“Someone said there was an empty bottle of vodka on the floor, and it was alcohol poisoning. But Munroe saw the body and totally flipped out. She thinks he was cursed. She said his skin was, like—mummified.” She sniffled, turning to Tobias. “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing to do with your fight. At least, I don’t think so.”
Fiona’s stomach dropped. What if it was a curse? And what if the séance had unleashed it?
13
Thomas
An icy breeze from Dorchester Bay picked up the tobacco from Thomas’s unrolled cigarette, scattering it across the harborwalk. He sighed and turned his back to the wind as he pulled another lump of tobacco out of his pouch. He’d just finished a three-hour lecture about African-American folklore, and he desperately needed nicotine. Of course he shouldn’t smoke, but he could always offset the lung damage with some speed bag work at his boxing gym later.
As he rolled and lit his cigarette, he looked up to see two uniformed schoolgirls marching quickly across the courtyard. His years of living around London hooligans had bestowed in him a habit of avoiding teenagers at all costs, as though at any moment they might scream “pedo” in his face, or smash a glass bottle over his head for no reason. He’d just turned to leave for the buses when one of the girls called to him.
“Professor Malcolm!” yelled the one with a mane of brown curls.
He started as they marched directly in front of him.
“I’m Fiona. This is my—associate, Mariana.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m not a professor yet, though.” He glanced around for the quickest escape route.
“We have some questions about your research,” added the goth one—Mariana.
“My research? Sorry, but—who are you?”
“We’re students,” said Mariana.
“Here? At UMass?”
The girls looked at each other.
“We’re from Mather Academy,” said Fiona finally.
“Ah.” He nodded slowly. “Are you working on a project? It’s a bit cold out. Maybe we can discuss this over email?”
Fiona knitted her brows. He had the feeling that he wouldn’t escape this encounter easily. His experience with graduates of posh boarding schools had led him to believe that these privileged kids generally got what they wanted. A bottle to the head no longer seemed like such a terrible alternative.
“It’s very important that we speak now.” Fiona crossed her arms. “People could be in danger.”
“We can walk you to your car.” Mariana smiled hopefully.
“I take the bus.”
“Great.” Mariana rubbed gloved hands together. “We’ll ride with you.”
“You know, people might think it’s a bit weird for a grown man to hang around teenage girls,” he ventured as they plodded over the snowy walkway.
“Why?” Mariana gave him a perplexed look.
“Never mind. What’s going on, then?”
Fiona took a deep breath. “We have reason to believe that Maremount isn’t just a legend. It’s a real place. We might know someone from there, and we might’ve dredged up some kind of curse by messing with magic.”
Thomas looked sideways at the girls as he walked, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “I promise you, Maremount is just a rumor.” He blew smoke away from them.
“At one point, the danger of smoking was just a rumor.” Mariana peered over at him, black hair hanging in her eyes.
“Yeah, thanks for the reminder. I mean, there’s no evidence that Maremount is a real place. It’s just a folk story, like Avalon or Atlantis.”
Fiona turned and blocked Thomas’s path, staring into his eyes. “Magic is real. We summoned the spirit of the accused witch Ann Hibbins. She appeared and recited a poem about King Philip, and then she turned into a demon. And then someone at our school died. Possibly from a curse.”
“That sounds like quite an adventure.” He wondered if they’d been sampling hallucinogens. And yet… “Hang on, you said a poem about King Philip?”
Metacomet was the leader who’d first sparked Thomas’s interest in New England. Family legends tied his own ancestors to the King—from New England, to slavery in Bermuda, to Jamaica, to Britain. And here he was, back in New England.
Fiona closed her eyes. “The ghost said, ‘In nameless chasms Philip’s men await—the unlamented…’”
“And then it was cut off by choking sounds. When she disappeared, a demon showed up.”
He took another drag on his cigarette. “All right, come back to the library with me for a minute. I’ve been researching King Philip legends.” He turned back to the school, tossing his cigarette in a snowy ashcan on the way. The girls followed.
