by Keri Arthur
“Leave this place.” His voice was a guttural smear of sound, harsh and ugly against the glory of the golden sunrise. “Leave, and never return.”
I shifted my stance and braced for attack. “If you seek to destroy the sword, you’ve arrived too late. The blessing has already been made.”
They hissed again, the collective sound discordant and grating.
“Leave,” the leader replied. “Or die.”
Demons weren’t exactly known for their generosity, and I seriously doubted they were actually intending to let me go. So why were they even bothering to offer the possibility of escape? Was it merely a game? Or was something stranger happening here?
“Sorry.” I raised my daggers in readiness. “No can do.”
He made a motion with one clawed hand, and the demons attacked en masse. I cut, slashed, and thrust at claws, teeth, and bodies, Nex and Vita blurred beacons of brightness in the shadows and death that all but swamped me. Seconds of survival turned into minutes. Two lay dead at the foot of the knob, but there were so many more … a writhing, stinking wall of them that wanted nothing more than to rend me into tiny, unrecognizable bits of flesh.
An unholy scream to my left … I flinched and slashed Nex sideways, felt the stinging spurt of blood across my cheek. Movement to the right … I shifted. Too late. Claws raked my left arm, shredding my coat and sending me stumbling sideways. I went down, smashing one knee against the stone but somehow remaining upright, and thrust up with Vita. Her blade pierced the palm of a demon attempting to cleave me in two and, with a quick circular flick, I severed his hand. His howl briefly overran the screeching of the others and stirred them into an even greater frenzy. Talons tore at me, shredding clothes and skin, drawing blood and staining the air with my fear. I pressed back against the outcrop of stone that held the sword and fought on, slashing the face of one leering imp to the bone and then cutting the neck of another. As his blood spurted across my face, something silver flashed across the far corner of my vision and the demons momentarily gave way.
Then a hand grabbed the collar of my jacket and unceremoniously hauled me upright.
“Back to back,” a deep, velvety voice said.
I didn’t question his sudden appearance. I just obeyed and continued fighting the demonic wave that seemed to have no end, all the while aware of the play of the stranger’s muscles against my spine and the fierce howl of his sword.
A shadow loomed high, and the air screamed. I glanced up, saw three demons diving down, their claws extended and gleaming with bloody fire in the sunrise. I raised Nex and Vita and smacked their blades together to form a cross; a force that was far wilder than mere magic sparked to life, and lightning shot from the tips of each blade, cutting upward. Two demons were hit, but the third dropped through their cinders, a scream on his lips and death in his eyes.
“Drop low,” the stranger ordered.
I did, and his sword swung over my head, cleaving the demon’s limbs, then sheathing itself deep in his torso.
As two halves of the demon’s body fell to either side of the knob and his blood sprayed all around us, another scream rent the air. I twisted around and saw the lead demon take flight. But he wasn’t attacking, he was leaving, his wings gleaming like dripping blood in the brightness of the dawn.
No other demons had survived.
I briefly closed my eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. With the help of the stranger and a whole lot of good fortune, I’d survived.
“I need to thank you …” The words trailed off.
The stranger, like the red demon, had disappeared.
Two
I spun and quickly scanned the area, but there was absolutely no sign of him. The color-stained sky was also clear. The only indication that I hadn’t been alone up here was the sheer number of broken and bloody bodies littering the knob’s base—and even those were now disintegrating as the sun’s rays shone more fully on them.
Why had he left without saying anything? While I appreciated the rescue, I’d also have appreciated knowing to whom I owed my life. I didn’t think he was a witch—he hadn’t felt like one and he certainly hadn’t used magic against the demons—only a sword that had screamed in delight every time it tasted the blood of its enemies. Besides, few witches used swords these days to channel power through, simply because they were considered too cumbersome for everyday use. Most resorted to daggers similar in style to mine, or long hairpins that were both intricate in design and very deadly.
After one more look around, I stripped off what was left of my jacket and used it to wipe Nex and Vita clean. I’d still have to wash them with sanctified water once I got home, as demon blood did horrible things to metal. Of course, it also did horrible things to clothing—everything I was currently wearing would have to be burned, as there was no way to get the stench out.
I sheathed the blades and used the coat to wipe off the rest of my clothes as best I could. Then I carefully peeled away the remnants of my shirt to examine the various wounds. The worst of them was my left arm—three deep slashes that ran from shoulder to elbow and already showed signs of festering. Thankfully, I hadn’t been hit hard enough for bone to show, but unless I tended to it now, the arm would be nigh on unusable within twenty minutes. All sorts of nasty germs and diseases clung to a demon’s claws—it was one of the reasons so many died even if they survived the initial attack.
I grabbed my pack and pulled out the medical kit. Inside was a vial of sanctified water and another containing an antiseptic sealer that was one of Mo’s specialties. After uncorking the water, I carefully poured it over the various wounds and gritted my teeth against the scream that sprang to my lips. The water bubbled and hissed for several very painful minutes, but by the end of it all the wounds looked far cleaner. Once the reaction had ceased, I wiped my arm down with a clean cloth and then applied Mo’s concoction. The thick green goop filled the three cuts and then hardened, forming a waterproof seal that would allow the wound to heal from the inside out while protecting it from infection.
