A Witch's Feast

by C. N. Crawford

  He sat up. “We’ve got a little time, but not much. Asmodeus gave the wardens strict instructions. No one was to bother him in his work. It may take a few hours yet afore they find his broken carcass.”

  “Maybe.” She stood, lifting the hem of her long gown. “We have work to do.” She strode to the window. “Thomas! Your cocky prisoner friend has recovered. If we’re going to get the spell, we need to do it now.”

  He awoke with a start, blinking out of a deep sleep. “Right. What are we doing?” He winced, trying to swallow. “We’ve been to Asmodeus’s temple. The plague spell must be there. He had all sorts of books.”

  Oswald rose from the bed, rubbing the back of his neck. His body seemed to be fully functioning.

  “The temple sounds like a good idea,” said Celia. “But I have no idea how to operate the portals. We’ll have to get back into those tunnels that you both used. And I don’t know my way around those, either. They haven’t been used in centuries.”

  Thomas pushed himself up. “I think I can help there.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Celia

  Celia lifted the hem of her dress to climb the steps as Oswald’s sphere of foxfire drifted above them, illuminating glistening stone walls in a narrow stairwell. The golden sparrow, Odile, fluttered after her, determined to stay with her master.

  Thomas had been babbling something about a zodiac wheel for most of their journey through the dank tunnels, though now, as they neared the end, he had fallen silent. With his newly mended bones, it had become Oswald’s job to support the scholar. The pair lumbered up the stairs behind Celia, not a single shoe between them.

  Thomas seemed particularly preoccupied with sevens and twelves. At an intersection of tunnels, he and Oswald had engaged in a long and confusing discussion about metals, planets, and star signs that made little sense to Celia, and she wasn’t left with a great deal of faith in Thomas’s lucidity. Apparently they were headed toward Virgo, whatever that meant. She had a terrible feeling they would emerge from the tunnel right in the center of the Great Hall while Queen Bathsheba looked on. The Queen would call the guards and look on with a bloodthirsty leer while they were disemboweled before her.

  At least we have the invisibility spell, assuming I can remember it. Her memory wasn’t as good as Fiona’s, but during the weeks she’d spent here, she had replayed the spells in her mind in case she needed them. And during the long journey through the underground tunnels, she’d taught the invisibility spell to Oswald. With two philosophers reciting it, the spell would double in strength and duration. Fortunately, Oswald had proven a fast learner.

  “We must be near the end,” he said with a grunt.

  She glanced back at the shambling pair behind her. Thomas’s head lolled, his eyes closed. Oswald still wore Celia’s robe, though it covered very little. He might be a stickler for cleanliness, but he seemed less fussy about modesty.

  She didn’t want to admit it out loud, but she was glad that Thomas had brought the Ragman along. Celia’s knowledge of Angelic probably wouldn’t be strong enough to recite an unfamiliar portal spell with any kind of accuracy. She’d been counting on Thomas to help her piece together the spell. Although he’d never learned Angelic, he was a professor and probably better with languages than she was. But Oswald was even better. He’d received the same training as Tobias, and he would be able to read it on sight.

  She bit her lip. “It might be best if you read the portal spell, when we’re ready. You can probably get through it faster.”

  “I’ll help you learn it, but I’m not going with you. I belong here.” He heaved Thomas up another stair. “How’d you get it?”

  “Asmodeus.” Hopefully that was enough of an answer. She didn’t feel like giving Oswald the whole explanation.

  “What—he just gave you a spell? Out of the kindness of his shriveled heart?”

  Of course, Oswald wasn’t the type to just let things go. She gritted her teeth. “He used to come to my room after dinner. He decided to make me his mistress, even though he thought I was brain-damaged. Maybe because he thought I was brain-damaged. He didn’t think I could read, so when I asked if I could look at some of his pretty books, he didn’t see the harm. He brought a few over, and I sent him on a task to fetch a servant for more wine. While he was out of the room, I combed through the books. Some of the titles were in English. Most were something to do with getting rid of locusts or curing swine dysentery, but I found one called Lord Mordred’s Portal Spell.”

