Charlie grabbed the Curse Eater by the shoulder, feeling new jolts of pain surge through his torso and both arms. He had to keep pushing against her as the black hand of the curse pulled harder and harder.
“I don’t know…” he gasped. “I don’t know what you need from me. Whatever it is…just do it already.”
From behind her mask, Charlie saw gratitude in the Curse Eater’s eyes. She closed them and took his hand, and when her eyes flashed open again it was with a fierce gravity. Charlie felt her pulling magic and energy out of him, fueling a new surge in this tug-of-war between curse and devourer. It was all he could do to keep himself upright.
Her tongues of magic pulsed once, just enough to yank the black hand forward again. Now Charlie whimpered as an entire arm was pulled free from Liev’s hand, writhing with malice. As it was dragged painfully through his own body, a voice entered Charlie’s mind. A familiar tone, noble and self-righteous and sinister. Although the words were from a language alive long before the birth of Charlie’s family line, he understood what they meant. They were the details of the curse carried by the Exsecrifer—the very Construct that had first cursed Liev before ever facing the Dark Prince.
And whosever opens this book shall know its contents, the cost being their life. Death itself will be drawn to them like a cloud of plague flies, until they are consumed by a thrice death. Let this curse never leave them, until they rot in a grave.
The words repeated themselves, whispering and shouting themselves in the manic voice of the Dark Prince.
… Death itself will be drawn to them like a cloud of plague flies, until they are consumed by a thrice death….
The black, phantom arm was ripped out of Liev’s, a vaguely shaped shoulder bending backwards as it appeared from Liev’s shoulder. The sound of grating, tearing metal came back as another piece of the curse was taken out. The finger of the curse, and then the entire hand, reached the Curse Eater’s mouth. Charlie watched as the Curse Eater’s tongues of magic folded in like insect mandibles, drawing the hand further in, where some invisible force shredded it, and then it was gone. The tongues lashed back out, wrapping onto the black arm and the shoulder that was beginning to emerge
As for Liev himself, his back was arched several inches off the ground, arms, legs, and neck bending and popping from both the pain of the ritual and of the transformation.
And whosever opens this book shall know….
“Get out!” Charlie rasped as the Dark Prince’s voice continued. “Get out of him!”
The rest of the black shoulder emerged, and then the torso, and then the head. Charlie felt the cold sweat trickle down his back as he saw those hellfire eyes in the curse’s black shape of a head. They lingered there in front of Liev, staring at him with a merciless glee, ghostly mouth of fangs snapping at his face. Liev must have gained consciousness long enough to see that evil hovering above him as he locked eyes with it and began to scream again, this time with fear.
…until they rot in a grave!
Charlie willed the curse to look at him instead, to get away from Liev. As more of the Curse Eater’s tongues grabbed hold of its body, the thing turned to look at him.
With a great, ripping shriek it was pulled from Liev’s body at last, the other arm and two unshaped legs already being torn away by the Curse Eater. Every centimeter of it dragged through Charlie’s hand and arm like hot, liquid shards of glass. The face stopped in front of his own as the body was pulled to the Curse Eater, and for a moment it began to change into the varcolac’s true form, with curved horns and a wolfish maw. It bit his face, the teeth leaving no physical wound but leaving an icy trail, rips, tears, and pain in Charlie’s perception. The words repeated themselves louder, screaming them in rage at the curse’s touch.
…the cost being their life. Death itself will be drawn to them…!
The eyes like burning coals watched him, expecting death, as the Curse Eater’s tongues wrapped themselves around this last fragment of the curse. Charlie yelled as loud as he could, trying to push the curse away from him with pure willpower. It felt like an eternity as the face turned and latched onto his right shoulder with its teeth, lighting his entire body with that icy, burning feeling again.
The Curse Eater rasped, her breath grating as she took one final, sharp inhale, drawing the curse inside her mouth. It was ripped apart there, the two eyes of fire lingering for a moment before being sucked somewhere into the darkness.