I put my shirt back on, tossed the medical kit into the pack, and then grabbed the bloody remnants of my coat and headed back to the bridge. The wildlife that had been so absent earlier was now back in full force; squirrels scurried across the path and the air was alive with birdsong. At least I now knew that silence from the local wildlife was not only a good indicator of predators being in the area but also demons.
My old Mini sat alone in the parking area, its red-and-white paintwork vivid against the surrounding greenery. I threw the pack onto the passenger seat, then dug out a couple of largish plastic bags from the trunk, using one to cover my seat and the other to dump my coat into. While I’d never be using it again, I wasn’t about to leave it behind. Not when the shredded sleeve probably had remnants of skin and blood on it. I might be immune to outside magic, but dark-path witches had long used skin, blood, or even hair as a “spoor” for demons to hunt.
Someone—or something—had wanted me to walk away from the sword. That same someone or something might now decide they’d be better off if I was dead. I had no idea why that might be so, but I certainly wasn’t about to risk having another encounter with that red demon or more of his crew.
I jumped into the driver’s seat and started the Mini. The engine rumbled sweetly, and I couldn’t help grinning. Max could keep his shiny electric sports car; for me, there was nothing better than the sound of an old petrol engine—even if they were damn expensive to run these days.
I shifted gear and left, winding my way out of the peninsula park and onto the main highway that ran around Ainslyn’s more modern city center and on to the old walled town. By the time I arrived, my left arm was aching, thanks to constant gear changes.
I carefully drove through the Petergate Gatehouse and wound my way through the tiny streets until I reached Fossgate Road, where our book and healing store—Healing Words—was located. Long-term parking wasn’t allowed along the street, but Mo had purchased the
remnants of the smithy opposite, simply because it came with enough land to park three cars. Not that many people used vehicles to get around the old town—there were so many car-unfriendly lanes it was generally easier to walk. And for those who didn’t want to—or actually couldn’t—walk, tourist buses ran around the perimeter of the entire city, and there were also electric two- and three-wheel bikes for tourists to hire.
I reversed into the parking area, noting that while Mo’s Nissan Leaf was here, Max’s Jag wasn’t. It was rather unusual for him to be out of bed at this hour, but maybe he’d already left for the airport.
I grabbed all my gear and climbed out of the Mini. This area was mainly retail, so the cobblestone street was empty and quiet and—given it was the first day of the new year and most of the retail stores and museums were closed—would remain that way until tomorrow.
Healing Words was situated in a three-story, single-fronted building squeezed in between two larger terraces. Its red brick was darkened by years of grime, but the heritage green-and-gold woodwork surrounding the front window and inset, half-glass door had been repainted last year, and subsequently stood out against the classic black-and-white detailing of the shops on either side. The front window display was jam-packed with books, healing potions and charms, and pretty soaps. The latter three were aimed at all the tourists who wandered along this street on their way to the nearby Shambles—an area that contained some of the oldest timber-framed buildings remaining in England. The various snickelways that led off the Shambles had once contained the retail bases of five of the witch houses, but none of us remained there now.
The Valeriun, Okoro, and Chens had moved their business headquarters across to the relocated city center over a century ago in order to be closer to the new port. The Lancasters still retained a major retail presence in the old city, but they, like us, had basically been forced out of the Shambles after the other three witch houses had gifted the area to the heritage council. They still owned much of the surrounding area, however, and made a good living from rents. Mo, Max, and I weren’t exactly poor either—we owned quite a number of residential and retail buildings within the old city—but we were the only De Montforts living here now, and there were maybe a dozen left across the entire UK. The only three I actually knew were my cousins in London, but they didn’t venture down to Ainslyn much these days. In fact, the last time I’d seen Ada, Gareth, or Henry, I’d been three years old and both my parents and theirs had still been alive.
I unlocked the front door, and the small bell above it chimed, the sound echoing cheerfully through the stillness.
“That you, Gwen?”
The voice was rich and melodious and brought a smile to my lips. “Yep. I’ll be up in a minute.”
“Good. You can cook me breakfast.” Mo paused. “I’m getting a faint whiff of demon—did you strike some trouble?”
“You could say that. Hang on while I go dump some clothes in the burner.”
“I’ll put the kettle on while you do, then.” A soft thumping followed the comment as she hobbled across to the small kitchen. Guilt stirred, although in truth there was little I could do about the length of time it would take her leg to heal. I was a healer-free zone, Max had inherited Mom’s storm-control powers rather than De Montfort healing ability and, for some weird reason no one had ever been able to explain, healers weren’t able to heal themselves.
I walked through the shelves containing books and other oddities, heading for the sectioned-off rear of the store. There were a number of smaller rooms here—an office, a storeroom, and, in a separate, magically shielded rear room, an old boiler and laundry. It had once provided the hot water for the building, but these days we basically just used it to get rid of the occasional spell paraphernalia that couldn’t be thrown out with regular rubbish.
