“I won’t risk my life again for nothing,” he said, “I have built a perfectly comfortable pocket of space to live in and I aim to die old and cold, not at the hands of some devil-touched witch. I got away from her once, but it won’t happen again.”
“No,” Collette said, “It won’t. If you come upon her again she may well kill you. But if you help us, you will have ze Red Witch at your side. You will have Fate at your side.”
I caught Luther by the shoulders as he circled a column to get away from Collette, who now had the air of a dark cloud descending upon a man standing on a lonely road with no umbrella. “Luther,” I said, “If I have this child while she lives, she’s going to hunt it down and kill it, or worse, use it to kill others. I don’t want that kind of blood on my hands and neither do you.”
“I won’t have that blood on my hands; it’ll be on hers.”
“Our power is borrowed, Luther.” Collette said. “Our life is borrowed. And when we die, we will not become Whispers like Amber will. Zis is ze price we pay for our Magick.”
Whispers? My brow furrowed and I turned around, searching for Collette’s eyes, but they were on Luther. I would not get an answer to my question right now.
“That’s not true,” Luther said. He was trembling. “Necromancers can become Whispers.”
“If zey give their lives selflessly.”
Collette paused, and suddenly the room fell silent. I could hear the ticking of the clock by the door, the fluttering of leaves caught on the faint breeze, and the steady drip-drop of water falling into a bucket somewhere. The moment seemed to hang, to stretch, until finally it snapped back into the continuum of time.
“Help us,” Collette said, “And if you die, you will join your ancestors. You will join ze Goddess.”
I wanted to get Collette to stop talking. Don’t worry; if you die it’ll be alright! You’ll be with the Goddess! Well said, Collette. We’ll get his help like that for sure! But Luther wasn’t denying the things she was saying, and he hadn’t laughed at her suggestion that, should he die, it would all be for the best. Was he considering it?
“And if I don’t?” Luther asked.
“Zen when she finds you—and she will—you will simply cease to be. Your story will never be told.”
“We can’t force you,” I said, “But if you can help us… then we need you more than anyone has ever needed anyone else.”
Luther’s eyes danced between mine and Collette’s. I could see the cogs in his mind churning, his logical side calculating the odds of success. Of survival. They weren’t high for any of us, but if what Collette said was true, and I had no reason to believe it wasn’t, then he was our conduit to Acheris; our only way of finding the asp in the sand and plucking it out of hiding with a single stroke.
The success of our mission—which had now become a suicide mission, admittedly, but I remained hopeful about our chances—rested firmly on Luther’s answer.
And it was a no.
Chapter Seventeen
What if she’s not fine?
Frank’s thoughts ran around like weasels chasing each other in the dark. He didn’t want to—no, he couldn’t—believe Amber was in any trouble she couldn’t handle, but if that was true then why had he been puffing cigarettes this last hour like his life depended on it? He had been trying to quit for a long time; in many ways the cigarettes were a reminder of his old life, of his old, excessive ways. To triumph over cigarettes would be to say farewell to the old Frank. But the old Frank still had some fight in him, and he wasn’t going anywhere.
And maybe that was a good thing. Didn’t ex-junkies need some kind of way of coping with their new lifestyle? Maybe smoking was Frank’s way of coping, so it was at all possible that his inability to quit was his own internal defense system making sure Frank wouldn’t inadvertently cut the one thing keeping him from slipping back into his old ways.
So he smoked, and as he arrived at the house he took one last, deep drag before stubbing the cigarette out, flicking the butt to the wind, and opening the door.
Aaron and Damien were both there, in the kitchen, with a beer each in their hands. From the look of them neither had said a word in a while. It was as if they had been told a friend of theirs had just been killed in a terrible accident. But no one had been killed, not yet at least, and this caused Frank’s eyes to roll. He tutted and said “Oh for Christs’ sake.”
“What?” Damien asked.
