Prophecy (Soul of the Witch Book 2)

by C. Marie Bowen

In that moment, Alyse's world changed. Through this woman's earth-magic, she could see the damage inside the girl's body. Without thought, she pushed her fire-skill through her partner’s hands and their magic twisted together. They were twyned and they were twins. Her twin’s earth-vision allowed her to observe the damage inside. Healing the woman became child's play. Together, they worked though her wounds and repaired the internal injuries. In the end, Alyse sparked the woman’s heart and filled her lungs with air.

  When the girl on the bed took a breath and began to cough, Alyse pulled back. She gazed at the frayed auburn braid and dark-eyed mirror image of herself.

  “I will find you,” Alyse whispered, then pulled away and broke the twyne.

  * * *

  Alyse sat at the petit point frame and pulled bright colored thread through the cloth with a long needle. The mudroom door at the back of the house opened and familiar voices raised in a loud discussion echoed down the hall.

  “Of course, I told him no. We've the Chesham contract to complete next month. There's also the summer solstice right around the corner. We'll not have the time,” Bernard argued.

  “But you didn't ask me, that's all I'm saying.” Bayard's voice grew louder. “You don't get to make all the decisions yourself.”

  Alyse's grandmother sailed into the living area, already divested of her coat, boots and hat. Chantal James stopped beside Alyse and brushed the hair from her forehead and kissed her brow.

  “You work late, my dear. I'm sorry we were delayed. Your uncles stayed to discuss additional orders with a former client we happened to meet at dinner. Did you have a nice day?”

  Alyse looked up at her beautiful mémé. At eighty-one, she looked no older than sixty. With an elegant posture, she stood straight and slender; her snow-white hair swept up into a loose bun atop her head. Witches aged slower than unskilled humans, if they chose.

  “I wanted to wait up for you, Mémé. I've had an interesting day, and I have a question I need to ask.” Alyse wove her needle into the material and paused as her uncles came into the room.

  Bay and Bern still argued about the furniture contract. Without breaking eye contact with Alyse, Chantal held her hand toward her sons. Their discussion came to a halt, and they looked from their mother to their niece.

  “Is something amiss, darling? Did something happen?” Chantal tipped her head slightly as she observed Alyse.

  Alyse moved Sabine and Anaïs from her lap and stood to face her family. She loved them dearly. It hurt to know they had lied to her. All of them. Her entire life.

  “Who is Amy?” she asked, her voice tight with controlled anger. Her grandmother and her uncles exchanged uneasy glances, but Alyse kept her gaze locked with Chantal's.

  Mémé has the answers.

  “Where did you hear that name, dear heart?” Chantal asked with a cautious smile.

  All the lamps and fireplace flared for a several seconds and then returned to their former state.

  “I have a twin. Never mind where I heard her name. I should have heard it from you.” Alyse's words were darts, aimed at her grandmother. “I should have known her all my life.”

  Sabine and Anaïs yowled and ran from the room.

  Once again, flames flared, far too high for safety, and fire flickered between the fingers of Alyse's clenched fists.

  “Calm yourself, young lady!” Her grandmother gestured with her arm and doused every flame in the room with a thought.

  The room went dark, except for the fire Alyse held in her fist. Even her powerful grandmother could not extinguish Alyse's flame. She raised her fist, opened her fingers, and bid the tiny flame on her palm to grow. It illuminated her face and reflected in her eyes.

  “I didn't know you were lying because I never looked for lies from you—from any of you.” Her gaze passed over her uncles, then returned to Chantal and her voice lowered. “I trusted you. But make no mistake, I will truth-read everything any of you tell me from now on. You know I can.” Alyse tossed her flame at the fireplace and it flared back to life, along with all the lamps in the room.

  Chantal turned away from Alyse and walked into the dining room. “Bernard, make us some tea. This is going to be a long night.” With unruffled elegance, she took a seat at the head of the table.