I stripped off and chucked everything—including my bagged coat and my shoes—into the boiler, then lit it. Once I’d cleansed my daggers, I grabbed a towel from the nearby stack, wrapped it around me, and padded barefoot upstairs.
The first floor had been split into two areas—Mo’s bedroom was at the rear of the building, and an open kitchen-living area lay to the front. Richly colored tapestries hung on roughly plastered walls, and rugs far older than my grandmother covered the wooden floorboards. The furniture was a mismatch of centuries—new sofas and a big-screen TV juxtaposed against a midcentury teak table and a Regency sideboard. The kitchen was filled with a colorful array of art-deco cabinetry, and the upright stove came straight out of the sixties. It was a mix that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did.
Mo glanced around as I appeared. She was a tall, thin woman with plaited gray hair that hung down to her ass and merry blue eyes whose irises were ringed with gold—a feature of all De Montforts and something else I hadn’t inherited. Her clothing style could only be described as bohemian—this morning she’d donned patchwork harem trousers and a loose-fitting embroidered top. She didn’t look much older than fifty, and I could only hope I looked that good when I hit that age—a mere twenty years from now—let alone when I reached her actual age, which was ninety-five.
She sniffed loudly and then grimaced. “Move right on up to the shower, my girl, because you—” She stopped, her expression concerned. “What the fuck have you done to your arm?”
“Got swiped by a demon. I sterilized it and put your goop on, though.”
“It’s still looking a little too red around the edges for my liking. Go get clean—and make sure you use the nullifying soap, because I’m not healing anything when you stink worse than a demon left too long in the sun.”
A saying that made no sense, given demons left in the sun didn’t actually get the chance to stink, but I nodded and continued on up the stairs. There were a total of three rooms on the second floor; my bedroom lay at the front overlooking the street while Max’s was at the rear with a side window that looked into next door’s small rear courtyard. A bathroom divided the two and, though little bigger than a water closet, it somehow fit a full-sized shower and a vanity basin as well as the toilet. Mo, who preferred a bath, had installed a small en suite in her bedroom downstairs. Which was just as well, given how long Max tended to spend in the bathroom getting ready for work every morning.
Not that he spent all that much time here lately.
Once I’d deposited my daggers safely in my room, I grabbed the nullifying soap—which was basically a mix of lavender, lemon, and cinnamon oils mixed with a sprinkle of Mo’s healing magic—then switched on the shower taps and waited for the water to get hot.
It took a good ten minutes to scrub the smell from my skin, and by that time the heat of the water had washed the green goop away and my arm had begun to throb again. I threw on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top and then headed downstairs.
Mo tsked. “Made a right mess of that, didn’t you? Sit down and tell me what happened while I patch you up.”
I obeyed. My immunity to magic had never curtailed Mo’s ability to heal the various cuts and scrapes I’d gotten over the years. Apparently, this was due to the fact that, although I didn’t have access to the healing magic, it nevertheless resided somewhere in my DNA.
As explanations went, it didn’t really make a lot of sense, but I’d learned long ago straight answers were not something Mo was keen on.
Her power rose, a heated golden force that stirred both around and through my skin, rising and falling in strength as her interest was snagged by a story detail. Eventually, though, she made a satisfied grunt and withdrew her power. I flexed my fingers and then moved my arm around. The wound had completely healed; only three faint pink scars remained, and I knew from experience those would fade.
“Thanks, Mo.”
She nodded. “I do feel the need to point out that if you’d used Nex and Vita sooner, you mightn’t have been injured at all.”
“I’m a power-deficient De Montfort, remember, and the potency of the daggers is not unlimited.” Something else I knew from experience.
She made a clucking sound that spoke of disagreement, and I raised an eyebrow. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing for now. Tell me more about the knight who rescued you.”
“Only if you tell me why the daggers reacted to the pulse coming from the Witch King’s sword.”
“Probably because they came from the same forge and were made of the same steel.”
I blinked. “Why would we have daggers made in the king’s forge? We were never connected to the Aquitaines—were we?”
She pursed her lips. “Yes and no. There are plenty of tales of De Montforts being the trusted right hand of many a king.”
“And yet there are no De Montforts mentioned in any of the old history books I’ve read on the Aquitaines.”
“That’s because there was a fatal falling out between the two lines. Kings can be such touchy creatures.” She paused. “Or so I’ve heard. Now, the screaming sword.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I didn’t actually see it—I just heard it.”
“I’m gathering the same can be said of the man who wielded it?”
“We were back to back, and he disappeared the moment the last of the demons fled.”
She grunted. “That’s not good.”
I frowned. “Why?”
She waved a hand. “I can’t get into nitty-gritties on an empty stomach. I’ll make the toast while you fry up the bacon.”
I rolled my eyes but nevertheless got up and grabbed the bacon from the fridge. Once breakfast had been made and the tea was steeping in the cozy-covered pot, she said, “There’s only one group of witches who used such a weapon, and I’ve not heard from them for a very long time. I thought perhaps the line had died out.”
“Obviously not.” I made myself a bacon butty and took a bite. “And the only witch line that’s currently near extinction is ours.”