Frank strolled into the house, unwound his scarf, and hung it on the back of the front door. When he slid his coat off and hooked it up over the scarf, he said, “Could you guys be more depressive?”
“Amber could be in trouble,” Aaron said, as if to justify his mood.
“Yes, maybe. But you’re both acting like she’s dead. If she were dead, don’t you think we’d know?”
Damien gave Aaron a glance, and then his eyes went to Frank. He nodded. “I think we would.”
“Then let’s get this show started and try to make contact with the Red Witch, shall we?”
Both men nodded and followed Frank up the stairs to the first floor, and then up the tiny ladder into the attic. The first thing Frank’s eyes went to was the cauldron. It had been almost a full year since Yule and they hadn’t yet moved it out of the attic like they said they were going to. Even witches can be lazy, he thought as he fully entered the room and stood upright.
The next thing his eyes went to was Amber’s altar. It wasn’t anything like Frank’s, which was a bleak, gothic thing, covered in crucifixes, bleeding Christ figurines, rosaries, and tall white candles that had melted almost to nubs. Amber subscribed to the Wiccan tradition, so her altar reflected her belief in the Horned God and the Goddess of the Moon. Frank, however, had seen the devil’s twisted, beautiful face, and in recent months his world-view had taken a turn for the Catholic so his altar reflected as much.
Amber’s altar took up an entire fifth of the attic space and was made up of a large, converted vanity set, a couple of end-tables placed next to each other, and all the dry plants, crystals, candles, and pentacles she could possibly have gotten her hands on. Many of her candles, most of which were every color except white, were scented, and since the window was kept closed throughout the entire day it meant that the attic would greet you with the warmth and fresh smell of a spring garden all year round.
What Frank was most interested in, though, was the tall mirror perched upon the vanity set.
He walked over to it, noting the empty space where Amber’s Book of Shadows once sat—she had taken it with her to Berlin—and sat on the stool. Damien and Aaron came in a few moments after, their combined footsteps thumping loudly on the wooden floorboards as they shuffled around to find a comfortable place to stand in.
“What are you going to do?” Aaron asked.
Frank stared at himself in the mirror and for a moment saw a gaunt, thin, pasty white skeleton of a man staring back at him. Leering. He would have jumped if he hadn’t recognized the reflection in the mirror and for a moment he found himself wondering if this really was what others saw when they looked at him. And if so, how was it that Michael—Michael, with his caramel skin, almond eyes, and the dimples on his cheeks—liked him?
He shook his head and the cloud around his mind disappeared. “I’m going to contact Amber,” Frank said, “But I’m going to need your help.”
“Us?” Aaron asked.
Damien stepped toward the altar and stood nearby. He knew what it was Frank needed from him, but Aaron wasn’t a witch, and nothing about witchcraft ever came easily to a werewolf. At least not that werewolf.
“I need both of you to put your hands on my shoulders,” Frank said, “Aaron, right hand, left shoulder. Damien, left hand, right shoulder.”
Frank closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to take in Amber’s essence. This wasn’t a Magickal thing, strictly speaking. It was simply a matter of sitting at the place Amber often sat, smelling the sage and the mint and the rosemary she often sme
lt, and allowing a moment for the space to accept him as an extension of Amber. Her brother in Magick.
“Alright,” he said still with his eyes closed, “Now I need you to both be very quiet. Don’t even breathe. Close your eyes, too.”
Aaron and Damien exchanged a look, and then they closed their eyes and started to take slow, inaudible breaths. Immediately Frank could feel prickling vibrations on his shoulders, but the difference in strength between them was as clear as night and day. If Damien was an idling hybrid engine, then Aaron was a V8 revving up in neutral. What Frank couldn’t understand was why?
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,” Frank said in a mocking voice, “Where’s that red witch at?”
“Really?” Aaron asked. Frank couldn’t see him, but the tone of his voice gave shape to his bemused expression well enough.
