hint of amusement on his florid face.

  Thomas looked around the room. Everyone was staring at him, apart from Celia, who jabbed at her food with a finger. Asmodeus sat inches from her. To Thomas’s right, the woman in a bright yellow gown laughed into her hand. Her hair was the color of the burnt-orange sunset above them, and it tumbled over her cleavage. Blue phlox flowers were threaded through her hair.

  Thomas swallowed a large bite of meat, and nodded. “It’s delicious. Of course, I haven’t eaten in two days.”

  The King tilted his head. “An oversight on the part of our guards. They’ve been reprimanded.” He leaned forward. “And what do you think of our fine city?”

  “It’s beautiful.” Thomas stared at the open arches above, the sky darkening to a deep coral. “In fact, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Pleased, the King nodded, taking a large bite of cornbread. Under the food smells, the air was thick and sweet with the scent of honeysuckle blossoms.

  “I’ve been enjoying the city myself,” Caspar grinned at the woman in yellow. “Very beautiful, indeed.”

  Thomas tried to catch Celia’s eye. She broke of a large piece of cornbread and shoved it in her mouth, staring at the sky.

  Asmodeus lifted his gaze from Celia’s cleavage and cleared his throat. “I take it you’ve recovered from your criminal episode?”

  Thomas’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “The criminal episode in which I tried to prevent the mutilation of a small child?”

  Bathsheba’s laughter was like the tinkling of bells. “Oh! He knows better than we do. Let’s hear what the learned gentleman has to say.”

  Maybe he’d misspoken. His mind swirled with academic debates on cultural relativism. But they were going to cut a little girl’s hands off. “I realize that you have your own laws and customs here—”

  Sir Caspar scowled. “Laws and customs that stem from thousand-year-old traditions. And to what ancient societies do you belong?”

  Arsehole. “None.” A slug of wine. It was going to his head. Sod it. I hate these people. “Though now that you mention it, I come from a culture where we provide medical care to anyone who needs it, even if they can’t afford it. We don’t let children die in the streets from curable diseases.”

  Asmodeus reddened. “Because you fools don’t know any better—”

  The King held up a hand. “Let him speak.”

  Thomas took another long sip of wine. “Look, the Tatters in Maremount can’t afford the treatments. Children are among the most susceptible to the plague, and it wouldn’t be any good for your economy if the young people died off, leaving you with an elderly population past their working years. Why not make the spells available to the public? You won’t have any Tatters left to buy your cures if they all die at the age of four. And then where would you be, Asmodeus?” He spat out the name like an insult.

  Asmodeus sniffed, folding his long fingers in front of him.

  The King stroked the rim of his goblet. “The Tatters are incapable of using magic wisely. We can’t let them run wild with it.”

  Bathsheba’s pale eyes sparkled. “The King descends from Merlin, and I from Nicholas Flamel. If you go back far enough, you can trace our lineage back to the gods themselves. It’s why we are able to use magic for this beauty you see around you.” She lifted a delicate white hand toward the sky. “Those of lesser breeding will only use Angelic for violence and depravity.” She nodded toward Celia. Or Lady Celestine, as she was known here. “Unfortunately, Celestine’s mother wasn’t from one of the gods’ lines. She was from a gutter family, and therefore magical knowledge has driven her mad.”

  Celia merely shrugged and took a sip of wine. A sense of unease welled in Thomas’s gut. She was fine before she arrived here.

  Asmodeus leaned in, his mouth hovering near her neck. “Her beauty makes up for her lack of wit.” He turned to Thomas, pointing a fork speared with a piece of rabbit. “The gods intend to cull the Tatters. It’s the natural way of things. Without disease, they would outbreed us, and our society would degenerate into savagery.” Triumphant, he shoved the meat into his mouth, chewing with a lopsided grin.

  Sir Caspar nodded. “It’s true. Those of peasant stock, while inferior in every other way, have hardier constitutions. It’s what happens when you live among the animals, I suppose. They are quite good at reproducing.”

  The King snorted. “Unlike my wife.”

  Bathsheba looked down, her face blanching to an even paler shade of white.

  A silence rolled over the room like a dense fog, until the King shifted and raised his cup again. “This is no time to dwell on my wife’s difficulties. As I said, we are here to celebrate! Tonight is a night of amusements.” He emptied his goblet. “Thomas. Tell us how you learned to read.”

  Thomas blinked at the non sequitur. He swallowed a mouthful of stuffed quahog. “I learned some at school, and some at home. Like everyone else.”

  Next to Asmodeus, the woman in yellow tittered, rising from her seat. A monarch butterfly circled her head. Maybe it isn’t a non-sequitur after all. Maybe there’s something funny about my literacy.

