A Witch's Feast

by C. N. Crawford

  He crawled over the floor, searching every damp inch of stone. His heart raced when he found a hatch mark by the window, and then two more on nearby stones. The other sides of the room had a similar pattern. The smashed stone would have been the final marking in this circle.

  He stood and spun in a circle, his hands joined behind his neck. Did Eirenaeus make these hatch marks? Or did I? There were twelve marks in all—twelve, like the signs of the zodiac. His breath rattled in his lungs, strained in the stale air. Eirenaeus was communicating through the zodiac somehow. I need to remember everything I know about the zodiac.

  Seven points. Seven towers. Seven gods. His pulse raced. In the ancient geocentric model of the universe, there’d been seven planets that orbited the earth. Each had ruled a different metal. His own sign, Scorpio, was ruled by Mars. And Mars rules iron. The Iron Tower. Scorpio represents the Iron Tower. And Leo is the sun—gold. Leo is the Gold Tower.

  He crossed the cell, dropping to his knees to stare at the zodiac wheel. At least two of the towers were named for metals. His chest fluttered as the pattern spoke to him. He ran his fingers over the chiseled lines.

  Each of the seven towers was represented by one of the points and its corresponding star sign. The engraving told him the relationship of the towers to each other. If he was in the Iron Tower, then the Gold Tower—the Leo sign—was just to his left. The zodiac wheel is a coded map of the Fortress. He nearly whooped with joy. The lines weren’t latitudes and longitudes. They represented hidden connections between the towers.

  He hugged himself, shivering. Seven and twelve. It’s the sevens, the sevens and twelves. Seventy-twelve. Selvin. “Focus, Thomas!” The mental static was rising again.

  His throat had never been this sore before. It was like he’d swallowed a bag of nails. Rubbing his swollen glands, he tried to remember all the connections between the star signs, planets, and metals. Virgo goes with Mercury and quicksilver, and Pisces goes with Jupiter and—maybe tin. He couldn’t quite get them all, but it didn’t matter. He only needed a few.

  He ran to the window, stumbling over a pewter cup of water. Despite its proximity, there wasn’t a direct path from the Iron Tower to the gold. At least not according to his map. He needed to get to the Pisces—the Tin Tower across the way, and then make a sharp left to double back.

  His chest swelled, filling his lungs with musty air. He knew how to navigate the tunnels to the Gold Tower. But he had no idea how to get into the tunnels. His plan to smash through the Scorpio rock was an abject failure.

  He balled his fists. Why is Eirenaeus making this difficult? Wanker.

  “Eirenaeus!” he shouted, banging his hands against the iron window bars, so hard his palms throbbed. “Eirenaeus! You can just tell me in words! You don’t need to use signs and hatch marks and lines in the sodding wall, you seventeenth-century twat!” He pivoted, pacing the floor. He threw back his head and laughed. It felt good to hurl insults, even if no one was listening. “Eirenaeus!” His voice was hoarse. “You cryptic tosser! You gold-making leprechaun bell-end!” He doubled over with laughter. There was something inherently funny about leprechauns.

  He straightened, his mirth fading. The sun was setting, and he was still here, locked in this cell. And in a few days, he’d be drowned in a vat of charmed liquid. Gold. Gold. Gold. This word alone demanded his attention now. He rubbed a hand over his hair. Eirenaeus had found a way to make gold from lead, the crowning achievement of any philosopher. “The Great Work,” he muttered. “Changing lead into gold.”

  A smile crept over his face. Eirenaeus didn’t make his escape through the stone marked with the Scorpio sign. It would have been Leo—the gold sign. His pulse racing, Thomas stepped along the edges of the room, starting with the shattered Scorpio stone. He walked clockwise, counting the hatch marks until he found the one that corresponded with Leo. The gold stone.

  Heart hammering, he picked up the iron bar, and once again bashed into the stone. This time, the stone gave way.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Fiona

  Dr. Mellior finished a final slurping spoonful of his cucumber soup—a light lunch, as usual. He folded his long fingers in front of his chest and stared over the rims of his glasses. Fiona’s stomach rumbled. She could murder someone for a slice of pizza right now.

