《The Star Ceiling》 Chapter 1 The first thing to know about Finngal was that he was dead. He had died the week before, brains splattered on a dirt road by a wayward driver, dead before his eighteenth birthday. Now he lay, swathed in black cloth atop a table of sturdy but nicked oak. The hideous, gaping wound that split his skull was mercifully hidden. Beside him lay potions of strange, swirling colors and swaying, exotic plants. His sister, a lone widow of thirty and four, had her head bowed with grief and dark silent tears dripped onto Finn¡¯s exposed hand, which she clutched with the desperate fervor of those unable to accept their tragic lives. The widow Macha, with a great shuttering sob, roused herself from her position by Finn¡¯s side. With a bright, shining gleam of purpose or more likely tears, in her eye, she gathered the potions and herbs that had won her great renown in the world of witches. For two days and two nights, she brewed her potions. Grinding small seeds of moon flower and pufferfish spines, stewing great heaps of yam leaves, willow bark, and copious amounts of mysterious roots and leaves. And all throughout this monstrous task she had assigned herself, because what else could she be doing but trying to raise her half-brother from the dead, she consulted a crumbling, leatherbound book. It was an ancient monstrosity of a book, passed down through a countless number of generations and covered with so many burn marks and fluids of mysterious origins that the original color of the cover was impossible to make out. The most notable feature of the book was not its rainbow of stains nor the occasional jolt as it tried to shake its way out of the chains that bound it, nor the constant miasma of black dust and bloodlust that the book produced. No, it was the fact that the book spoke. And it spoke now, as it sensed the desperation with which Macha worked, fighting against the inevitable deadline that rot and ruin would eventually wreck on Finn¡¯s body. She had only a day or two left before it was too late, even for her, a sage, the highest rank a witch of her heritage could earn. The book trembled under Macha¡¯s hand as she scanned a page on utilizing the bones of rats in necromancy. ¡°Mouse bones¡± it hissed in a barely audible whisper, ¡°would be more effective with adolescents.¡± ¡°My thanks¡± Macha mumbled, exhaustion jumbling her usually elegant speech and noted it in a crabbed cursive. The book gave a pleased rumble and settled back into its deep sleep. The moon was a great white spotlight onto the black swaddled bundle that was Finn. Macha and her potions stood at his head. Her hands shook, there were deep, dark hollows beneath her eyes, and her normally immaculate mane of hair, the pride of her mother and generations of women before her, was a rat¡¯s nest. The deep mahogany luster now streaked with gray. But her eyes still shone with a desperate hope and bespoke a wealth of intelligence and an indomitable will. With gentle hands, she unwrapped the burial shroud. It was a richly embroidered cloth, red and gold threads depicting a sun, the village in which Finn had grown up, her by his side, the plants that both she and Finn loved. Tears sprung to her eyes, and she stared at her Finn¡¯s face. The kind, inquisitive boy in life was still and solemn in death. Never again would she see his puzzled frowns as he examined a particularly complex rune nor his bright, delighted smiles as he discovered a new kind of frog. His olive skin was ashen gray in death, cold and unyielding to Macha¡¯s tender touch. The lethal wound above his brow that had spilt his precious life¡¯s blood was crusted over with near black blood. Macha caressed his cheek with a soft pained smile, tears tracking bright lines down her face. Then the emotion was gone, replaced by furrowed brows and the deep focus her task required. She picked up a potion of deepest green, threaded through with slowly swirling streaks of silver. With one hand clutching the potion and one propping open Finn¡¯s mouth, she poured the viscous liquid down his throat, holding up his head to make sure the potion would make it to his stomach. She them picked up her treasured tome and started chanting the poem of a spell. The spell spoke of the dark mountains and bright valleys, the vigor with which the small streams leapt and danced, the peaceful lethargy of the slow-moving rivers, the beauty of laughter, the innocent wonder of childhood friends. All things that made life worth living and all things that Finn would have known. The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. The