Inside, they walked up several flights of stairs, and he led them into the book stacks. The folklore section stood in the back by a dripping water fountain. Beneath the flickering fluorescent lights, a student dozed in a folding chair.
After running his finger along a row of books, reading through the titles, he pulled out a small volume entitled The Reckoning of the Indian Killers. “Have you heard of the Angel of Hadley?”
“Sounds like a superhero.” Mariana pulled off her black gloves.
Thomas glanced over the book. “He was a mythical adversary of King Philip. During a battle, someone known as the Angel of Hadley mysteriously appeared, defeated the attacking Wampanoag and then disappeared. Some think he was the man who beheaded King Charles I, hiding out in Massachusetts. Others claim he was a powerful sorcerer.” Thomas skimmed. “The Boston poet Robert Lowell described him. Here it is—Who was the man who sowed the dragon’s teeth, that fabulous or fancied patriarch, who sowed so ill for his descent, beneath King’s Chapel in this underworld and dark?”
Fiona squinted at him. “What does that mean?”
“Sowing the dragon’s teeth references a Greek myth about raising a supernatural army. This legendary sorcerer possessed an army of the dead. If he wants, he can call them up from the dark garden of King’s Chapel Burying Ground. They’ll rise up from the underworld—from the corrupt roots of the nation.”
Fiona moved closer. He was beginning to understand that she had no concept of personal space. “Do you think that’s related to our poem?”
“It’s just a legend. Well, really a metaphor for the violent early days of New England. You know, the type of history that doesn’t get as much attention. You seem like nice kids, and it’s an interesting story, but… well, to be honest, I’d really rather not believe that demons and sorcerers are real.” He closed his book. “I can barely keep up with normal life, and I’d like to get a job at some point.” He took a card out of his wallet and handed it to Fiona. “If you want to learn more about this stuff, I can get behind that. Email me if you find out anything, or if you have any questions about whatever supernatural beings you summon up after school.”
As they walked away, an image flashed in his mind of a shadowy sorcerer raising a Puritan army from ancient and moldering mass graves. It was just a rumor, of course. So why was it that his stomach had lurched when he’d read the other lines of the poem—about the dark enigma and the jerking noose of time?
14
Fiona
“Marcus Sullivan’s death shocked us all.” Dwarfed by red oak walls, Ms. Bouchard paced on a wooden stage in front of a brick fireplace. The art teacher’s heels echoed through the amphitheater-like room, known for centuries as the Round Chamber. Marble statues of orators flanked the platform.
Near the stage, Fiona shifted on a hard wooden bench. Shocked students sniffled in their seats around her and in two levels of wooden balconies above.
Ms. Bouchard wrung her hands as she lectured about bereavement, decked in a tight black dress and a veiled hat. With her fashionable clothes, she was a striking change from the former art teacher. The portly figure of Mr. Wormock had always been covered in food stains. Fiona had even once caught him hiding Italian pastry in a secret stash above a ceiling panel. It was sad but not surprising when their beloved t
eacher had suffered a heart attack, though the Mather boys were only too happy to welcome his well-toned replacement.
“And that’s why, in times of tragedy, it’s important that you find a trusted adult.” Ms. Bouchard’s hand flew up to her forehead as she closed her eyes, shaking her head. She glanced up again, green eyes glistening through her veil. “Anyone overwhelmed by Marcus Sullivan’s untimely death should practice the relaxation exercises that we discussed. Stay in tune with your emotions.” She paused near the front of the stage, tightening her hands into fists. “Remember that when you get very upset, at a level five on our scale, you need to check in with an adult.”
Fiona glanced down at the stupid emotion handout they’d all been given before staring around the hall. The round walls of the chamber connected to the stage in a semi-circle. On the wooden walls above the benches, names were engraved in a curving line around the room, each nearly a foot tall: Wendell, Morton, Putnam, Cooper. Who were these people? Former students?