  By the doctor’s side, Mrs. Ranulf scanned the students with a tight-lipped smile.

  The doctor cleared his throat. “Today should be a joyous occasion, with the masquerade tonight. But I think we should discuss the elephant in the room. We’ve lost two students to the dark forces. There are only seven of you now.” His shirt was a sickly green color, like the pale green of hospital walls.

  Jonah scratched his cheek. “Do you really think Connor was a terrorist though? I mean, I’ve known the guy for a while.”

  “Do you think Connor is a terrorist?” asked Dr. Mellior.

  Jonah hunched his shoulders. “Yeah, I guess, if you think he is.”

  Dr. Mellior nodded. His chair creaked as he leaned back. “As unfortunate as it is, a smaller family can be a closer family.”

  Alan’s spoon clanged as he dropped it in his bowl. “But where have you taken them?”

  “That’s none of your concern, Alan Wong,” Mrs. Ranulf snapped. Her red dress matched the rubies in her chalice pendant.

  Alan continued to glare, and Fiona had the uncomfortable feeling that he wasn’t going to back down.

  “I thought we were going to talk about the elephant in the room,” said Alan. “The elephant is that you kidnapped two teenagers based on rumors and superstition, and you’re holding them somewhere without a trial.”

  Mrs. Ranulf pointed at Alan. “You people think you can come into our country—”

  The psychiatrist shot her a hard look, and silence descended.

  Munroe shrugged. “Who cares where the witches are? If they’re trying to destroy our way of life, they should be killed.” She pursed her plum-colored lips.

  Fiona’s bile rose. Killed? She wanted to jump over the table and smash Munroe’s perfect face into the remains of her cucumber soup.

  Dr. Mellior pushed up his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Let’s take a step back. The circetomaniacs are receiving appropriate treatment for their condition as determined by our new laws. Their location is a secret for your own good. They are dangerous until rehabilitated. If they can be rehabilitated.”

  “Not everyone can,” Munroe’s mother added. “The evil runs too deep in some, and we deal with them in our own way.”

  Fiona swallowed hard. What way? By Munroe’s side, Tobias’s expression betrayed nothing, his face and shoulders a mask of composure. Only his dark eyes hinted at unease, darting to the door every few seconds. He was waiting for something—Fiona was sure of it. Munroe inched closer to him, a pale hand edging toward his arm.

  Mrs. Ranulf’s lips twitched in a tight-lipped smile. “Now let’s not ruin our lunch with all of this negative energy. Mr. Ranulf will arrive soon, and we all have tonight’s party to prepare for. They’re setting up tents and tables in the back gardens as we speak. I trust you’ve all completed your masks?”

  Fiona nodded, schooling her face into a pleasant expression. I’ll have to glue some more flowers on that piece of crap later.

  “And you’ve all found outfits?” Munroe’s mother continued, crumpling up her napkin and tossing it into her bowl.

  Munroe smiled. “I found a suit for Tobias that will fit him perfectly. He’s going to look amazing. He’ll be fire, and I’ll be ice.”

  Fiona suppressed a groan. An ice princess. Of course.

  Sadie beamed. “She looks amazing in her gown. I’m going as ice also.”

  Munroe frowned. “You can’t be ice. That’s my idea. I’ll lend you my blue gown. You can be water.” Her gray eyes swerved to Fiona. “You’re probably the wrong shape for my dresses, sorry.”

  And there was that soup-smashing image again.

  “What are you wearing,
Fiona?” Mrs. Ranulf cocked her head. “You can’t wear one of your cartoon T-shirts.”

  “I have a wildflower theme planned. But I don’t have a dress.”

  Mrs. Ranulf waved a hand. “You can look through the clothing trunks in the basement. There are some suits down there for the boys, and my mother-in-law left some of her dresses.” A breathy laugh. “God knows what they look like, but they’ll be better than a cat shirt.”

  “Sounds good, Mrs. Ranulf,” Fiona managed. Forcing a smile, she imagined, for a moment, that the mystery spell might turn all the Ranulfs into rats.

  * * *

  Fiona stood in front of the mirror in her room. She’s spent fifteen minutes rooting around in a trunk in the basement, digging through ruffled orange and pink monstrosities, before she’d grabbed an unassuming beige dress. If she couldn’t wear something pretty, at least she’d wear something bland.

