Ander opened his eyes and took in a deep gasping breath. He bent forward and retched, sick from the feat and from what he had seen. Draven came to his side, a look of concern on his face.

  Ander coughed and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You’re right. There was a demon here.”

  Draven swore under his breath. “What can we do, Ander? My family—“

  “Keep them indoors, and that goes for everyone. We’ll have to find the thing, but tonight I must rest.”

  Before he could turn to go, Ander felt a tug on his shoulder as Draven pulled him aside, probably far less gently than intended. Normally the man’s expression was careful, unhurried. His was the face of a man who kept his secrets well. But now it was drawn and strained, the whites of his eyes flickering like the barely concealed panic of an animal that knows it is trapped. Ander saw, not for the first time in his life, true fear in Draven, a man more courageous and steadfast than anyone he had ever known.

  “A demon. Here.”

  “That is what I said.”

  “But why? Delving Vale is—and demons aren’t—“

  Ander shrugged. “They’re rare, yes. I’ve only seen a few in my life, and always through vessels. Men summon them for the war, but realize quickly that they cannot be controlled. Likely this one is rogue, and here at random.” He paused and, on seeing the other man’s expression unchanged, added, “Fear not, we’ll find it.”

  Draven turned so that his back was to his men and dragged a hand over his face. “I haven’t seen a demon since—since the war.”

  He didn’t elaborate, and Ander wouldn’t ask him to. Instead he clapped Draven on the shoulder in an effort to encourage him, but the gesture felt hollow.

  There was a common adage that the gods granted sunrises to the world to remind its inhabitants of new beginnings, but Josue had always liked sunsets better. Everything always seemed to fall into place as the sun began its slow descent behind the mountains, peeking over with its last remaining rays of light as though to check on the world once more before dawn. Animals returned to their paddocks to escape the chill and the darkness together, and families settled in for their evening meals and to recap the day. By the time the stars were out everything was where it should be, ready and waiting for the next new day.

  Josue enjoyed the colors as well. His simple cabin that looked over Delving Vale gave him a perfect view of the tiny village and the surrounding valley. Now that autumn had set in the forest was a brilliant mixture of red and gold that glowed like fire during those last few minutes of light. The goddess Lyetia whom he served favored the coolness of the forest, rich greens and gentle blues, but Josue knew that experiencing the fires could make one appreciate the rains all the more.

  He stood at the threshold of his little house, a cup of tea in hand, and whistled softly. The old dog who had been asleep by the herb garden rose and stretched, then ambled lazily into the house for his next nap. Josue patted his head as he passed, musing for a moment that he had forgotten the old dog’s name, but that it didn’t matter anyway. He stoked the little stove that served for both cooking and warmth in the one-room cabin, then settled into his favorite chair as the night crept in around them, held at bay by the warmth and light of the flames. Praise to Lyetia, another day come to a close, he thought. The sigil of the goddess he had served all his life hung with a comforting weight around his neck.

  He must have nodded off, the gentle drone of the bordering forest sounds and the hum of the mountains as the wind passed through them guiding him to another night of rest. But when he woke there was only silence, such a silence that made him alert with instincts humans rarely invoked. Beside him the old dog was sitting up, his bristled fur forming a ridge down his spine. Josue bent down to give the mutt a reassuring pat, then pushed to his feet, listening to the silence. No birds, no insects. Even the wind had given pause.

  Then he saw it, just past the edge of the light that seeped from his window. A black shape passed through the underbrush with silken movements, barely disturbing the ground, but the very sight of it turned his blood cold. His hand shot up to grip the sigil of his goddess, but he could barely recall the words to invoke her protection.

  That night they were in a forest. Runes glowed white from the tree trunks, forming a perfect circle around the couple. Black shapes surrounded them, unable to pass the runes. Ander held the pale, slender hand in his own, caked with blood. His wife smiled at him one last time as her life slipped away. Her eyes were brown. The trees around them began to crack loudly and fall, shattering like glass.