  “That was quite cunning of you.” He was starting to sound out of breath as Thomas became more of a dead weight. “When you entertained him in your room, you didn’t have to kiss the withered goat, did you?”

  “I did what I had to.” When she resisted his kisses, he would grit his teeth and clamp her hands above her head, pinning her to the bed. The thought of his long, pink tongue lapping at her lips made her want to vomit.

  “You did what you had to.”

  Asmodeus wouldn’t have remained satisfied with just kissing and groping for long. She was thankful Oswald and Thomas had showed up when they did.

  She wanted to change the subject. “The sparrow—Odile was my mother’s familiar. She must have lingered at the fortress after my mother died. She found me when I came back. I haven’t met my own yet.” She was lucky her mountain lion hadn’t appeared in the castle, or she would have had to explain her initiation into a coven. “Do you have a familiar?”

  “Had one. A meadowlark. Meraline.”

  She was almost afraid to ask. “What happened?”

  “She flew between the bars of the torture chamber. Asmodeus crushed her in front of my face. Burnt the carcass in a brazier.”

  She winced. She had no reply to that.

  “I haven’t seen Eden’s lark,” he continued.

  A lump rose in her throat. Maybe it’s better if we walk in silence for a while.

  Ahead, faint streams of silvery light shone through a metal grate. As they approached, she could see that it was carved with a leafy design, like a decorative storm drain. A tendril of fear spiraled through her when she thought of shoving the cover away, potentially drawing the attention of a nearby guard. “I see the opening. You think this will come out by the portcullis?”

  “I’m not sure. But it’s a solid guess.”

  Great. A solid guess. She closed in on the tunnel’s end. She could see only the stars gleaming in the night sky. She turned to Oswald. “Are you ready to chant the cloaking spell?” Odile perched on her shoulder.

  He nodded, and they incanted the spell together, the three of them shimmering to transparency when they finished.

  He touched her arm. “As soon as you remove the cover, we’ll need to move quickly. If a guard sees it move, they’ll sound the alarm.”

  Celia turned to push on the grate, straining her arms, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Here, take Thomas.” Celia felt a nearly limp body collapse into her arms, and she suppressed a shudder. They would all need that plague spell now.

  Oswald pushed past her, and her pulse raced as he slid the cover aside. Metal scraped against stone, but there was no sudden onslaught of guards.

  She shoved Thomas toward Oswald, and he hoisted out the dead weight. Celia followed, a cool breeze chilling her skin.

  She exhaled with relief when she looked around at Lullaby Square. They weren’t by the portcullis—they were just in front of the Lilitu Fountain. Night guards would be standing watch by the fortress, but the drain was out of their view.

  Celia peeked back at the tunnel covering. Her chest tightened as a memory flashed through her mind—her mother’s head was hacked off just on top of the Lilitu Fountain, and the blood had spewed into this very drain.

  “Celia!” Oswald tugged her arm, trying to snap her out of her trance. “Let’s go!”

  She shook her head, trying to lock the image into a dark recess of her mind where it wouldn’t haunt her waking hours. She turned to focus on the storefronts a
cross the square. Odile circled her head, fully visible. “Not now,” she whispered to her mother’s familiar.

  A few lanterns lit the square, and the night was so silent that she could just hear the ocean’s waves on the other side of the fortress. She squinted her eyes in the darkness, searching for the temple among the cramped shops that stood across from the fortress.

  “There,” whispered Oswald.

  Celia recognized the circular sign above one of the doors of a timber-framed building. The sign was painted with the Theurgeon’s symbol: a snake curling around a wooden staff.

  Still carrying Thomas, Oswald’s breathing was labored as they crossed the square, and the sounds of his struggles traveled with her all the way to the temple’s door. They crept up to the front steps, and she glanced back at the gate with a shiver of joy. I’m almost free.