  As she stared at herself, she wondered if she should have gone for one of the frilly, pumpkin-colored dresses. Her gown smelled of mothballs, and the hem sagged midway down her calves. It had no waist, lending her the appearance of a soggy teabag. A teabag wearing sneakers. If Mariana had been here, they could have had a good laugh about this. She suddenly missed her friend terribly.

  She gripped her hairbrush. This isn’t about dresses and parties. The masquerade would provide the perfect opportunity to search the premises while all the Purgators were distracted. And Mrs. Ranulf’s behavior the other night suggested she could be easily distracted in the presence of cocktails.

  Just as she was trying to brush her unruly hair into submission, someone knocked on her door, pushing it open without waiting for an answer.

  Munroe stood in the doorway. Fiona froze, hairbrush hovering. Munroe wore a delicate, pale blue gown of sheer silk tulle. Her limbs showed through the fabric. Embroidered white leaves snaked around her body, strategically preventing her from revealing anything too scandalous.

  She leaned against the doorway and folded her arms, looking Fiona up and down. “That’s what you decided on? Is this some sort of a joke?”

  Fiona gripped her brush, ready to hurl it into Munroe’s face. “It’s vintage, actually.”

  “What are you dressed as? A paper bag someone left out in the rain?” She tilted her head. “A bag lady! How appropriate.” The peal of laughter was like nails on a chalkboard.

  “You’re so funny, Munroe. I can’t wait to join your robotic housewife cult.”

  “It’s not a cult,” she snapped. “It’s an ancient religion, and we’ve been protecting people from witchcraft for thousands of years.”

  “Yeah, well, you can’t tell a witch from a hole in the ground.” It was out of her mouth before she could stop it.

  “What are you even talking about?”

  Fiona threw down the brush. She began twisting her hair into tidier curls. “Nothing.”

  “You’re not mad that Tobias is my date, are you? But you can’t possibly think he likes you in that way.”

  A flicker of amusement warmed Fiona’s face. Poor thing. She doesn’t realize he’s only using her for information. “Mad? Why would I be mad?”

  “I see the way you look at him. Anyone can see it.”

  After working her fingers through her curls, her hair was looking better, at least. She rummaged through Mariana’s makeup, pulling out a tube of ruby red lipstick. “Why are you here, Munroe?” She filled in the crown of her lips.

  “Sadie and I are going to be doing our hair and makeup soon, and my mom said I had to invite you to join us.”

  “No thanks. I’d rather jam a sharpened toothbrush in my eye than listen to Sadie deliberate for two hours about eyeliner.”

  “Just as well.” She flicked her hair behind a shoulder. “My mom seems to think you’re something pretty special, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why. And I don’t really know if hair and makeup is going to save…” She waved her hand at Fiona’s outfit. “…whatever is going on there. You might want to take another look in the basement.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Thomas

  Thomas pulled himself through Eirenaeus’ tunnel on his elbows, his arms aching from breaking through the stone floor in his cell. The air was dry and stale. Stirring up dust, he tried not to cough while he squirmed though the narrow canal. There was no light here, just darkness and claustrophobia.

  Jagged pieces of stone jabbed into his back. Couldn’t a brilliant philosopher like Eirenaeus have come up with a better escape route? Not that he wasn’t thankful. He was out of the cell. Maybe he’d suffocate in dirt—maybe even run into the mummified remains of old Eirenaeus while he was in here. But as long as he could stay out of the guards’ sights, he could escape a grisly fate in Lullaby Square.

  The passage narrowed, and a rough chunk of stone trapped his shoulder. “Bloody hell,” he choked out. He closed his eyes, suddenly overcome by the feeling that he would remain trapped in this hole. His every breath would deplete the oxygen. Think calming thoughts. Think of gardens and the seaside…

  But his mind was still full of sevens. When he was seven, his mother had left him in the car on a trip to the seaside. It was one of her quests. She’d parked by the beach, the air thick with salt. She’d said it would only be a few minutes—one of the angels was coming for her, and she had to greet him by the ocean. The angel would unlock her powers as the gatekeeper.