spell was short for the life Finn had lived was not long. His joys spanned less than two decades and took Macha only two hours to recite. Finn¡¯s scratches closed and then slowly the soft brain matter that had spilled onto the table made their way back inside his skull, the split pieces of his skull were reunited, and skin stitched itself back together. As the spell wound down, Macha¡¯s voice broke as her throat tightened with tears that threatened to choke her. Her hands trembled with the weight of the hefty tome. And with the last word, she thought she saw a trembling of Finn¡¯s eyelashes and a lift of his chest. The moment passed, then minutes, then hours. Finn never gave another hint of movement, of life. And all the dread and grief that hope had been barred from Macha¡¯s mind by desperate, all-consuming hope came breaking through. The dam broke; Macha gave in to the heart-wrenching sobs of a woman broken. She woke to the soft sounds of morning: the gentle breeze winding through the trees, blackbirds chirping, the lull of the waves against the limestone cliffs. For a few moments, that was all there was in the world: the sound of Scotland waking. The pain of the previous night abated and, in its absence, she found a great joy in living. She took in the sight of her home. In this brief moment of peace, she noticed every hint of beauty: the soot-stained gray of the fireplace with a few embers still burning amid the charcoal. The dull greens and purples and blues of the herbs hanging to dry along the wall, the flaring orange and golds of the day light arraying itself on the floorboards beneath the window. And then Macha¡¯s gaze came to rest on the still shrouded body on her kitchen table. Finn¡¯s face was hidden beneath the black cloth, a small blessing. She must have covered it in her haze of grief the night before. And all at once the pain hit her, as if she had simply passed through the eye of the hurricane and all the emotional turmoil whirled through her mind at heartbreaking speeds. Days passed. Finn¡¯s body had yet to decay properly, and Macha had sunken into a depression, hardly able to rouse herself except to take sips of water and relieve herself. All her spell seemed to do was preserve her half-brother¡¯s body so it seemed that she would never be able to let go. She gazed at nothing through heavy lidded eyes, sunken in deep shadows. Occasionally she would grip Finn¡¯s hand, cold and pale but otherwise indeterminable from what it had been in life, and cry, silent tears dripping endlessly off her chin. A month later, a knock interrupted the grim silence of the Fairborn household. When no one came to answer it, a voice called out in soft, lilting voice. ¡°Macha, arr ya in thare?¡± he called. Again he was met with silence. ¡°Macha, I¡¯m ¡®ere ta talk about yer boy¡±, he began, ¡°ya can¡¯t go on keepin ¡®im like this, ¡®e needs ta be poot ta rest.¡± After a brief pause, he said, seemingly to himself, ¡°It¡¯s not right, this¡±. When there was still no response, he shouted ¡°Ya had better not beh working yer witch magic in there. The dead ¡®ave a right ta be left alone. Macha, answer meh!¡± Still in a chair beside Finn, Macha hardly stirred at the sound of the voice. Seemingly fed up with Macha¡¯s silence, the man began pounding with greater force, attempting to break the door down. Eventually he did break open the locks and stepped tentatively into the room. Macha raised her head to peer at him through half-closed eyelids. She had withered away in that week of solitude. Hollows were carved into her cheeks and her eyes had sunk into shadow. Her hair was stringy and clumped together, the color of mud. She still wore the clothes she had worn in her spell making haze. Ironically, Finn, though dead and rotting for a week, looked better than his poor sister did. Though her potions were unable to revive him, they did prevent him from sinking further into decay and he looked the same as he did in life, albeit pale and lifeless. The man, Gerard, was plain faced and of average height. His only features of note were his overly large, straight nose and fiery red hair. He approached Macha as one did a wild animal. Though fearful of touching her, he went to the kitchen and filled a glass of water, leaving it on the table, before departing with Finn. Chapter 2 I woke to the damp, cloying smell of dirt and decay, my arms trapped in cloth and wood. The lid above me only inches from my face. I banged on the walls, hoping to get someone¡¯s attention, but my arms responded jerkily, striking the wood with soft, ineffectual slaps. My