  Chapter 4

  Minister Tremble

  Near New Orleans, Louisiana

  Asleep on a cot, the old man blinked his eyes open as the prisoner gagged and convulsed on the dirt floor across the room. Late afternoon light slanted through the filthy window and left the room in dim shadow. He turned his head toward the corner where he kept the girl, her ankle chain staked to the floor to prevent escape.

  His Lord's good work required a prophet. When he purchased the girl, he’d been assured she possessed a seer's ability. So far, she remained a disappointment. The girl had been Minister Tremble's guest for eight long months and not a single vision had she shared.

  “What's wrong with you, girl?” The minister listened to her moan for several moments before he sat up and brushed at his dirty robe. “I already fed you, didn't I? I watered you too.”

  The prisoner's back arched and she inhaled sharply. “Um—uh, uh—”

  With a spryness that belied his skeletal frame, the old man sprang from his bed to the cabinet along the wall and struck a match to the lantern. He held the lamp high to illuminate the small cabin, as he squinted at the girl.

  Her dress, the same she'd worn when he bought her, lay in shreds across her back, from hip to shoulder. The cutting edge of his belt had bit deep to rip material and flesh and left bloody welts on her skin. With skin, dry and peeling, and her tightly curled black hair falling out in patches, she looked closer to fifty than fifteen.

  “Speak up, you witch—you succubus.” He dared approach no closer. Several times the demon within her had tempted him to couple with her. She aroused in him the desire to forget his self-imposed abstinence with visions of her naked flesh. He had beaten her, and himself, until temptation passed.

  He squawked in surprise when she flipped onto her back. His mouth dropped open as her eyes rolled back in her head and tremors wracked her body.

  A bloody froth ran from her mouth, across her hollowed cheeks and onto the dirt floor. Her cracked lips moved, and he edged closer, anxious to hear her words.

  “Uh—mm—uh, ba... ba...” She gasped, then began again. “Be—behold the power of the—of the Twyned. Their time has come.” She choked, and a spray of blood spattered her face. After several choked breaths, she continued, “Know them by their b—birth—crowned beneath the full moon, on the witches’ High Sabbat.”

  Another seizure shook the emaciated girl and the old man scampered back against the wall. This was more like what he had expected months ago. He must prepare for the coming of his Lord. He needed prophetic counsel to show him what he must do to assure a place for himself at his Lord's Table for their triumphant feast.

  Her convulsion slowed. Her mouth moved several times before she spoke. “The Demon has awakened. By Fire and Earth, he shall be defeated—lest the Twyne fails—then death shall reign.” Blood filled her mouth. She became still, and her eyes dimmed.

  The old man fell to his knees and gave thanks, unconcerned his seer lay dead. He had been blessed with a prophecy and the coming was nigh.

  I must not hesitate to act.

  He struggled to his feet and stumbled to the corner of the room, where he pulled a locked metal box from above the cupboard. The key hung on a leather string around his neck, tucked safely beneath his robes. He withdrew the key and opened the box.

  With few earthly needs, his savings had grown to a respectable sum. He hoarded the donations collected each Sunday beneath his revival tent near the edge of the swamp. The old minister counted out fifty dollars then added twenty-five more. He would pay half when he commissioned the Lord's work, with the remainder paid upon completion.

  He put the box away, and without a glance at the body in the corner, he stepped fro
m the cabin into the swampland, and headed south toward town.

  It was a short walk to his pirogue, a flat-bottomed canoe he kept hidden beside the bayou. Once on the water, he paddled swiftly down the channel to the canal. Another thirty minutes saw him secure his craft at the canal public dock, and shuffle down the cobbled street toward the riverfront. He had a particular riverboat in mind.

  A parishioner had spoken to him last Sunday about a bounty hunter who lived in New Orleans. The church member begged prayers for the man, who played the devil's games aboard riverboats and carried the mark of Lucifer on his face. They'd even gone so far as to warn him they'd seen this gambler on Allen Tremble's boat, the minister's own cousin. Minister Tremble promised to pray for the Godless sinner, and now he intended to hire him. It would suit his purpose just fine if the spawn of Lucifer became the instrument through which he fulfilled his Lord's commands. God's way was surely mysterious.