  Thomas had stayed in the car all night, growing cold and thirsty. His stomach had rumbled, and he’d needed a blanket. I was too scared to get out. Every time the reeds rustled in the wind, I crammed further into the footwell. He’d calmed himself by reciting all the names of sea creatures he could remember.

  The next morning, his mother had stumbled back, defeated. All she’d said was, “I got the message wrong,” and they’d driven back to London in a stifling silence.

  “The gatekeeper,” he croaked. “Is that what I’m doing? A fool’s errand?” No, that’s something different. That one isn’t real. I’m in a magical fortress. The thought that the magical fortress was real was so ridiculous that a laugh escaped him. Of course. The magical fortress is real. His chest shook with laughter, and the rock scratched his shoulder.

  His laughter dried up. This tunnel could collapse at any moment. He inched back again, muscles throbbing, and then rested on his forearms. What I wouldn’t give for a pint right now.

  He had to press on. Oswald was still somewhere in the Iron Tower, suffering God-knew-what. At least that twat Asmodeus had given him a useful nugget of information when he’d gleefully informed Thomas his companion remained imprisoned.

  He rolled onto his back, sucking in his chest before squeezing his arms over his head. Using his feet, he pressed himself through the narrow gap, hands first. The rocks scraped at his skin, tearing his clothes. His body felt hot and cold at the same time, and the rough tunnel walls were like nails on his exposed flesh.

  Creeping forward, his fingertips grazed something smooth and flat in his path. A marble flagstone. He’d come to the end of the escape route. Now he only had to hope that no one would see him crawl out. He twisted back onto his stomach, and then edged further toward the stone. He flattened his palms and, with all his remaining strength, pushed it forward. It landed with a cracking sound—rock hitting rock. He froze. Did anyone hear? How could they not hear that?

  He waited, listening for guards. But he heard only the wind whistling against the tower walls outside. No light shone into the tunnel from the opening.

  He crawled forward, extending his arms to feel around outside the tunnel as he emerged. A stone floor lay a foot below the opening. Pulling himself out on aching arms, he tumbled onto the floor. He inhaled deeply. The air was free from dust here, but there was a stale smell, as if the space had been unused for a long time. He smiled and threw back his head. Still on his knees, he mouthed the words, “Thank you, Eirenaeus.”

  He stood, stretching his hand into the darkness to feel a cold stone wall. He stumbled as the floor disap
peared below his foot for a moment. He gripped the wall, steadying himself as his foot landed lower. He was in the dark landing of a stairwell.

  Up or down? He still had to find Oswald in this tower. And torture chambers were rarely in the penthouse suites. He ran his hands along the dusty walls as he descended. The stairwell must be the forgotten architecture left over from before they’d built the portals. He shambled down over the uneven stairs, one story after another. The wind must have picked up outside, and it howled against the tower walls. It seemed to grow louder the further he descended.

  How many sea creatures could he name? He gritted his teeth. I don’t need to do that now. I need to stay focused on finding Oswald.

  There was something unnatural about the sound of the wind. It sounded—almost human. A cold sweat beaded his forehead. It was human. It was Oswald.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Thomas

  Oswald’s cries pierced through a heavy wooden door to the stairwell, and the sound made his knees buckle. In the darkness, he grappled around for a doorknob. He found none, only a locked metal latch on the door. He slid the latch across—slowly, so no one would hear—and pushed on the door. There were no windows here, only a few guttering candles that cast flickering shadows over the grimy walls. As his eyes adjusted, Thomas saw a figure standing in a bare stone room.

  The man wore black robes, and he gripped something in his hand, pointing it at a table. Thomas’s heart stumbled when he moved closer. Oswald lay on the table, his back arched in agony. His wrists and feet were bound with iron manacles, and his anguished groans echoed off the stone ceiling.

  Thomas tiptoed closer, eyeing Oswald’s torturer. It was Asmodeus, using some kind of knife on his flesh. He held it in the coals of a brazier before bringing it back to Oswald. Jesus Christ.

  “It’s interesting to do this without magic,” the Theurgeon cooed. “Most Theurgeons don’t like to get their hands dirty, but I thought it would be a bit of fun.”