  Sir Caspar lowered his chin, a twinkle in his eye. “Thomas. Tell us about the great city of London.”

  Thomas shook his head. Where to start? “Well, it’s two thousand years old, founded by the Romans. They built a wall enclosing a square mile—”

  He felt something touch the back of his head and turned to find the yellow-garbed woman jerking back her hand. She giggled.

  Did she just touch my hair? He swallowed, his mouth going dry. Oh God. I am one of the amusements.
A wave of bitterness washed over him. They weren’t really going to send him home, were they? And what of Oswald—was he still here?

  He looked toward the King, who licked cranberry sauce off his fingers. “Your Highness. Where did you say you sent Oswald?”

  “Are you questioning him?” Asmodeus barked.

  “To his home, of course.” The King threw his hand up. “What else would I do with a Tatter boy? My tastes turn to the fairer sex, I assure you.”

  Asmodeus and Sir Caspar roared with laughter.

  Thomas’s new admirer leaned closer, inspecting his face. She smelled like the ocean. “His eyes are quite dark.”

  “Fortuna, don’t get so close,” Bathsheba tutted.

  Fortuna bit her lip, stepping away. Don’t get too close. Like he was some sort of zoo animal. He could almost taste his own resentment. He picked up his goblet, draining it. If I’m destined to die here, at least I’ll get in one last delicious meal. He took a large bite of turkey, the meat rich and savory.

  But if they’re lying, then what’s really happened to Oswald? They’d either killed him, or he was still at the hands of his torturers. The idea was enough to put him off his food. He stared at his plate, nauseated.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Fiona

  Fiona pushed open the door and a cool breeze chilled her skin through her worn T-shirt. She was going to find out what Tobias had been up to, and she’d convinced Alan and Mariana to join her on her mission.

  Two guards stood ten feet away, bracketing the entrance to the garden. To the right, the guard with the mustache chewed gum, humming quietly to himself. To the left, the pale behemoth stood immobile, no flicker of life on his face.

  Fiona stepped out onto the gravel path, instinctively glancing behind for Mariana. Of course, her friend wasn’t visible. They’d intoned Lady Cleo’s Cloak before leaving their room and Mariana was as transparent as the air. Fiona clicked the door shut behind her, and the behemoth glanced over at the noise. He tilted his head, and then prowled toward them. Fiona’s breath quickened as the man’s feet crunched on the gravel.

  Mariana grabbed her arm, pulling her onto the grass where their footsteps fell without noise. Fiona glanced behind at the guard, who now peered into the dark doorway. Finding nothing amiss, he returned to his spot. Fiona’s breathing returned to normal, and they continued creeping through the center of the gardens. Byron flew above their heads.

  They approached the statue of the chained woman—their meeting point with Alan. The air smelled of gardenias and stagnant water. Moonlight flickered through gliding clouds, lending the statue the appearance of being almost alive, as though she might begin dragging herself through the garden on stony arms. Fiona shuddered, pulling her sweater tighter around her.

  Byron swerved close to them. He was supposed to alert them if the guards noticed their absence.

  “Alan’s wolverine showed up today when we were working on our masks,” said Mariana. “I’m the only one without a familiar yet.”

  “Well, your familiar is a turtle. He’s bound to be slow.”

  “I’m calling my wolverine Jimmy Howls,” Alan’s voice cut in.

  Mariana exhaled. “I’m glad you made it. Those guards creep me out.”

  Fiona peeked back at dark house. “Let’s get going.”

  They crept onward, their invisible feet crunching along the gravel path. The full moon hung above them, its surface the color of aged bones. Every so often, Byron’s fluttering form came into view against it.

  “Do you really think this is necessary?” Mariana whispered. “Spying on Tobias?”

  “I don’t know how you convinced me to do this.” There was a hint of irritation in Alan’s tone. “Even if the Purgators are evil, which we don’t know for sure, why do you want to poke the beast? I have enough blood on my hands without instigating anything else.”

  Fiona frowned as they entered the hedge maze. “First of all, we do know they’re evil. They’re a witch-killing cult.”

  “Mariana and I have been doing a bit of witch-killing ourselves,” Alan said coolly.

  “That’s different,” Fiona shot back. “You killed people in self defense. The Purgators killed innocent people.”

  Apparently Alan thought there was a stain on his soul. But Alan wasn’t the one born with a murderer’s blood running through his veins.

  A distant rattling noise rang through the air as they entered the hedge maze.

  “Why don’t you just ask Tobias what he was up to?” asked Alan. “Maybe he had a good reason for whatever he was doing.”

  “Jack thought he had a good reason for murdering hundreds of people.” Fiona led the way, dragging her hand along the hedges. “Anyway, I tried asking Tobias what he was doing by the river, and he lied to me. I’m done with people keeping those kinds of secrets. ‘Oh, did I forgot to mention? I’m actually four hundred years old and I eat people to stay alive. No big deal.’”