Ms. Bouchard pressed her fingers together in a steeple, resting her chin on the tips. “Please have a safe weekend. And remember, I’m always available to talk.” Her red lips turned up at the corners in a sympathetic smile.
The hall swelled with students’ conversations as they shuffled between the benches. In the chaos of exiting students, Fiona pretended not to see her mother waving. All the talk of death made her gloomy, and a conversation with her mom could push her to a level five on Ms. Bouchard’s scale.
She glanced back at Tobias, dozing in the corner of a bench. She crossed over to him and tapped his shoulder.
He startled out of his sleep and slowly focused on Fiona.
“You were dreaming.”
“Oh.” He sat up straight, blinking his eyes and looking around the emptying hall. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“Do you want some fresh air? I need to get out of here. It’s too depressing. And I could show you to the best pizza in Boston.”
He straightened, rubbing his hair. “Pizza? Oh, you mean the bread with the cheese? I love that stuff. They serve it on Tuesdays.”
“Tobias.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. “The stuff they serve in the dining hall is not pizza.”
He joined her through the halls and the cold air, along the same sidewalk they’d sprinted down weeks before. Outside, the barren tree branches that clawed the winter sky deepened Fiona’s desolate mood. She nestled her head into her coat against a strong wind. Tobias seemed content to walk in silence. As they passed the spiky gates of the King’s Chapel cemetery, she glanced over and caught him distracted by ravens overhead.
Together, they wandered through the dense crowds of Quincy Market, on a road wrought from the stone ballasts of European ships hundreds of years ago. They walked past the jumbled stalls of Haymarket, and into the winding North End streets. A line trickled outside of a bakery as people queued up to buy cannoli. Nearby, fans crowded a café to cheer at a soccer match.
Fiona led Tobias into Galleria Umberto, and they waited in line as customers ordered square slices of pizza and small plastic cups of wine. They left with oil dripping down their hands as they ate, strolling the length of Hanover Street.
At the corner, Tobias studied the brick buildings as if trying to get his bearings. “The Old Way…” he muttered.
She wiped her hands on a paper napkin. “What?”
“Do you know how this street ended up here?”
“No idea.”
“It was someone’s shortcut to work. There was a shoemaker who lived by Haymarket in the 1630s. He also ran the Charlestown ferry from the North End. He trudged through the marshes on his way to the ferry. Then everyone started using it. It became a path called the Old Way. This big street is here just because a shoemaker took a shortcut to work four hundred years ago.”
“Where did you learn that?”
“I used to have a lot of time to read history books.” He took a last bite of pizza, crumpling up his paper plate and tossing it in a bin.
“You read a lot when you were homeschooled?”
“Right.”
In her bleak mood, she threw caution to the icy wind. “Are you from Maremount?”
He frowned. “I told you. It’s just a story.”
She stepped closer to him, trying to catch his dark, almond-shaped eyes. He’s avoiding looking at me. “I can tell when people are lying, you know,” she ventured.
He narrowed his eyes at her, biting his lower lip. “Fine.” He exhaled. “I guess it doesn’t make a difference if people know, since I’m trapped here anyway.”
It’s real. Her mouth went dry, and her jaw dropped. She needed to sit down. “Really?” she whispered.
“You can’t tell anyone. I’m in hiding.”
She shook her head. Is there any sensible reply? “Did you say hiding?”
He glanced around to see if anyone was nearby. “Can we go someplace warm?”
She didn’t know whether to smile or scream. She gripped his arm. “I know a place.”
They spent twenty minutes walking in the cold. In hushed tones, Tobias told her of the ornate city gates and the winding streets of Crutched Square.
Fiona could do nothing to keep the excitement out of her voice. “How does magic work?”
“Mostly through language,” he whispered. “Especially the Angelic language—the language of the gods. That’s how the material universe was created. You know the word Abracadabra? It comes from the gods’ language, meaning I will create as I speak. The universe was first created with a word.”