She jerked her body, collapsing onto her hands and elbows as she retched black and red liquids onto the stone floor. Charlie fell backwards, hair and shirt drenched. His legs were cramping underneath him, but he couldn’t move his body. The only thing he could think was, Is it really over?
“Well done,” said Hecate, standing by one of the front windows. “I must admit, I didn’t think you had the strength to do it, but you’ve proven yourself to be a mighty Hunter. If it could only be said that your friends were doing as good.”
Charlie gasped, eyes rolling up to see her. He wrenched himself over and clawed his way to his feet, stumbling for the window. His throat felt like a rusty bucket when he spoke.
“What’s happening?”
“Oh, nothing much yet. Carman is toying with them. They aren’t taking it very well.”
Charlie made his way to the window, pulled himself up on the sill just enough to see the street and know that they were back in Drakauragh—or at least that the window looked into the town.
“I have to get out there,” he said, turning for the door.
Five nails dug into his shoulder and Charlie cringed, crumpling as they drew blood.
“No, you don’t,” said the goddess. “We made a deal, Charlie Sullivan. I have come through on my part of the bargain. Now you must complete your end.”
“But they won’t make it without me!”
“Such is not my problem.”
“You said you wanted to stop the Sagemistress from taking Drakauragh. You said you wanted to help us.”
“But the Sagemistress isn’t out there, fighting, is she? For all intents and purposes she’s withdrawn from Drakauragh, given up on taking the Old House for her own gain. Now, only Carman is leading the coven against Drakauragh, and I have no qualms with Carman.”
Charlie’s face felt frozen, like a mask torn between anger and fear. He slowly grabbed one of the knives at his belt, too weak to actually attack her but not about to give up on helping his friends. Had he made the wrong choice, trying to save Liev?
Suddenly, a snake was wrapped around the arm that held the knife. It squeezed meaningfully, straightening his arm out so that the blade was obvious. Hecate plucked the knife from his hand and shoved his head into the window, making his entire body feel numb.
“And you humans act as if you’re so noble. Now be still and watch until it’s over.”
Chapter 11: The Battle at Drakauragh
As the Curse Eating ritual finished, the Sagemistress sat back, impressed. For one so young to hold so much heart and willpower as to bear a royal varcolac’s death-curse during an eating…it was no wonder they were able to defeat the Dark Prince. It was no wonder Carman had thus far only provided them obstacles. The group’s young leader was quite a special human.
She looked out onto the street, and watched as the one they called Nash took the brunt of a magic-enforced cudgel before cutting down his opponent with an ax. Two more witches fell on him.
For the second time, she found herself willing the humans to come out victorious. She whispered a command under her breath, heard the hesitant but affirmative answer in her mind. With some consideration, the Sagemistress began to search in her mind for two others who could lend a hand in the battle below, although she was not sure if they would come.
But it was time to put old grudges behind. This battle was too important to them all for it to be lost.
A silver r
apier slashed across the back of one of Nash’s assailants, a dagger covered in black energy piercing the other.
Darcy and Lisa flung the two witches away from Nash, the former bending down to make sure he was alive. A witch, seeing the girl’s moment of weakness, ran forward, nails extended like cat claws. It was a well-placed boot from Chen that met her face, stopping her. He and Lisa kept the brunt of the coven at bay with tendrils of stinging energy and furious fists and feet while Darcy went back to Nash.
“Stop worrying about me before you get yourself killed,” Nash grumbled.
Darcy scowled at him, helping him to stand. “Well, I can’t just let you die!” She phased as a witch charged her, the dirty and broken blade passing through her harmlessly. She thrust a dagger into the witch and stepped forward, rapier already working in her other hand against a new opponent.
“Darcy,” Nash said, grunting as another wild woman clawed at him from over his ax. He shoved the handle into his attacker’s nose with a satisfying crunch. “That may just be the most blonde thing you’ve said all day.”