  The sun had begun to set as he hurried along the dock to the boat he believed belonged to his cousin. At the gangway to the craft, a large muscular watchman greeted patrons as they boarded the river boat.

  The minister bowed his head when he made eye contact with the man, and then approached with his eyes downcast. “Excuse me, young man, could you tell me if this is Allen Tremble's boat?”

  The big man, dressed in a crewman's gray uniform, regarded the ragged minister with visible disdain. “Captain Tremble is the owner of this vessel. What business do you have with him?”

  “I was—that is—I heard there might be a man on board who seeks employment. I am Captain Tremble's cousin, and if the Lord wills it, I may be able to supply work for this man.”

  The watchman nodded as a few passengers departed, and then returned his attention to the minister. “Do you have the name of this man, or do you want to speak with your cousin?”

  “Oh, no, don't bother the captain. I would, however, like to speak with a man they call Hunter, if he’s on board. He has a notable scar on his face.”

  For the next few minutes, the man ignored the minister and welcomed several people on board by name. Finally, he turned to the persistent old man, glared at him for a moment, and then waved to a crew member who stood across the gangway. The young man stepped over to the watchman who bent down to whisper in his ear.

  “No,” the crewman replied. “The game hasn't started. They're waiting for the last player to arrive.”

  “Fine, then. Would you tell Mr. Hunter there's an individual, dockside, who wishes to speak with him?” The watchman raised an eyebrow and cast an annoyed glance at the minister. “He says he wants to offer Mr. Hunter a job.”

  The crewman nodded and disappeared inside the boat.

  The watchman and the minister waited in silence and watched foot and carriage traffic along the waterfront. A rented carriage came to a stop several feet from the gangway, and a handsomely dressed gentleman stepped from the coach. He held out his hand to assist a woman from the vehicle, and then proceeded to the gangway with the young woman on his arm.

  The gentleman smiled, tipped his top hat to the watchman, and presented him with a card from his vest pocket. “Samuel Kline,” the man said with a smile. “And guest.” He then proceeded up the gangway into the riverboat.

  The watchman slipped the card into his pocket and looked down at the minister. “That's the last passenger.” He turned away from the old man and crossed the gangway.

  “But—but—” Minister Tremble stammered as the watchman ignored him and disappeared into the dark interior of the boat. He rolled his hands and looked around for assistance or inspiration. This opportunity had been set before him, he couldn't let it pass. With a quick inhale, he tucked his chin and set foot on the gangway to follow the watchman inside. He stopped when a man appeared out of the darkened doorway.

  The man stood as tall as the watchman, but wore formal evening attire. His straight black hair had been combed back and tied in a cue at the collar of his jacket. An old scar ran from the outside of his left eye to his chin, and showed pale beside his tanned skin. His dark gaze locked with the minister's as he stepped across the footbridge. “Are you the man who asked to speak with me? I don't believe we've met,” the gambler said, without hesitation.

  “My name's Minister Tremble. I've been assigned a glorious task by our Lord. He has put you in my path to assist me. That is, if you are Mr. Hunter.”

  The dark-haired man's eyebrow rose, and he nodded. “I am. Unfortunately, we are about to shove off. Can this glorious task wait a few more hours?”

  The old man licked his lips and hesitated a moment before he nodded. “Where should I wait?” He looked around to hide his displeasure.

  I must pray for patience.

  “This would be up to you, monsieur.” Hunter shrugged wide shoulders and pointed up the wharf as he turned toward the boat. “You could wait at the Riverside Boarding House, two blocks east, or you could wait on the dock.” The gambler crossed the gangway, then glanced back at the minister. “We'll be back in about four hours. If you're here when I return, I'll listen to what you have to say. Au revoir.”

  Minister Tremble watched the him disappear into the dark interior of the vessel. The crew pulled the gangway in and secured the entryway. The paddleboat inched away from the dock and began its slow turn into the Mississippi.