  Ander was wrenched from sleep suddenly by a loud knocking sound. Lightning flashed outside and rain trickled in from a leak in the roof. Ander rubbed his eyes and frowned. Knocking again. No, more like pounding. Urgency, or maybe fear. He wasn’t imagining it. He shook his head once to rouse himself from sleep and headed downstairs.

  Draven was at the door, along with two of his militiamen and a man Ander recognized as Father Josue, and old priest of Lyetia. One of the soldiers held a bloodied cloth over his cheek. Draven held a large black bundle over his shoulder. Ander noticed how cold he felt; unnaturally so, despite the season.

  “We caught it.” Draven and the others pushed past Ander and stood in the entryway.

  With a beckoning gesture Ander led the men down into the cellar. Dusty shelves and tables lined one wall, each stacked high with papers curled and stained with age and neglect. Ander ignored these and walked to the far corner of the room. He kicked some empty crates aside, several of which fell apart from the force. Ander wiped the dust and grime from the wall and whispered a few words under his breath. Blue-white runes appeared at his word on the walls and floor in a circle that enclosed the corner. Ander stepped back and pointed to his work.

  “Put it here.”

  Draven gave Ander a questioning look but did as he was told. He pulled away the blanket that had wrapped around the form and dropped it against the corner. The runes faded once but then grew brighter.

  The demon was a girl. She was young, perhaps twenty, with a small, fragile build, pale skin and straight black hair that draped over her face and shoulders like strands of silk. Her unconscious form was completely still. Something about her demanded silence and pause. Black tattoos covered her skin, seemingly from head to toe. They were beautiful and intricate, woven together in a flowing pattern that complemented every feature and curve of her body. At the same time there was something about them that was cold and forbidding. Ander recognized them as individual runes of power, each woven into the next in some complex grand design chosen by the artist. He could not help but take a moment to marvel at its masterpiece.

  “A cage for demons.” The priest’s soft voice broke the silence. He was older, his well-trimmed beard completely white and his face lined with age. Ander always noticed that his eyes, grey but not dim, were very kind. The old priest had settled in the village a few years before Ander, and though priest and Dreamwalker were two very different walks of life, each had a mutual respect and recognition for the other’s purpose. Ander had always liked him.

  “Correct, Father.” Ander knelt down and fastened shackles that were bound to the floor around the girl’s wrists. They glowed with the same runes that lined the floor.

  “You’ve had this here for a while, shaman. Did you expect this to happen?”

  Ander met the other’s gaze for a moment before answering. “I prefer to be prepared for such things. You never know what your path will cross.” He was sure both Josue and Draven saw through the lie. He turned to the two militiamen. “Go home and tend your wounds. You’ve earned a rest. Tell no one what you have seen here.”

  Draven rubbed at his chin as he watched them leave. “We didn’t hunt for it, I want you to know. We were just warning the outlying families of the danger.” He nodded to the priest. “When we got to Josue’s house we knew it had been there. We tried to follow at a distance but it circled around and attacked my men. By some luck or blessing above I managed to knock the thing out and here we are.” He sniffed and looked at the girl with a scowl. “I’m ashamed to say that small thing almost bested us.”

  “Nonsense.” Ander crouched down just outside the circle. His eyes never left the girl as he studied her, fascinated. “This is a vessel.”

  “A what?”

  “Many demons have no earthly form.” Josue stepped forward. “They require a body to sustain their presence. It is likely this child was prepared for her fate over many years, judging by the work done to her skin…”

  “Just a body.” Ander rose and faced the others. “There is no girl, it’s just a shell. Some are bred soulless for such a purpose. There never was a girl.”

  Josue looked at Ander and shook his head. “You cannot be sure—“

  Everyone stopped at once and noticed that the demon’s eyes were open. They seemed dark, almost black in the light. They stared at each man in turn without blinking. Ander never looked away as the demon tilted her head and glanced down at her bindings. She lifted her wrists to test the weight of the shackles. Her lips curved upward into a sly smile.

