Realms of Mirrors and Demons: Fae Witch Chronicles Book 4, page 1
Realms of Mirrors & Demons:
Fae Witch Chronicles Book 4
J. S. Malcom
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
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We all wrestle with our demons. Some of us get out there and fight them.
The plan was to return from Faerie, let the dust settle, get over it and move on. So far, only the dust has achieved its goal. But my work is done in that realm and time spent missing Esras won’t pay my rent. So when a supernatural cleanup job comes my way, it seems like just the distraction I need. Especially if, by distraction, I mean all hell breaking loose.
When my veil witch magic fails me, not once but twice, I’m not sure what to think. Especially when I could swear it had help in failing. Then witches start going missing by what could only be veil witch magic. Not good, considering there’s only supposed to be two of us. With demon sightings on the rise, not just here but in Faerie, it sure seems like the realms are destabilizing once more. Call me paranoid, but I'd bet someone is messing with the veil. The last shoe drops when a magical crime befalls someone I love. Then I make that call I never imagined making. I’m in way deeper than ever, and maybe the Shadow Order can pull me out. Because this time it’s the High Demons I’m up against, and I’m far from convinced they’re alone in their quest. Especially since the magic I’m facing now seems suspiciously like that of a High Mage I’ve faced before.
PROLOGUE
Silas Two Weeks Ago
“Doctor Newcomb will see you now.”
Silas looked up from the old magazine in his hands to meet the receptionist’s eyes, trying not to let his nervousness show. He could feel his heart pounding and he wiped his damp palms along the legs of his jeans. The receptionist, a woman with graying hair and glasses, offered a reassuring smile. She waited for him to get up.
Silas told himself to calm down. He already knew what the board had decided. Supposedly, meeting with Doctor Newcomb was just a formality. One last box to be checked. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if Doctor Newcomb could change her recommendation. Obviously, the board had met to discuss him a number of times over the years. Each time before they’d decided he wasn’t yet ready to be released.
Silas rose to his feet, smoothing the front of his flannel shirt. Dressing more formally hadn’t been an option. In fact, he was wearing the nicest shirt he owned. The closest he could get to dressing up had been remembering to tuck his shirt into his jeans.
As he walked past the receptionist, she lowered her voice to a whisper and said, “Congratulations.” She smiled again and Silas felt his heartbeat slow a little. After ten years, this was really happening.
As Silas walked down the carpeted hall, it felt strange not to hear his own footsteps echoing off of linoleum and painted cinderblock walls. Just as it felt strange to walk unobserved by an orderly or a security officer. How long would it take getting used to that?
The office door stood open and Silas stopped to look in. Doctor Newcomb, a black woman in her fifties, sat behind her desk reading from within an open file. Unsure of what to do, Silas reached a tentative hand out to knock on the doorframe. Doctor Newcomb looked up just in time.
“Silas, please come in.” She gestured to the chair opposite her desk. Silas took the offered seat and Doctor Newcomb turned her attention back to the file. A few moments passed as she continued reading. Finally, she reached for a pen, signed a form, and closed the file.
She brought her eyes back to his again. “So, how are you feeling?”
The question took Silas by surprise. After all, hadn’t that already been determined by the board? Could she still change her mind, or did doctors always feel compelled to ask that question?
“Fine,” he said. “I feel fine.”
Doctor Newcomb nodded, her patient gaze remaining on his. “That’s what I’ve been told. In fact, I’ve just signed off on your release form. I’m sure you understand what that means.”
Silas felt the tension lift from his shoulders as a surge of relief flowed through him. Still, he kept himself from sighing or smiling. He hesitated to say anything. It would only take one misstep, one utterance of truth, and he’d remain within these walls. He maintained an impassive expression, hoping to seem confident and sure. It didn’t help that he had to ignore the other person in the room, a person undoubtedly invisible to Doctor Newcomb.
“Yes, ma’am, I understand what that means,” Silas said.
Doctor Newcomb nodded. “I’m sure you do. How do you feel about it?”
Please stop asking me that, Silas thought. I don’t want to tell you how I feel. Just as I can’t tell you what I see. That’s how I ended up here to begin with.
“I feel ready,” Silas said. “I just finished packing my things.”
By that Silas meant he’d packed his few shirts, his other pair of jeans and his underwear into the duffel bag provided by the state. Packing had taken less than ten minutes.
Doctor Newcomb nodded again. On the wall behind her hung a painting of a man, the bottom center of its frame holding a small metal plate engraved with his name. Clive Wilkins, the founder of what had once been known as the Wilkins Psychiatric Institute for the Criminally Insane. These days known as the Wilkins Mental and Behavioral Health Center. In the painting, Clive Wilkins appeared to be in his mid-forties, with just a touch of gray showing at his temples. The man standing behind Doctor Newcomb, staring back at Silas with piercing blue eyes, was almost entirely bald. His face was a map of lines and creases. Silas guessed that Clive Wilkins must have lived to be well past seventy. It also appeared that he died angry.