“Just hold still,” Aisling told Priest, wrapping his leg and shoulder with gauze. She had already rubbed herbs into each wound, but there was only so much she could do for cuts as deep as these. “You can’t fight like this.”
“Blast it, girl, you have no idea what I can do. Hand me that table leg!”
She gave him a concerned look and grabbed the piece of debris. After a questioning glance she handed it over.
“Thank you,” said Priest. “You’ve done a fine job. Now go help the others and stop worrying about me.”
She nodded, grabbing her crossbow and the three bolts she had left, one explosive, one iron, one silver. Loading the iron-tipped arrow first, Aisling crawled up onto a cart that had been blown over and looked over her friends’ heads, scanning the crowd patiently to find a target worthy of her meager ammunition.
It wasn’t long before one witch caught her eye, a muscular old woman dressed in brownish-green, with dirty white hair and tattoos all over the left side of her face and left arm. The woman was screaming a chant to the sky—almost inaudible over the din—a green mist gathering over her fingers and crawling down her wrist. Aisling loosed the arrow into the woman’s upturned chin, not wanting to find out what nasty spell was being created. A few in the crowd noticed her and threw their daggers, mallets and other crude weapons. Aisling panicked and slipped from her place, crashing to the ground just before the deadly implements hit her.
A rough hand appeared in front of her and, still frightened, she flinched. When the hand turned out to be Priest’s, she took it, standing with his help. She looked at his leg, wrapped simply with the table leg acting as a crutch to keep him standing, although she knew it couldn’t have been helping all that much.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
Priest grunted. “No. And after that little tumble I should be asking you the same thing.”
Forgoing the question, Priest limped forward, sword in hand. Aisling watched, amazed, as he found a gap between the other four Hunters and started swinging.
“Glad to see you in the fight,” said Chen.
Priest parried a blow from what looked like a leg bone, shoving the bone’s holder back into the crowd of witches, and stepped back to avoid a blade etched with spidery runes and smeared with blood.
Without room for Priest to swing his sword, the witch moved in, landing a glancing slice over his shoulder—too close to his artery for comfort. He grunted and elbowed her in the face. After such an arm movement, the pain in his previous shoulder wounds nearly drove him mad. The witch came back, blade raised for the kill, when a silver crossbow bolt lodged its way into her heart.
“Thanks, lass,” said Priest without turning around.
Aisling nodded, climbing back on top of the cart. “Aye.”
She loaded her last arrow—the explosive one—and sought out Carman. If she could kill the leader of this attack, would the coven be easier to defeat, or at least withstand?
And there she was in the crowd, surrounded by fire and black magic, her hands raised and lips moving with some new spell. She held a bowl in each hand, blood rushing from the ground and from the air against gravity into one of the bowls.
“For Maurie,” whispered Aisling. Her eyes grew moist as the bolt flew, but her aim was true.
Aisling felt her heart leap as Carman disappeared behind a blooming cloud of fire. It dropped, though, as the fire seemed to freeze and then curl back in on itself in reverse, and Carman stood behind it, smiling. Bowls no longer in her hand, the witch of destruction smiled directly at Aisling and fashioned the ball of fire into the shape of a spear, suggestively pointing at Aisling. Then she looked away from the girl, the burning spear following her gaze. Aisling looked to follow her eyesight and felt true terror as she realized the witch was looking at her friends.
“Get down!” was all she had the chance to yell when the fire spear flew into the Old House and erupted, sending everyone flying.
Charlie clawed at the window as the glare from the blast died down. It was when he saw Lisa that he truly broke, beating on the window.
“No,” his voice whispered softly. The word repeated in his mouth, growing louder and blending together until it became one long, unintelligible scream.
A piece of wood stuck from Lisa’s stomach at an odd angle—not some branch, but a beam of wood. It was not a wound one simply stood up from. This was a fatal wound.