Frank grinned. “What? You were expecting a long, convoluted rhyme? Not for this. I don’t need—”
The attic window flung open letting the crisp, autumn air come rushing in. On the back of it came a mess of reddening leaves, twigs, and chirping swallows. Aaron removed his hand from Frank’s shoulder and went to the window to close it, but it came back around and shut on its own with a loud slam.
Aaron stood there, motionless for a moment, watching the window. Then he whipped his head around and stared at the corner of the room. From deep within the back of his throat came a low rumble. A growl? Frank thought. Only what was he growling at? Frank couldn’t see anything in the corner of the room Aaron was so fixated upon and neither could Damien.
Then a cold chill, like a finger made of ice, crawled down the back of Frank’s spine. He turned his attention, slowly, back to the mirror, inching his way around in a motion that seemed to last an age. It was the same kind of slowness usually brought on by apprehension or dread; a kind of slowness that exists as if almost to prepare you for something. Sometimes it was nothing; you would think you’ve seen someone walking around in the hall and so you move toward the door, careful, quiet, and look both ways only to find it empty.
This had happened to Frank before. A couple of times, in fact. He had lived in his fair share of haunted houses and he had also lived in run-down neighborhoods, and in both types of residencies people walk around in the dead of night. Whether it’s a drunk who can’t remember what floor he lives on, or a ghost trying to get his attention, Frank had felt that feeling of slow dread creep into his heart more than once.
The difference now, though? He knew he was about to see something in the mirror he had been looking at a moment ago. And as he turned around in that slow, creeping motion, all he could think about was this: he’s just like Scooby-fucking-Doo; so I guess that makes me Shaggy.
But Frank didn’t shout "Zoinks!” when the mirror came into his field of vision. Frank couldn’t do much of anything but keep his eyes fixed on the shape in the corner of the room. No. Shapes. There were two. One of them was a man—no, a shadow!—tall and broad shouldered, surrounded in a miasma of darkness as if he were made of ink and the air around him were water. And he was holding onto someone.
The figure struggling against the dark thing was female. She was white ink to his black, but in the intermingling colors Frank detected brief flashes of orange. Immediately he knew. Amber. Frank rose to his feet so fast he sent the stool he had been sitting on crashing to the ground on its side. He stared at the mirror, concentrating, willing for his mind to give the shapes more substance in the same way that staring at someone for a long time can make their features melt away into nothing.
“It’s Amber,” he said, “Damien, can you see this?”
“I can,” Damien said.
“Aaron, what can you see?”
Aaron was quiet. Frank could see him in the reflection, stalking across the room, taught as a bow-string. His fists were closing. Opening. Closing. Fingers flexing. It looked like he was about to throw himself at a wall, only there was nothing there for him to attack. Nothing in the material world, anyway. Aaron would charge and end up doing no more than making a great big Aaron shaped hole in the wall, but still… he could sense whatever was there, and that was new to Frank.
Suddenly the shadows in the mirror’s reflection started to take shape. It was Amber alright, and whatever was holding her back had six arms; two wrapped around the torso, two wrapped around her mouth, and two wrapped around her ears. She was struggling against it, but she wasn’t scared; her eyes didn’t convey alarm. Frank wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.
If he had been given more time maybe he would have been able to force the entity holding Amber to show itself, to come forward and leave her alone, but whatever Magick Frank had used to call the image soon evaporated like so many clouds of steam, and the shadows were gone. And just like that, Aaron relaxed, Damien let go of Frank’s shoulder, and Frank’s breathing returned to normal.
A couple of swallows had remained inside the attic, chirping, probably anxious to get out. Aaron went to the window, opened it, and the swallows went rushing out into the world again.
“What did you see?” Frank asked again.
“I didn’t see anything,” Aaron said. His voice was stern and hard. “But I felt it.”
“Was there something really there?” Damien asked, “Or was it only in the mirror?”