heart was pounding but strangely enough, I didn¡¯t feel the need to draw breath. Terror clawed at my mind, wiping away any thought but the desperate need to get free. My attempt to speak, to call for help, to say my own name, anything, only resulted in an unintelligible croak. For hours, I tried unsuccessfully: opening the lid, flipping the coffin, prying open the boards, and screaming for help until, worn out from my efforts, I fell into a restless sleep. The lid of the coffin opened, and the sound of scraping wood rang through its interior. I woke with a start, dazzled by the dim light of the mausoleum. A man in a richly embroidered, though filthy robe stared at me with small, beady eyes. His greasy, combed back hair and sharp, aquiline nose gave him a noble, aristocratic appearance despite the dirt streaked across his face and under his fingernails. ¡°Ahh, I thought I¡¯d find ya here¡± he said with a sharp, cruel smile. ¡°Do you know where you are, little one?¡± His words, though soft, were like hammers to my silence-tuned ears. The headache behind my eyes magnified until I could barely think. He tapped the coffin with a black cane, the head of which was obscured by his gloved hands, ¡°Hurry up boy¡±. The sound made my eyes feel like they would pop out of my head. I barely managed to climb out of the coffin, falling to the floor in an inelegant sprawl as a result of my efforts. The man was strangely well-dressed for such grim surroundings. And his voice had the articulate pronunciation and accent of the posh upper class of the cities, a fine distance from these backwaters. Why was such a man here? And more, in this mausoleum, a place dank and dreary enough, that even I, as adventurous as I am, or was, only ventured forth when forced. ¡°Oh dear, it seems you¡¯ve been dead for quite a bit longer than I thought¡± the stranger quipped, ¡°your muscles have atrophied quite a bit, despite that wonderful work your loving sister did preserving you¡±. ¡°She tried to raise you from the dead, you know?¡± he continued, ¡°even though she must have known the consequences, the risks, and all for nothing¡± ¡°Well not all for nothing, you¡¯re here, breathing, well not quite breathing, but you get what I mean.¡± I tried to stand and managed it. barely, by leaning heavily against the cool stone walls. ¡°Where is she?¡±, I rasped. ¡°My sister I mean, is she alright?¡± Macha, I almost forgot about her. For my whole life, it had only been the two of us. The pain of my death, it would be unbearable. At least for me, death meant silence and freedom. But Macha, in that old cottage, full of strange, odorous plants, where the neighbors hardly ever dared to visit. It would mean near, absolute solitude. On top of that, witches were well known for their nigh-on endless life spans. ¡°Oh, she¡¯s fine¡± the man said with a flippant wave of his hand, ¡°still chugging on in that old hovel, staring at the walls or whatever mad people do¡±. With a small grimace, he muttered, ¡°waste of talent¡±. I had little information on Macha¡¯s past and even when I wheedled for a story of her days as a witch, she had clammed up with a tight-lipped frown and a pained look in her eyes. Even now, with the head-splitting pain of resurrection, pounding behind my eyes and that gaping silence of my own heart and the fear of what is to come, I still could not help asking, ¡°You knew Macha?¡±. The man stared at me, his dark beady eyes, eyeing me with a forceful intent as he had not before. A small, evil looking grin split his face, ¡°Oh, has she not told you about me? Beware the black-clothed man and his hooked smile. Beware his dark arts, for he will tie up your will into knots and bid you do his work until you are no more than a dog.¡± With each of those words, he had crept closer and closer, until I could see every pore on his face, every streak of dirt. Then abruptly, he laughed and spun around. ¡°Now come¡±, he commanded and left the crypt, winding his way around the various statues and pillars. Everything was made of a deep gray rock, rough-hewn and pockmarked. I recognized a few of the statues as pagan gods the locals believed would protect the dead from the demons and monsters that stalked the afterlife. They stood in rows within the mausoleum as if they were a small army, guarding our precious dead. Before a few of the major deities were alters with small offerings, wildflowers tied together with twine, a small dab of cheese. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. After a few heaving breaths that I did not need, but habit demanded, I started after him if only because I had no other idea of how to leave this disturbingly silent place. If my heart still beat, it would be a roar in my ears after that encounter. I limped slowly after the man, still hugging the walls and trying to remember how to command my body. Before long, I was able to walk with smooth, if slow movements. I passed rows and rows of coffins, stacked in arched alcoves along the wall. The air was cool and damp, but the lack of a breeze or any sort of airflow combined with the flickering light of lamps set at intervals created a deathly atmosphere to the place. Stumbling on, I eventually reached the stairwell. The man was there, tapping a foot with impatience, and staring at his flip phone. In the brighter light, I could make out more details of the man: how his clothing was threadbare with patches at the knees and elbows, hints of crow¡¯s feet at the corners of his eyes, streaks of gray in his carefully slicked backed hair. Though I knew he was hardly likely to respond, still curiosity pressed me to ask, ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±. The man looked up, annoyance seemed to be carved permanently into his face. ¡°Herne¡± he replied blandly, typed out a reply on his phone, then turned and marched up the stairs. The steps, like everything else, were also stone, void of decoration and irregularly shaped. Outside, the night air was chill, and a thin mist swirled about the feet, when I last remembered it as warm and muggy. Autumn had come. This was my favorite season. I loved the fiery colors of the trees and the ever-present sounds of squirrels in the trees, busy preparing for the harsh winter. Often, Macha would ask me to gather the soon to be gone flowers and herbs in the forests and I would be free of school for another day. But when I had died, it was still summer and months from the autumn harvest. Past the edge of the graveyard, I could see only uprooted fields and bales of hay, with none of the fresh, summer greenery and the hum of insects. ¡°How long have I been ¡­ dead?¡± I asked, still uncomfortable with the thought of dying, buried beneath the earth. The silence, the rats, and whatever gray ghosts the old stories said haunted the underground. ¡°Hmm ¡­ a few months I¡¯d say, it¡¯s October now¡± Herne replied, now staring at the stars. The sky was alight with them as few places now were, though it was often shrouded by clouds. He peered rather intently at certain constellations visible through the thinning cloud layer before turning away, murmuring to himself. ¡°Do you know why I woke now¡± I asked, ¡°you said Macha tried to raise me from the dead¡± ¡°If I was in the crypt, it must mean she thought she failed.¡± ¡°Why indeed?¡± Herne replied with a cold smile, ¡°What dead, old Macha didn¡¯t realize, was that it takes dying blood to revive the dead. Pity.¡± He pulled out a vial from one of his many, concealed pockets, holding it up for me to see. ¡°This¡± he said, shaking it so the thick, wine-red liquid slicked up the sides of the vial, ¡°is the blood of Mrs. Mahorney.¡± ¡°Wait, you said dying? So that must mean ¡­¡±, I could feel my brows furrow in realization, anger swelled up, hot and dark. ¡°Did you kill her? She was fine last I saw.¡± ¡°Kids, always jumping to conclusions. No, I didn¡¯t kill her.¡± Under his breath, he muttered, ¡°not that she would need much persuasion to kick the bucket.¡± I had had enough, all I wanted was to go home, to see Macha, to sleep in my own bed. I was almost to the edge of the graveyard and could just see the old road leading to the town, when Herne shouted, ¡°Best not go that way, boy. Few believe in magic these days and those that do would only scream and curse if they saw a dead boy roaming the streets¡± I gave him a scornful glare. ¡°Why do I care what the townsmen say, they¡¯ve never done a thing for me in my life¡± Even in the small school, where classes were only divided into juniors and seniors, I had no friends, had been mocked for my witch sister, and cursed to be small and dark-haired. So I continued walking, as quickly as my withered body could limp. ¡°Think about Macha boy¡± he continued, ¡°what would they do to a poor, grieving woman whose half brother it is known she loved, woke from the dead?¡±. It was that that stopped me. I had no doubt that they would torch our house, stuff her in a barrel weighted with stones, and drown her in the river if they really had such incontrovertible proof of her being a witch. ¡°We¡¯ll leave¡± I said in a small, fearful voice. ¡°Will you now?