  Oswald whispered close to her ear, “After I unlatch the door, we must slip in quietly. There are two guards inside. Stay with Thomas while I take care of them.”

  Take care of them? She wasn’t sure what that meant, but it wasn’t the time to argue.

  The sound of jangling keys seemed to fill the quiet square, and Celia cringed. Oswald slipped a long key into the keyhole, and it clunked against the lock. Her pulse raced as he slipped it out again and tried the next. What if none of these keys actually opens the door? By the sixth and final key, she was ready to run back into the storm drain to live forever underground like a mole person—until the lock clicked open at last.

  “Ready?” he said softly.

  She nodded before realizing he couldn’t see her. “Yes,” she whispered.

  He edged the door open, dragging Thomas inside. Odile fluttered in with them, circling to the vaulted ceilings high above, before Celia had the chance to shut the door. Colored lanterns lit the cavernous hall, casting garish light onto a long table. Vines hung from the ceiling to the floor, their curling tendrils gripping books and potions.

  Dazzled for a moment, she almost didn’t notice the two enormous guards barreling toward them.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Celia

  Celia’s heart skipped a beat as she took in the two muscular men bounding toward them on either side of a long table, chanting something in unison. There was a thud—Oswald dropping Thomas—before a vine on the right began to move. The vine knocked into another vine as an invisible Oswald swung from one to another. Bottles gripped in their tendrils clanked together.

  Celia’s pulse raced. He’s trying to lure the guards from the door—from Thomas and me. The guards pivoted, distracted from their chant. Pikes readied, their attention darted to a vine that swung over the table. A guard leapt onto the table, pike in hand, and whirled around, searching for the invisible intruder. The other froze, hand over chest. He hunched forward. Blood poured from his mouth and through the fingers over his heart before he slumped to the floor.

  His companion was frantic now, muttering a spell, but even with her limited knowledge of Angelic, Celia could tell he was stumbling over the words.

  Her legs faltered as Oswald’s unseen knife ripped open the guard’s throat, and blood sprayed in a wide arc over the table, drenching the books and tablecloth. There was no scream, just a gurgling sound before the man dropped to the ground. Celia’s mouth was dry. Who have I allied myself with?

  After the man’s gurgling fell silent, she heard nothing but Oswald’s heavy breathing coming closer. Her hands shaking, she groped around on the floor until she felt Thomas’s shoulder. At least Thomas is sane. Sort of.

  “Celia?” Oswald rasped.

  She worked to steady her voice. “I’m here. I have Thomas.” She pulled him up, propping him against the wall before turning to face Oswald. “Did you have to murder them?”

  “What was your plan? Giggle at them until they gave you the spell?”

  White hot fury blazed through her, and she would have shoved him if she knew where he was. “Just because I don’t go around slitting people’s throats doesn’t mean I’m some kind of airhead. They weren’t here because they’re evil. They were here because they have families to support and they work for my father. You could have knocked them unconscious.”

  The anger in her voice must have surprised him, because he fell silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “When they saw the door swing open, they started chanting a spell to raise the alarm. In any case, I’m not exactly trained in gently subduing people.”

  She was surprised that he felt the need to explain himself to her. Guilt, maybe. The edges of his shoulders were glimmering back into view, squared with tension.

  She ran a hand through her hair. For the first time, she noticed the statues of her mother and stepfather at the other end of the hall. “Fine. Anyway, we need to find the plague spell, right?” She gazed around the room at the towering walls of books and potions. Where were they supposed to start?

  She could just make out Oswald’s blond curls as he turned back to the hall. “Thomas figured it out earlier. Everything is coded with the zodiac. Do you see the paintings on the ceiling?”

  She glanced up at the vaulted ceiling painted with astrological signs. “Yes. But I have no idea what they mean.”

  “Leo.” He pointed to the dais, where a swooping, gold symbol adorned the ceiling above the statues of Balthazar and Bathsheba. “It’s a code for the fire goddess. And the fire goddess gave birth to the demon of healing.”

  “There’s a demon of healing?” She shook her head. “Never mind. You can explain later. Just get on with it.”