Frank glanced to the mirror, then to Aaron, then to the corner of the room. “It must have been here,” Frank said, “The mirror must have been a conduit.”
“So now what do we do?” Aaron asked.
“Let me think, will you?” Frank asked. He rubbed his temples, which were throbbing hard now, and took a moment to think.
“It was the demon, wasn’t it?” Damien asked.
Aaron didn’t move, didn’t speak.
“I don’t know,” Frank said, “I just don’t know. I need more information.”
“More?” Aaron asked, “How are you going to get more? It’s not like we can talk to her. Fuck, this is just like last time.”
Last time.
The words echoed in the back of Frank’s mind. Aaron was right. This smelt like last time. Last time, a demon was in play. Last time, Amber was cut off from the world. Last time, everything went to shit before things got any better. Christ. I thought we were done with all that. The truth was that Frank didn’t know if they really were done with all that. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that it may have come back, but he guessed it was possible.
After all, no one had done an exorcism that he knew of.
“I need more information,” Frank said. “You two need to leave.”
“Leave?” Aaron asked. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Frank shot him a glare. “You’re both going to get the fuck out of this room and let me do my thing. Neither of you can be here for what I’m about to do. Understand?” Aaron didn’t like being told what to do, he knew, but he would have to listen to him now. He simply didn’t know what would happen to them if they were around when he…
“Just go,” Frank said, “And whatever you see, whatever you hear, don’t you come into this room or leave the house.”
Chapter Eighteen
No.
The word clanged like church-bells across the silent night my mind had become. No. No. No. We had come all this way, given him the things he wanted, showed him our determination to do the right thing; to end Acheris before she hurts somebody else. And when we asked him to come out of hiding for us, to help us in the fight, he Luther—the other Necromancer—had said no.
He wouldn’t help us.
Couldn’t?
Wouldn’t.
He had been given a choice. To stand up, fight, and do what was right, or to slink back into his hidey hole, pick his fruits and vegetables, hunt whatever game he could find, and live out the rest of his days as a hermit. In the tug-of-war between bravery and fear, fear had won and thrown bravery to the ground.
And I had been sent reeling.
I couldn’t think, could barely register Collette’s hand
on my elbow, and couldn’t sense that we had crossed the barrier from Luther’s pocket realm to the real world. I just kept hearing that word over and over again. No. No. No. We hadn’t come here to enlist his help, but I would have been lying if I said my heart hadn’t soared when I learned of Collette’s plan to bring Luther into the fold.
Having another Necromancer on our side would have… well, I didn’t know exactly what it would have done for our cause, but two Necromancers were better than one, right? I had seen Collette’s power. Felt it. Lived it. I knew what she was capable of and doubted, even if Acheris had the power to take one down, that she could take two. Heck, Luther was living proof of that.
I mean, here was a witch that had managed to destroy every other witch she pleased. And yet Luther, the only Necromancer Collette had mentioned ever coming into direct contact with her, had survived. It stood to reason, then, that Necromancers were harder to kill than regular witches. Maybe it was their Shadow Magick Acheris couldn’t stand up to, or maybe death itself picked Necromancers up and held them in his embrace until it was their time and not a moment sooner; whether the bitch liked it or not.
I snapped back into myself when the car door slammed shut. Blinked. Looked around. “We’re here?” I asked. “How did we get here.”
“We walked,” Collette said.
I glanced at her but she wasn’t looking at me. Her head was down, chin close to her chest as if some weight were resting on the back of her head and pushing her into the ground. This was the face of someone who believed she had failed at something. I had seen it before in myself and in others. It was always the same, and so it was easy to spot.
Collette, who usually kept herself as pristine as a porcelain doll, had been shattered.
“Collette…”
She tilted her eyes to me.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m sorry, ma cherie. I thought he would help.”
“Hey,” I said, taking her hand and squeezing it. A catch was starting to build in my throat. I could feel my lip trembling. “Don’t, okay? This wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.”