¡± Herne asked, ¡°Do you know why she came here boy, to a place without her own kind, to forever live in fear of her hateful neighbors? There¡¯s more to this place than you know and Macha would sooner die than leave. Even for you¡± In that, he was wrong, but at the time I did not know, not what Macha was, not what Herne was, and even less about the world that both lived in. Chapter 3 Though I hated every step, I went with Herne as he trudged across the empty fields, to where I did not know. When I asked about our destination, I was rebutted with ¡°Stop asking questions, boy, you wouldn¡¯t understand even if I told you¡±. To which, I replied with, ¡°My name¡¯s Finn, not boy. Should I call you for what you are, a vulture for your pecking manners and ugly coat or a demon for your terrible character. I can almost see the horns beneath your hair.¡± I sneered. At that he glared at me but still would not answer my questions. By the time we crested a hill with an empty stone arch, the day had lightened from a shade of near black to a dark gray, as is the case in ever cloudy Scotland. Herne looked up at the stars again, checking for some astrological sign or stray cloud. With one hand in his pocket, he looked the face of nonchalance and slight annoyance. He tapped the arch with his cane and runes that I had mistook for weathering suddenly glowed a pale blue. The grass on the other side of the arch still looked the same but I doubted I could actually reach it should I pass under the arch. With the cane, Herne nudged me forward. ¡°Hurry up boy¡± ¡°Why don¡¯t you go first?¡± I said with false sweetness. ¡°Ha, I know what you¡¯re up to boy. The second I leave you, you¡¯re going to be scampering back to your sister¡¯s house, no matter what you said before.¡± I only scowled at him and stepped forward. The softly glowing stones which had looked pretty and pleasant before now looked eerie and haunting. The grass on the other side of the arch was only a mere three feet away yet it seemed as if the distance between us spanned miles. I didn¡¯t want to step under that cursed curve of stone. When I refused to move any further, Herne shoved me. My hands automatically shot out and caught against the stone. For a brief moment, only my head passed through the arch. Beyond it was a glittering stone city, softly lit in pale blues and purples. The effect was nauseating, the separation between my head and torso was infinite but the rest of my body soon fell through as I felt Herne give me a rude kick. Though I hardly ever ventured beyond the little town where I was born and raised, I knew enough that this wasn¡¯t a city for the average human folk. The little magic we had in our house was enough for me to recognize the presence of magic, but I was still awed by anything more than potions that grew hair or spells that revived a dying stalk of basil. And the city was about as magical as a city could be. Half the structures looked precarious enough to fall over at the slightest breath of wind and their continued presence could only be the product of otherworldly forces. Wild, ambitiously tall towers dotted the city, topped with brightly colored domes, and decorated with intricate carvings. Most of the city was made of closely built stone structures, a stark contrast to the bright colors and artistry of the towers. Stone stairs ran along the buildings, frequently ending in terraces rife with vegetation and softly glowing patterns that I assumed were fungus. The streets were narrow and dark in these early hours, but given Scotland¡¯s gloomy weather, I suspected that it would look much the same in daytime. The arch had let us out onto a forested hill, still a distance away from the city. I turned to ask Herne whether this city was our destination, but before I could utter a sound, he gave an exasperated sigh. ¡°Before you ask whether we were seeking this glorious city of Baile Bo¡± at this he turned and spread his harms in mock glory, and in a weary tone, ¡°the answer is yes¡± He then proceeded to trudge down the stone steps towards the city. At the bottom of the hill were a set of gates, though strangely there was no fence, just a simple stone arch and wrought-iron doors. I couldn¡¯t understand the purpose of such a thing, when the doors creaked open and a foot appeared, then a body, and a woman stood on the grass before the gate. As she passed through, I glimpsed the town square of my village. ¡°Why didn¡¯t we do that?!¡± I exclaimed, the shock of it stilling my features into an astonished gasp. I had never seen magic used in such a way. ¡°Why¡¯d you make us tramp halfway through Scotland in the middle of the night?