The Left-Hand Path

by Barnett, T. S.

  “Déblotché.”

  The mottled brown jasper on his bracelet gave a mild hum, and the gate creaked open following the thunk of the lock. He walked around the winding path, past the small chapel and into the yard lined with graves. With hands outspread, he paced the rows of stones with slow, purposeful steps, waiting for the tingle of heat he needed. Graveyard dirt was easy to come by, if you knew where to shop—but for some things, nothing but earth from the grave of someone who died badly would do. And even if you happened to know of one, that was still no guarantee you would get what you wanted. Nathan needed the right someone. Some lingering traces of spirits only wanted to spare their own injustice from others, or they may have been compassionate sorts in life, only useful for more peaceful endeavors than the one he had in mind. But some—Nathan paused at the end of a long row and ran his thumb lightly over his fingertips, sensing the faint spark there. Some spirits just wanted revenge.

  He knelt in the manicured grass and brushed a hand over the worn carvings on the stone.

  “Bernard Brook,” he murmured. “How would you like to give me a hand, Bernard?” A small smile crossed his lips as he dug his fingers into the soft ground, pulling the grass free of its roots and tossing it aside. Once he had a small mound piled up, he retrieved a glass jar from his satchel and filled it as tightly as he could with the dark earth. He twisted the lid shut and tucked the jar away, then rose up on his knees to reach into his pocket. Running his thumb briefly over the silver dime to wipe away some pocket lint, he placed it gently in the hole he'd made and covered it with the remaining dirt and discarded grass. Bought and paid for.

  “Mèsi anpil, Bernard. I'll put it to good use.”

  Nathan dusted off the knees of his jeans and made his way back along the path toward the gate. When he reached the Triumph, he opened one of the saddlebags and retrieved a long case that clinked softly as he set it on the seat. He took the cap from a marker inside with his teeth and held it there as he wrote the name “Bernard” on the lid of his newest jar. He placed it safely inside, nestling it between Maureen and Justin, and tucked the whole case back into the saddlebag.

  He was going to have to do the best he could with his new limitations. Prayer hadn’t helped—Kalfu’s rhythm was out of sync with his. It was a twisting, unsettling feeling that Nathan didn’t like at all. But his own disconnect was secondary in his mind to the task at hand. He had blood to spill before he worried about the state of his soul.

  The motorcycle’s engine was loud in the early-morning quiet, echoing through the tall trees as he weaved down the streets toward his destination. Korshunov was either bold or careless—Nathan suspected the former—and had left magic so thick in his wake that even without his seeking spells, now that he was this close, Nathan could almost smell it. The Chaser was leaving breadcrumbs. Nathan was happy to follow them.

  He parked the Triumph a safe distance from his target, a squat motel just off the interstate that was framed on both sides by tributaries of the Mohawk River, leaving the bike on a hillside shrouded by a line of trees. Korshunov was down there—likely warded and barricaded inside his room, lying in wait with a trap he expected Nathan to walk into. But the Chaser had changed the narrative now. He wasn’t the hunter anymore. He was prey that Nathan was going to devour whole.

  Sitting in the dewy grass with his compact apothecary case open beside him, Nathan swirled a jar of vinegar as he dropped a handful of rusted nails into the wide mouth. He watched the eddies of ochre dust settle in the liquid and set it aside with the lid fastened tightly. He hummed low in his throat while he picked the other ingredients he needed from his kit—some of Bernard’s grave dirt, brimstone powder, red and black pepper, the shed skin of a moccasin snake, and a powder he’d ground together from some snakeroot and the dried bodies of a few spiders and wasps. He mixed all these together in a glass vial, then filled it to the rim with almond oil, corked the lid, and gave it several good shakes. He let it sit in the grass beside the jar of war vinegar and left them behind to approach the trees. The flat concrete roof of the hotel lay just beyond a narrow parking lot full of cars, and a few sleepy bodies were beginning to make the shambling trek to and from their vehicles with suitcases in tow. He was down there—perhaps still sleeping, or perhaps waiting anxiously by the window—but Nathan was sure he was there.

  He scanned the perimeter of the building, estimating the size, then gave a soft, decisive hum and returned to his kit. He popped off the cork of his oil and held his thumb over the end to sprinkle a few droplets onto the jar of vinegar, carrying both with him back to the copse of trees. With the jar growing warm in his hand, he lifted it to his chest and shut his eyes.

  “Seyè, ou menm Bondye ki gen dwa tire revanj lan, parèt non pou fè yo wè ki moun ou ye. Ou menm k'ap jije tout moun sou latè, leve non; bay moun k'ap pran pòz gwokolèt yo sa yo merite. Voye,” he finished, and as he thrust his hand forward, the jar sailed past the trees and shattered on the motel rooftop, leaving a large splatter of gritty liquid on the concrete.