  “This is something new.” The voice was soft and feminine. “New place, new bonds. New master?” Her gaze focused on Ander. Something about her gave him a chill.

  “Your name, demon.” Ander forced himself to keep eye contact.

  The demon licked her upper lip. “First tell me yours.”

  Draven interjected, his tone low and rough. “We haven’t time for games, witch. Tell us what we want to know or I’ll force the answers from you.”

  Her glance darted to the solider. She let out a low chuckle of amusement and sat up in a manner that accented the curves of her body. “I’d like to see that. I remember you. Strong, quick. Perhaps too much so.”

  Draven growled and started forward but Ander stepped between them. The demon was speaking magic into her words to cause anger, anger that would cause Draven to do something foolish. He placed his hand on the wall over one of the runes and spoke a single word under his breath. The rune shifted and changed shape at his touch. The girl released a shriek and bent forward in pain.

  “You were warned.” Ander moved his hand away from the wall.

  “Magic weaver.” Her words were a low hiss. “Spirit-namer.”

  Ander ignored her challenges. “Speak your name, demon. Your vessel is dying.”

  He regretted revealing the fact as soon as it passed his lips. Would it be able to possess another without aid? He could not be sure. Surely the priest would be protected by the grace of his goddess, but if that thing possessed Draven Gree…

  The girl tilted her head, the movement slow and mechanical as though her neck were a rusted hinge. She looked aside to one of the tables that lined the walls, piled high with stacks of papers – Ander’s lists and drawings.

  “You know it already. I see it there, written over and over again.” Her lips curled into a cruel smile. “We’ve met before, you and I.”

  Draven frowned. Josue raised his brow as he turned toward Ander. “Of what does she speak, Shaman?”

  Ander frowned. “She speaks lies, Father, nothing more.”

  The girl’s cold dark eyes fixed on Ander. “Why speak lies when the truth is so much better? I had forgotten all about it, the night you dared to summon the likes of me. You were younger then. Handsome as well, though I much prefer you now – stronger, lined with experience…” She smiled.

  Ander turned away and brought a hand over his eyes, pressing against them in attempt to keep away the images he had spent so many nights trying to hold onto. He heard faint whispers from every direction, reading off his many lists of names.

  “Come now, Spirit-namer. Name me.”

  “Be silent, she-demon.” Draven tried to place a hand on Ander’s arm but he pushed him away.

  The whispers were growing louder, though the solider seemed not to notice them.

  The girl began to laugh. Josue grasped a golden sigil that hung at his neck and mumbled a low prayer, his words shaken and unsure as he drew back from the others. Draven began to shout threats to the girl, his weapon in hand. The whispers persisted. Ander heard a ringing in his ear that grew louder by the second.

  Then all at once there was silence, save for a single name Ander heard whispered as though someone’s lips were next to his ear.

  Ambrosine.

  He mouthed the name as it was spoken to him.

  In moments he was on her, Draven’s knife in his hand. He shouted curses as he struck her across the face and then raised the weapon over his head with every intention to make his next move fatal. But the demon was too quick. The chains that bound her fell away into dust as she took hold of Ander’s neck, the movement so swift and precise that Ander had no choice but to move to defend himself. He grabbed at her wrists with both hands, the blade pressed between her skin and his palm. She was far stronger than her vessel’s small frame should allow.

  Ander felt Draven pull him back despite his shouts of protest. As Ander and the demon broke contact the knife in Ander’s hand sliced through one of the tattoos on her arm. She shrieked at the sudden pain and tried to renew her grasp. With a sharp kick to the ribs Draven sent her flailing back into the rune bindings. Her head struck against the stone wall and she fell silent, her eyes closed. Blood trickled from her broken lip and the seething cut on her arm.

  For a moment it seemed to Josue as though the ink markings around the cut shimmered briefly before fading, and after that they seemed somehow different from the others.

  Ander and the soldier struggled, but though the two were equal in strength it was Draven who had the training. In moments he had his knife back and flung it across the room. Ander growled as he pushed away.