  The minister watched the boat, while he recited Bible passages to himself, and repeated a portion of the seer's prophecy. “By Fire and Earth, he shall be defeated.”

  Chapter 5

  Morago

  The Snake Pit

  The demon opened reptilian eyes. Its rest had lasted seven hundred years.

  What has awakened me?

  Balled together with other slumbering demons—snakes coiled at the mouth of hell—Morago eased away from the others.

  He slithered from the knotted coil and raised his head to contemplate the gate. Bound in hell, it stood as a barrier between his kind and the world of men. Each of his demon brethren would confront a gate different from his, as individual as the demons themselves.

  No stranger to the world of men, Morago had entered on numerous occasions. A hunter by nature, he coveted power. Any power he acquired remained his by right, by the law of the predator, the conqueror. His prey always had the ability to defeat him, and they always knew he approached.

  His release from hell would have been preceded by prophecy. A foretelling for those who knew where to look and how to listen. This type of contest had played out many times over the centuries. Each triumph added a new skill to his arsenal. Each defeat returned him to hell.

  He considered himself the most magnificent demon in his coil. His abilities provoked much envy among his lesser brethren.

  They would take my power if they could.

  Yet, he remained undefeated.

  Anticipation shivered down his serpentine body. Desire for a new talent, one which existed solely in the world of men, filled him. The opportunity to obtain new ones struck but once a millennium. Only by defeating his opponent and consuming their soul could he take their magic as his own. For that was where true power resided—in the soul.

  Possession had been his first skill acquisition for use in the world of men. He earned the ability to possess another over a thousand years ago in this very hall. The demon he defeated served him as a slave now, along with two dozen other demonic souls, who had been felled by his prowess. Under his command, he could unleash them with a thought to do his bidding. His demonic horde amplified his authority and served at his will.

  More—I need more magic, more skills.

  Powerful in hell, the capabilities he used against his brethren demons were forbidden to him on Earth. Once he entered the realm of men, he became vulnerable because of his limited power.

  But the potential reward!

  With deliberate thought, he reviewed his earthly skills. Limited mind-reading—he could skim the minds of unwarded humans—know their thoughts. Seduction—when in possession of a human body, none
could withstand his charm. He had only one skill which remained potent in both worlds—Absorption. The moment of his opponent’s defeat, he would absorb their power, along with their soul.

  The abilities he coveted were many: prescience, invulnerability, teleportation, and shape-shifting, to name a few.

  I want them all.

  Each new skill built on others. As his power increased, new abilities became easier to acquire.

  A sensation crawled along his skin and flared his scales with desire. It spoke to him of elemental manipulation. The power of the witch. He coveted those skills more than any other, even though it meant a dangerous adversary awaited him. His eyes dilated in anticipation, and his forked tongue tasted the air.

  As the Prophecy of the Twins came into fulfillment, a painful shock shot through his scales. Elemental power twyned, and the gates of his personal hell swung open. Morago slithered into the world of man, prepared for the hunt.

  This was not the first time prophecy had released him from hell. Each time before, he could pinpoint the location where the prophecy manifested, but not this time. Two distinct positions—miles apart—burned into his mind as he slid along the bottom of the ocean, away from his prison. He swam north along the coast, toward the nearest point of revelation.

  Morago left the water of the North Atlantic and coiled in the mud beneath a pier. Sailors and merchants passed along the boards above his head. Their thoughts slipped through his mind, dreams of sweethearts, business deals, travelers. A busy port, chosen well for his purposes.

  A merchant nearby directed the loading of his wagon and reviewed the route for his deliveries. A route which would take him inland, in the direction Morago desired to go.

  Serpent skin split and fell empty as Morago's evil essence turned to vapor. The initial possession of a living being could not take place while in his primordial form. His pure essence had to be inhaled to gain control of a living creature. Once inside a warm-blooded host, he could jump from mind to mind with only a thought. He could not maintain a vapor form for long, and there lay his greatest danger. To release the primordial too soon, and not take command of a suitable host, would return his soul to hell.