  “Oh, come on. You really think Tobias is like Jack?” Fiona could almost hear Mariana’s eye-roll.

  They turned right, but stopped when they found the way blocked by a curve of boxwood trees. “Wrong way.” She pivoted, turning right again.

  Alan followed closely. “Well, you’ve convinced me to join you on your spy mission. I’m starting to think you might be the Machiavellian cult leader, Fiona.”

  “I’ll be in Fiona’s cult,” mused Mariana. “As long as you have a masquerade ball. Seems like a perk of the blood cult.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” said Alan. “My wolverine mask looks like a bad toupee with eye holes. I wish I’d found a way to scrape the glue and fur off my hands. I literally have hairy palms. ”

  “I’m waiting till the last minute for mine,” said Fiona. “Then I’ll just glue a bunch of wildflowers to it. Plus a basement trunk dress. If anyone asks, I’ll just say I’m dressed as one of Great-Grandfather Edgar’s crazy hookers.” Ahead of her, another hedge that blocked their path. “Dead end.”

  She turned, now following her friends, but Mariana crunched into a hedge. “Dammit! Another dead end.”

  Fiona spun around. “I have no idea where we’re going. I should not be leading this mission.”

  “I’ll take the lead.” Alan pushed ahead. “Wolverines have an innate sense of direction.”

  Fiona rested her hand on Alan’s shoulder as they followed him through the labyrinth. And she had to admit—he did have a good sense of direction.

  At last, the cemetery wall came into view, and its vines glistened in the moonlight, curling over the stones. It felt like they were out in the wilderness, hundreds of miles from civilization.

  They paused before the green door. Fiona could hear only the incessant chirping of crickets as they contemplated the seven-foot-high barrier.

  “She had a key,” said Fiona. She reached forward, trying the doorknob, but it was locked. “We’ll have to climb over the wall.”

  Volunteering to go first, she climbed into Alan’s open palms and he hoisted her up over his shoulders. She gripped the vines near the top of the wall for balance and then hooked her feet into the gnarled vines below. With a grunt, she cleared the top of the wall, taking in the view of marble angels weeping in the moonlight.

  Bracing herself, she dropped into the cemetery, landing hard on both feet. Byron weaved around the statues. She stepped away from the wall as she heard Mariana hoist herself over. The weeds flattened near the wall as her friend landed with a thud.

  “Are you clear?” Alan asked from atop the wall. She was grateful at this moment that he spent enough time working out to pull himself up with ease.

  “It’s clear,” said Mariana.

  The ground thumped as Alan landed. Fiona reached out to touch her friends just to be sure they were there. An overgrown path led to the crypt through crooked marble statues. The crypt’s entrance was a peaked arch flanked on either side by pointed towers.

  “Oooh,” said Mariana as they stole toward it. “Now this is a
place I’d love to photograph.”

  Fiona could hear her friends’ quiet breaths as they walked through the rows of grave markers. Thorny brambles enshrouded the feet of the vacant-eyed angels. A breeze ruffled the tall grasses that grew from the graves and rippled over Fiona’s skin like ghostly fingers. She eyed a winged marble angel who tore her hair in grief. Glancing at the hollow eyes, goose bumps rose on her skin.

  Though she could feel the warmth of her friends’ arms near hers, she wished she could actually see them. As it was, it looked to her as though she were alone in the cemetery, and she had the unsettling feeling that she was approaching her own resting place.

  Closer to the crypt, she could see writing on the top of the entrance. Something glimmered over the arch—blood red gems in the Ranulf family crest. Etched words spanned either side. As she approached, she could see it was Latin: Quod tu es, ego fui it said on one side, and Quod nunc sum, et tu eris on the other. She shuddered as she translated the words.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Fiona

  “What you are now, I was,” she whispered as they stopped in front of the crypt entrance. “What I am now, you will be.”

  “Dead,” Mariana muttered.

  “That’s always fun to think about,” muttered Alan. “What do we need to accomplish here before we can back across the fields and inside the house?”

  Behind the iron gate, the marble angels reflected on the glass surface.

  “Mrs. Ranulf unlocked this door,” said Fiona, stepping closer to the glass. The wind whistled over the stone cemetery walls. She tried to peer inside the glass, but in the moonlight she could see only her own reflection, and the wild brown hair curling around her face.

  Her heart began to race, and she had a sudden desire to get as far away from this dead-eyed garden as she could. But she forced herself to lean in further. “Hello?” Her mouth went dry as Mariana’s grip tightened on her arm, but she could see only her own reflection and the lamenting statues behind her.