“There’s one more thing we need to talk about,” Doctor Newcomb said. “I realize you’ve already discussed the matter with your caseworker, but are you sure you won’t consider living at McGuire House for a while? That support network could be extremely beneficial.”
Silas pretended once more to consider, not that he intended to live at the halfway house. Right now, he wasn’t interested in doing anything halfway. In fact, his body thrummed with an agitation nearly impossible to resist. His forearms tingled against what felt like sparks jabbing at his skin. What he wanted to do was thrust his hands out at Clive Wilkins. Why, he wasn’t sure, but he knew something would happen. Something that would wipe that condescending sneer off the old man’s face.
“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” Silas said. “Thank you for offering, but I think I’d prefer the apartment.”
Doctor Newcomb sighed quietly. “Well, I understand the appeal. Not many people in your situation have a benefactor like Mr. Lonsdale. I understand he’s an old friend of your family.”
Doctor Newcomb looked uncomfortable as she said it, her brow furrowed. Silas had no family to speak of. He’d been given up for adoption at birth. Apparently, this Lonsdale character, a man he’d never met, must somehow know Silas’s history. Strange, definitely, but Silas wasn’t about to argue with having an apartment and money of his own.
“It was kind of him to do that for me,” he said.
Doctor Newcomb studied him with dark brown eyes. “I’m told he’s never come to see you.”
Silas’s heart started pounding again. Behind Doctor Newcomb, Clive Wilkins’ sneer spread into a grin. It took everything Silas had not to… what? Within his mind, he envisioned an orb of light glowing within his hands. He imagined hurling it toward Clive Wilkins to see a gap open, one that shimmered and spun around on itself before closing again to swallow the old man up.
Silas took a deep silent breath. “No, he hasn’t.”
Doctor Newcomb’s gaze didn’t leave his, and Silas’s eyes burned from trying not to blink. Finally, she said, “All the same, your caseworker confirmed that he did, in fact, arrange for an apartment. As well as a trust providing for your needs. It certainly shows a great deal of commitment.”
Doctor Newcomb didn’t say it, but Silas knew what she was thinking. After all, he was thinking the same thing. Just who the hell was Grayson Lonsdale and why did he care? All the same, there was no law against someone providing for him upon his release. Doctor Newcomb could hardly argue to her superiors in favor of him remaining supported by the state, not when there were other means available.
Silas decided that it was best to say as little as possible. He kept it to, “I appreciate Mr. Lonsdale’s faith in me.”
Doctor Newcomb hesitated for just one more moment. Then she opened her desk
Silas refused to look at the ghost whose stare he felt burning into him. Why did they hang around when they were no longer wanted or needed? But he knew the answer to that question, didn’t he? They hung around to screw with people. They hung around because they didn’t think anyone could make them leave.
“Thank you,” Silas said. “I guess I’ll go get my things.”
“Of course,” Doctor Newcomb said. “Oh, and don’t forget you’ll still be required to meet with your caseworker. It’s important that you don’t miss your appointments.”
The threat was implied. If he screwed up, he’d end up in the halfway house or possibly right back here again. “I won’t miss my appointments,” Silas said. “You have my word.”
Doctor Newcomb allowed herself to smile. “Good luck to you, Silas.”
A moment later, Silas walked back down the carpeted hall toward the elevator. He glanced down at his hands to see sparks arcing between his fingertips. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets and kept moving.
CHAPTER 1
The first thing I become aware of is the sky. It’s growing dark, the horizon glowing scarlet. Sparks spiral upward, drawing my vision down to search for their source. Fire flickers against iron bars, those bars being used to form pens. Those pens hold people, men and women who stare out with helpless gazes.
The scene shifts and I stand in the shadows of a stone chamber. I see more prisoners, this time chained to a wall. Their chains aren't forged of iron. They're forged of magic, red vines of light wrapped around arms and legs. The prisoners are as pale as the dead, their faces gaunt and their desperation palpable.
Suddenly, heads are raised and eyes widen with terror at the approach of shadowy forms. These shadows are creatures shaped like humans, but they’re unnaturally tall and thin. They have no eyes and just slits for mouths. Slit nostrils sniff at the air. Alongside them walk vampires, both male and female, their eyes glowing in the gloom. The shadow creatures stand back, allowing the vampires through as each chooses a victim.
Frozen and helpless, I watch as fangs gleam. And I listen as the prisoners start to scream.
I lurch into a sitting position, my eyes popping open as I gasp for air. I'm surrounded by darkness and at first I'm not sure where I am. Then I remember. Right, I’m home. I worked today at Grimoire and decided to take a nap after to rest up for tonight. Big mistake. Sure, tonight might run late, but there’s nothing like a little sleep to leave you exhausted.