  Thomas croaked from the floor, “Water.” His bloodshot eyes opened, and he grasped his throat, wincing.

  Oswald stepped over and crouched down, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Can you stand?”

  Thomas nodded.

  “I’ll take you to the cure.” He slipped an arm around Thomas’s back and hoisted him up, leading him to the dais. “You’ll be better in a hummingbird’s heartbeat.”

  This nursemaid attitude was a dizzying contrast from the brutal warrior he’d been a moment ago. She followed the shambling pair, wincing as she passed the guard with the slit throat. His eyes stared up in shock, and a shudder ran through her. She forced herself to look away, surveying the walls. Statues of Bathsheba’s platinum-haired family stood in the alcoves on the right wall, and her father’s family on the left. Her chubby cousin Godfrey frowned beside a statue of the imposing Lady Sybill. What would they have done with the statue of my mother? Demolished, probably. Discarded like trash. The thought made her teeth clench with anger.

  Oswald lowered Thomas to the platform. The guards’ blood soaked the white robe. Even his blond curls were drenched, giving him the appearance of a bloody avenging angel. He stopped to glance thoughtfully at a marble bowl resting on a golden stand between the thrones before moving on to the stacks of books that stood behind them. His lips moved as he scanned the titles.

  Celia watched him. “How good is your Angelic?”

  “I can read what’s in front of me.”

  Better than Tobias’s, then. She stared at the towers of books lining the shelves, nearly reaching the ceiling, and her chest tightened. Even the most learned philosopher would need hours to sort through this.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Jack

  Jack lay on his back on the cold stone floor, his hands bound behind him with iron shackles. Each breath was an agony, opening the wound on his chest. The athame had narrowly missed his heart, and the only thing distracting him from the pain in his chest was the red dust that coated his face and neck, eating into his skin like acid.

  He’d been so close—not just to Fiona, but to completing his Great Work. Alexandria had left a message on his phone: she’d cracked the code. But now those plans lay in ruins, too. Papillon had delivered the news just before his arrival at Winderbellow. That filthy, wretched succubus had drained Alexandria of her life and stolen the hard drive. Why, he didn’t know. Likely she was going to use it as a bargaining chip to gain
favor with her fire god. I liked her, too. She was beautiful, and she wanted me. What a waste.

  The sounds of his own breathing echoed through the cell, his eyes pressed shut as he tried to manage the pain. And what has happened to Fiona? He’d been tossed in a cell with her friend, the wolverine, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  His body began to tremble. Is it the blood loss? He couldn’t use Angelic to heal himself while the dust coated him, and no doubt the Purgators would spray him with more as soon as he uttered the first magical syllable. Still, Druloch’s power should heal him soon.

  He moaned, the dust searing him, until he felt a wet cloth on his forehead. He opened his eyes. It was the wolverine boy, using his shirt as a cloth. Is his name Alan? Relief flooded him as Alan wiped the dust off his face.

  “Are you using your own shirt?” He managed. Druloch’s magic soothed his chest.

  Alan nodded.

  “And where did the water come from?”

  “You don’t want to know.” He finished washing the dust off Jack’s neck and shuffled back to the other side of the cell.

  Jack pushed himself up to stare at Fiona’s friend, shirtless under his jacket. Alan leaned against the wall. Unlike Jack, he was unshackled, and he held his head in his hands. He looked physically strong, his torso lean and muscled. Jack hadn’t really noticed him before.

  “Alan, right?”

  “Yep.” Alan didn’t look up.

  “The dust isn’t burning you.”

  “I hadn’t finished chanting the spell when they cracked me over the head. I had no aura to burn.”

  The unexpected gesture of kindness suggested that—just maybe—they could work together. I’ll be damned if I’m going to die in a Purgator sewer. “They didn’t shackle you.”

  “Apparently they don’t see me as a threat.”

  “No doubt your friend Tobias is shackled. The Purgators could see by our power that we’re bonded with gods.”