  Nathan watched the fluid turn black as it was exposed to the air, as it crept farther away from the broken shards of glass and sank deep into the stone. He turned away and set about returning everything to his kit, packing away jars and vials and closing the latch on his wooden case while the jar did its work. While he loaded the case back into the saddlebag of the Triumph, people inside the motel—like Korshunov—were beginning to cough. As the liquid seeped through the roof and into their rooms, drop by tiny drop, they would choke, their airways coated with poisonous dust. They would gasp and hack, struggling to breathe, and blood would appear on their lips for their trouble. While Nathan fastened the buckle on his saddlebag and ambled idly down the embankment with a cigarette in his mouth and his stolen satchel over his shoulder, the people inside were clutching their stomachs, doubling over in pain and struggling to make the choice between breathing and vomiting.

  Nathan walked the front of the building, running his flat palm gently across every door he passed and leaving behind those that only offered him the sound of wheezing suffering. Close to the corner, he stopped, the cheap metal door hot under his fingertips with the hum of warding magic. There you are.

  He took one more drag from his cigarette and flicked it away, then took a small vial from his bag and emptied the dark oil into his palm. He spread it over both of his hands and pressed them firmly to the door, smearing a line from the top to the bottom along the frame.

  “Kite'm antre,” he growled, and with a firm push, the barrier cracked, and the door itself fell from its hinges, landing with a heavy thud on the cheap green carpet of the motel room.

  Korshunov was inside, blood trailing from his chin as he fought to take breath, but he was still on his feet, still had the energy to glare across at his intruder.

  “You’ll have to fly faster than that, little bird,” Nathan said.

  The Chaser spit a mouthful of blood onto the carpet and took a raspy breath, and at his hissed word, Nathan found himself lashed to the spot, his legs immobile and wrists pulled forcefully toward the floor. The binding spell was weak, and it dissolved under Nathan’s well-practiced break. He tutted softly at the boy and took a step forward, forcing him to retreat farther into the room.

  “Ranmase,” Nathan said in an almost pitying voice, and as he crooked his finger, Korshunov was dragged up onto his toes and across the carpet until he was struggling for purchase just in front of the other man’s placid face. “You have something that doesn’t belong to you.”

  Korshunov spat out,”Отпустите!” with such spite that Nathan felt his hold waver. With a faint, momentary narrowing of his eyes, Nathan released the spell and allowed the boy to drop back to his feet. He watched while Korshunov reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieved the eggshell wrapped in blue twine that Nathan knew instantly. It was still sealed safely shut, but Nathan saw the tremble in the Chaser’s fingers that suggested it might be crushed at any moment.

&nb
sp; Korshunov didn’t need to speak his threat. He only stared at Nathan with anxious rage in his white-blue eyes, still fighting to keep his coughing behind his lips. Nathan hesitated with his eyes on the fragile container, and he lifted his hands and took a half step backward, clearing the way between the Chaser and the door.

  “Fly fast, now, little bird,” Nathan murmured as the boy slipped past him without a word and disappeared out the door. He waited, listening for the rumble of the distant car’s engine cranking and the skid of tires on asphalt. Then he dropped his still-oily hands to his hips and huffed out a sigh as he surveyed the room. That was easy enough.

  An open suitcase lay on the still-made bed, and a handful of assorted toiletries sat beside the sink. A good start.

  Nathan crouched over the small puddles of bloody saliva Korshunov had left on the carpet, then took a scrap of white cloth from his pocket and pressed it to the floor, soaking up every bit of fluid he could. When the fabric was satisfactorily reddened, he wadded it up and tucked it into one of the little empty jars that rattled in his satchel, sealing it tightly inside. He rose and moved toward the bathroom counter, brushing aside travel-sized toothpaste and a razor and picking up the used toothbrush. He inspected it a moment, considering, but he kept it in his hand as he continued his scan. The comb was better—a few dark hairs still clung to the teeth. He pulled them free and sealed them in a plastic bag along with the toothbrush. He dug through Korshunov’s suitcase, picking up shirts and spare ties, all unfortunately freshly washed. He found one undershirt that still smelled like sweat and folded it into his bag, then abandoned the rest of the clothing. A glass vial tucked into a side pocket caught his eye, and he plucked it up, turning it in his fingers to inspect it. He pursed his lips in interest and pushed the vial into his jeans pocket.

  With the room picked clean, Nathan returned to the front door and ran his gaze across the path between the entrance and the parking lot. A small gathering of silt near a drain had been disturbed by a pair of escaping dress shoes. Nathan squatted down beside it and scooped up some of the damp dirt into a separate little jar, screwing on the lid as he stood. This was plenty.

  Nathan walked back around the building, leaving behind the lingering sounds of coughing and choking that still sounded from behind the closed doors. The bystanders weren’t likely to die—he hadn’t wanted to risk killing Korshunov himself. But their pain barely registered to him as he made his way back up the sloped hill toward his bike. The only thing that mattered was that now he had Korshunov’s personal concerns—and a hundred new ways to make him suffer before the end.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  T.S. likes to write about what makes people tick, whether that’s deeply-rooted emotional issues, childhood trauma, or just plain hedonism. She tells stories about real people who live in less-real worlds full of werewolves, witches, demons, and the occasional alien.

  Born in the South, T.S. started writing young and now writes while working as a Paralegal. In her down time, she plays video games, watches true crime documentaries, and spends time with her husband, daughter, and two cats.