Hecate lifted her head, ignoring Charlie’s screams. “That was it. That was all that was needed. Just a little sacrifice. Now gather the blood, Carman, and make sure the girl is dead.”
With a snarl, Charlie threw a punch at Hecate. Her form dissipated like a shadow as he stumbled through, still weak from the curse eating, until a hand grabbed the back of his jacket and threw him across the room.
“I like you, Charlie Sullivan. You are an interesting human, so I will let you leave this place alive. I won’t kill you. However, if you choose to keep testing my patience, I will kill your faoladh friend. Perhaps that will cause you to think before you move your hands so rashly.”
Charlie lay where he had sprawled, unable to watch anymore. It was only when Hecate growled sharply that he sat up slowly.
The world was dark and smelled of things that were burnt. Aisling felt a pinch in her left forearm before seeing the cart laying on top of it. She tried to move it and gasped at the pain. With a mote of shock, she realized the bone was broken. Feeling useless, she cursed in Gaelic, looking around for the others. And that’s when she saw the plank of wood sticking out of Lisa’s stomach.
A tear slipped down Aisling’s cheek. This wasn’t what she had expected. The Monster Hunters were supposed to stop the witches, save Drakauragh. Her grandmother wasn’t supposed to die. Was there nothing she could do to stop this evil?
Aisling tried to shove the cart off of her arm, the pain as the broken bones shifted immobilizing her. She thought of her grandmother, who had pushed herself to her limits and brought the Monster Hunters this far, even though it had cost her life. Surely, Aisling thought, she could bear the pain of a broken arm.
Holding her breath, Aisling pushed against the cart. It was only a small one meant for carrying light loads across town, but still she could barely move it. It slowly creaked upward under her steady pushing until it held fast, no matter how hard she pushed. Aisling realized that it was wedged into the dirt, realized angrily that she would have to pull her broken arm out before the cart fell back to the ground.
Aisling bit her lip and tugged her left arm forward, feeling the bones inside rub against each other. Her held breath escaped in a whimper as the pain sent a numbing shock through her torso. The pain made Aisling forget about the cart and it slipped from her grip, slamming to the ground close to her limp hand.
A woman began chanting, and Aisling looked to find Ca
rman holding two bowls again, approaching Lisa. She watched in horror as Lisa’s blood began to flow to one of the empty bowls in Carman’s hand.
Aisling looked around for something, anything, even a pebble to throw at Carman, but then the sound of bare feet slapping against the dirt announced a coming doom. Time seemed to slow down, denying any comfort that the pain that was sure to come would be quick.
Aisling looked up helplessly as a witch stood before her, monstrous eyes glowing in the firelight. She had a dirty piece of broken glass in her hand and, gripping it too tightly, the witch’s own blood ran down the makeshift weapon. Aisling watched as a drop of the blood fell to the ground, splashing into the dirt.
Her right hand fumbled for a weapon. But she was left-handed, and the knife she held up to the witch was weak and would do little good, she knew.
The witch smiled, showing crooked, sharpened teeth.
A howl distracted the witch. There seemed to be some kind of scuffle happening towards the back of the coven. Even Carman stopped chanting long enough to look behind her, then turned and redoubled her efforts.
A strange tension filled the air as the witch standing above Aisling turned and reached down towards her throat. The girl tried to parry and cut with her knife, but the witch sliced Aisling’s forearm and batted the knife away. Pain lingering now in both arms, Aisling felt another tear run down her face, feeling stupid and useless as she cried before death. Slowly, the dirty, sharp glass pressed against the skin of her neck.
She closed her eyes; this was it.
The tension in the air grew, bringing a strange pain to the pit of Aisling’s stomach, and the smell of fire and smoke and death came back, stronger, even amongst this debris. With a great whoosh, the glass blade at Aisling’s throat vanished. Her eyes flew open to see a black, smoky shape flying through the air with the witch, who was now on fire.
The Blind Boy! she thought.
Charlie Sullivan and the Monster Hunters: Witch Moon Page 23