“I have to learn Angelic. This is amazing.”
“I’d like to learn more too. There aren’t really any spell books outside Sortellian College.”
Finally, the shivering duo arrived at 10½ Beacon street: The Boston Athenæum. They pulled open the large red door and flashed their Mather Academy ID cards at the guard. Tobias followed Fiona to a small red-walled gallery, empty of people. They sat on a chaise lounge, surrounded by an exhibition of stained-glass windows.
She scooted toward him. “So are you going to tell me who you’re hiding from?”
He spoke close to her ear. “He’s a powerful philosopher called Rawhed. At first, King Balthazar hired him to crack down on illegal magic. But then Rawhed created his own army through magic. His soldiers look like demons with glowing eyes. They’ve started ransacking houses. He’s searching for something. No one knows what. Everyone he’s interrogated has been killed, and the King’s gone missing.”
Fiona stared. This wasn’t as nice as the water-spirits story. “He’s called Raw Head?”
Tobias nodded. “No one knows his real name. They say he has a twisted face with long bloody fangs, and he feasts on children’s flesh.”
She shuddered. “So he’s a monster.”
Tobias nodded. “His soldiers are called Harvesters. They nourish the Deadly Nevergreen—the elm tree where they hanged people long ago. They’re using it again. And there are other ways they hang people. When they’re not ransacking homes, they’re stealing people away to execute them. It’s like some sort of ritual. No one knows what spell he used to create his army.”
Fiona bit her lip. “Okay, don’t get mad at me.”
“What?”
“You mentioned Maremount the other day, and I looked it up. I found a British grad student who knows a lot about it. I told him that I thought I’d met someone from Maremount.”
Tobias frowned. “Who is he?”
“He’s a researcher. He believes Maremount is just a legend. But he said something about an evil sorcerer who can raise an army from the buried Puritan bodies. Like the ones at King’s Chapel.”
He ran his fingers through his hair, staring at the ground. “Rawhed could’ve called on one of the gods to raise an army of corpses. He could be a necromancer.” He glanced at her, narrowing his dark eyes. “It makes sense. Their clothing is odd. The style is hundreds of years old.”
“Was Rawhed after you? Is that why you
had to escape?”
“I belong to a coven that practices magic illegally. Tatters—poor people— aren’t allowed to learn magic. We can’t cast spells within the city, or the bone wardens will come for us. Anyone they catch is torn to pieces. They leave nothing behind but lumps of flesh and broken bones. So we go into the Tuckomock Forest, outside the city. We call ourselves the Ragmen. We had only a stolen philosopher’s guide, but it’s burned now.”
“Bone wardens… This keeps getting creepier. But why are you called the Ragmen?”
“When the rogue covens started long ago, there was a man who sold linens from house to house. He would hide coded texts in them—instructions on where to meet. That’s how we started. After Rawhed came, the younger Ragmen were sent to Boston, but my friends didn’t make it out in time. And now I’m stuck here, on my own.”
“How many young Ragmen were left behind?”
“Just Oswald and Eden. They’re siblings.”
“Are you close with them?”
He nodded. “They used to be at my house a lot, because their dad drank too much. And as we got older, Eden kept getting prettier.”
Fiona was almost too astonished to think of what to say next. “I can’t believe all this is real. I mean, I wouldn’t have believed any of it if I hadn’t seen the demon with my own eyes. Don’t you think it could have cursed Sully?”
Tobias shook his head. “It wasn’t a demon.”
“Are you sure?”
He gazed into her eyes. “It looked exactly like a bone warden, only smaller. Someone wanted to stop us from finishing the séance. Someone wanted to scare us.”
15
Fiona
“Ohhh diseases that plague you—the diseases that plague you, I think I’ve got, I think I’ve got the ague!” Alan wailed into the mike.
Tobias swayed at the front of the stage, plucking his lute and harmonizing. Colored lights danced on their faces as they played.
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