  “Why did you stop me?”

  “She’s the one who had you on the fray, friend.”

  “Let me kill it!” He made another lunge toward the motionless girl but was subdued by Draven. “I must!”

  “No!” The two men paused at Josue’s sudden interruption. The priest stepped forward and rested an urgent hand on Ander’s shoulder. “You cannot.”

  “Stay out of this, priest.”

  “You cannot.” He spoke more softly now, his words laced with concern. “Think, shaman. You know better than I that a demon must remain bound to its vessel. It cannot be allowed to go free. You would only harm the girl.”

  “I won’t have a rogue demon in my village.” Draven released his hold on Ander and rolled his shoulders forward in a gruff motion. “It’ll be on your head, Ander.”

  Ander clenched his jaw and turned away. It was right there, right there! The others didn’t understand. So much time spent searching, and now it was right there. At his mercy.

  But they were right. Killing the vessel would only release the demon, putting everyone at risk. Here and now, at least, it was contained. Ander sighed and let his shoulders drop.

  “Leave it here, then. I’ll see to things.” He straightened his stance and faced the two men. “But this demon has much to answer for, and I will see it done. One way or another. The vessel is just that – do not try to guilt me into thinking otherwise. That thing is no more a girl than the stones outside.”

  Midnight. The sky is clear tonight and gives way to the full moon that beams into the open window, illuminating the circle of runes that shimmer in the silvery light. But some are red now, stained with blood that trickles from the dead woman’s mouth. Her blue eyes are staring at nothing. Ander kneels beside her, his hands stained as well. He hears the faint feminine voice whisper help me. White light flashes from nowhere every few seconds. With every flash it reveals the demon crouched in the corner, a shapeless black mass. No, a girl. Such a small, unassuming girl. Watching. Watching. Pleading. Laughing.

  Ander gave his eyes time to adjust to the darkness. Dawn was a few hours off yet, but he was alert, jarred by his dream. He dressed and returned to the cellar, ignoring his instincts to write the details of his sleep. Beams of moonlight illuminated the small room and the girl who lay unconscious in her magic cage. Ander’s runic magic shimmered faintly in the light. With silent steps he knelt before the girl, his breath caught in his throat. The pale gleam of the knife in his hand reflected the light, forming a thin white stripe on the girl’s tattooed skin.

  He noticed the wound he had given her earlier. It was a shallow, almost superfluous cut, but the skin separated just enough to split one of the tattoos that lined her features. Ander frowned as he studied the marking, pulling it whole in his mind. He knew that rune, as he did so many, written countless times on his papers and upon the walls. He had written it once himself, badly, so many years ago. A rune of control. He exhaled sharply and looked at the girl’s face.

  She was breathing. Her chest made the slight labored heave of one who is ill or out of breath. Her eyelids fluttered as she dreamed. Ander saw the corner of her mouth make a delicate twitch.

  He closed his eyes, turning the blade of the knife flat against his wrist as he rose and left the room. Regret tugged at his chest as years of torment and searching screamed at him to turn back as he climbed the stairs and returned to his bed. Turn back, end this. Be free of her. Turn back. But he couldn’t, he wouldn’t. Twenty years of agony and the painful need for closure were all held at bay by one simple truth.

  Demons didn’t breathe.

  The sting of cold bit against his skin as Ander walked into the morning air outside. He did not stop until he had reached an overlook that allowed him a view of the entire village below. The streets were already busy with people going about their lives, blissfully forgetful of the war that pressed on, countless miles away, and equally unaware of the darkness that rested just above the valley. Ander dragged a hand down his face and sighed heavily. Demons didn’t breathe. The thought filled his mind like a pot of water boiling over the sides. The vessel was a person, not the empty shell he had known of possessions in the past. Such an instance shouldn’t be possible. It was impossible. He had been sure of it. In the countless times he had run this scenario through his mind he had been so sure.

 

1 2 3 4