I swing my legs off the sofa and run my hands through my hair, pulling it back as I exhale. Seriously, what the hell was that? I'm no stranger to bad dreams, but that was one for the record books. But I guess right now it doesn’t matter. Because it’s night once again, and I still have an hour’s drive ahead of me. Soon, the bogeymen will come out to play.
Which, for me, means it’s time to get moving.
CHAPTER 2
The house is pretty much what I expected to find in the historic district of Petersburg. It’s large, old and built of brick. It has columns, and dormers, and fancy little balconies just in case you feel like stepping out a window. There’s no doubt the place was built over a hundred years ago, so it’s pretty much prime haunting material. Not that age is always the deciding factor. Really, age itself has very little to do with it. More time involved simply means more opportunities for bad stuff to happen. In other words, a house two years old can be haunted too. All it takes is the right set of circumstances. And that just goes for ghosts. Demons and other paranormal vermin play by an entirely different set of rules.
I ring the bell, which bongs impressively inside. While I wait, I try dragging some tangles from my hair. On a good day, I look unprofessional enough, so I really don’t need the wind making me look like a crazy woman. Meanwhile, I put out some supernatural feelers. My skin is just barely tingling, which tells me there’s something here, but not something too dark. Or too strong. Instead, I get the feeling of something being slightly… The word that comes to mind is “askew,” although I’m not sure why.
I don’t have time to think past that point before Martha Sanders opens her door. She’s tall, in her sixties, with elegantly coiffed gray hair. She's wearing black pants, a white blouse and a cream cardigan sweater. In other words, she looks right for this house. I hate to be that way, but let’s just say she probably hasn’t spent much time worried about paying for her dry cleaning.
“Are you Cassie?” She says it nicely enough, but her knit brow gives away what she’s thinking.
I know, lady, I look like a teenager. It’s a veil witch thing, but we won’t be going into that.
“And you must be Martha,” I say, as professionally as possible given that the wind chooses that moment to blow hair both across my eyes and into my mouth. I really should have tied it back.
“You must be cold. Please come in.” Martha steps back, allowing me into a vestibule bigger than my apartment. There’s a winding staircase, a blinding light fixture hanging from a twelve foot chain, gleaming hardwood floors and ornate rugs. Not bad, if you enjoy living in a museum, but a little too on the “take your shoes off and don’t you dare carry a cup of tea through here” side of things for me. Then again, most of my furniture is ratty garage-sale fodder dedicated to holding laundry. Not all of it clean. So, my taste doesn’t exactly factor in.
“Lovely house,” I say, presumably because it’s required.
Martha offers a prim smile and nods at something she’s heard a million times before. “Thank you. It’s considered one of Petersburg’s historic homes. It was originally constructed in 1890.”
“Wow,” I say, although that’s kind of what I figured. What I’m really thinking is that the air conditioning must suck in the summer. They never get that stuff right in houses this old.
Martha glances at the door, which she hasn’t yet closed. “Did you come alone?”
I try not to sigh. Always that question, along with a disappointed glance at my crappy car. “Yes, it’s just me. That’s how I work.”
“I see,” Martha says, looking me up and down, seeming unimpressed. She looks out the door again before closing it, presumably to be sure I wasn't kidding. “May I take your… coat?”
I'm not quite sure what her issue is there, since I'm wearing a vintage leather jacket I scored in a Carytown thrift store. The thing is thirty years old, at least, and broken in perfectly. I peel it off and she takes it between pinched fingers to hang in her front hall closet, a space roughly large enough to park an SUV.
“Please follow me,” Martha says.
She starts walking down the hall and I follow, when I’m a little tempted to bail. I just don’t need the judgement thing. But there's the rent to pay and, as luck would have it, there was no financial compensation for assisting with the overthrow of the Seelie regime. Not that I expected it—and my bank doesn't accept fae dactos anyway—but the fact is I need cash right now.
“Would you like something to drink?” Martha says, as we enter her gleaming kitchen. “I put the kettle on before you arrived, in case you'd like some tea. I have chamomile or Earl Gray.”
So maybe that was a psychic ping about the tea, although I’d feel bad if I spilled any on Martha’s pretty rugs. Either way, the offer seems non-negotiable and I'm still a little chilly from the wind.
“Chamomile would be great,” I say, hoping I misjudged Martha a little. She really hasn't said anything overtly hostile and she is trying to be hospitable.
A few moments pass in silence while Martha gets our tea ready. Then she takes our mugs to the table where we both take a seat.
“So, Cassie,” she says. “I have to admit I've remained somewhat skeptical.” I assume she means of my abilities, but she continues. “For the longest time, I’ve tried convincing myself that what occurs in this house can't have a supernatural explanation. While my husband, Lawrence, was alive, we had an unspoken agreement. We both chose to simply ignore certain… oddities involved in living here.”
I take that to mean Martha's husband wasn't willing to entertain any unconventional explanations and expected the same from his wife. But now that he's gone…