¡± Herne gave me a look of consternation and slight surprise, already furrowed brows deepening. ¡°It doesn¡¯t work that way, boy¡± he growled, ¡°Did your sister teach you nothing?¡± I knew the twenty-one ways to brew a sleeping draught and how to make a potion that could put a man to sleep for half a decade, but I knew that this wasn¡¯t the magic he was speaking of. But still, I had to defend Macha and her erratic lessons. ¡°I could bend your will to mine with a word and a potion so that you¡¯d be less than a dog, a slobbering, husk of a man; I could send you into a slumber so deep, even the screams of your loved ones wouldn¡¯t wake you, so don¡¯t try me old man¡± I said, a nasty, foreign edge to my voice, I scarce recognized it as myself. ¡°Ooh scary, boyo¡± he chuckled, ¡°let¡¯s hope you keep that bite of anger, you¡¯re gonna need it in Baile Bo¡± ¡°Now come¡± he commanded. The path down to the city was overgrown with strange and whimsical plants, none of which I had ever seen before. And I spent half my childhood in the forest picking witch herbs. The path underfoot was paved with whorls of stone, some glowing with ethereal light and others darkened till they were almost indiscernible from the dark soil in which they were set. Towering trees decked in coats of multicolored fungi lined the path. Some with deliberately placed glowing lichen instead of lanterns. Herne set off down the path, whacking his cane back and forth against the tide of vegetation, muttering all the while. ¡°Damn wizards can¡¯t even keep a proper path tidy¡± Occasionally he tapped a darkened stone and it flared to life and the plants seemed to shrink back. I looked behind me, what had been a forest with a trail of stones was now a brightly lit path, the encroaching vegetation neatly beaten back. The city was revealed all at once, the forest ended abruptly and the stone path continued into a widening street. Tall, narrow houses lined the way. Warm, cheery light spilled onto the now dull, gray stone. Few were out at his hour and so close to the woods but as we walked on, I began to see the city¡¯s strange inhabitants. Not all were human, in fact half the city it seemed, bore some unnatural ancestry. There were some with thin, spiraled horns sprouting from their forehead. Others had insect like carapaces shielding their head and body, blending seamlessly with their rough, clay colored flesh. Their joints were hard and knobby, and they spoke in a harsh chatter full of throaty rumbles and clicking tongues. Still others were stranger yet, bearing only a cursory resemblance to humans. A wispish treeling, danced around, rootlike feet piercing the stone which quickly grew back when the root was removed. Its four thin legs reminded me of a spider but when it turned, I saw a miserable old face embedded within its abdomen. The bark splitting away to reveal a wrinkled visage set in a grimace. Above it were four other faces, but it turned away too quickly for me to see much else. I could only the tips of its leafy hair once it disappeared into the crowd. Everywhere in the city there was more to see. Within one darkened window, I could see a room full of cages, some filled with everyday objects ¨C teacups, pens, and glasses ¨C others were hidden under cloth and were violently rocking, only restrained by a number of heavy chains. In another, a clothing shop full wares where laughing mannequins sat drinking tea. Instead of the long flowing robes and richly embroidered shirts the shop sold, they dressed in identical white shifts. Save for their wooden flesh and painted features, they could almost pass for a human woman. But there was something inhuman quality that distinguished them from people like me that I couldn¡¯t quite put my finger on, a stiffness to their movements? No, a false quality to their tittering laughs? I realized I had stopped when Herne looked back and barked at me to hurry. We reached the house at dawn. The house was weathered and falling apart but still it maintained a weary elegance. A set of delicately wrought iron gates led to a small courtyard. Vines had claimed the walls and honeysuckle and trumpet flowers perfumed the air. A hallway shaded with arches led off to a garden and two doors sat on opposite sides. The most surprising feature of the small courtyard was the faded mosaic of a leviathan enwrapping an unfortunate ship which took up most of the floor. Though the colors were dull to being almost indistinguishable, I could still see the genius of the artist, the intricacy of the work. I could even make out a tiny, despairing sailor on the bow of the ship. Herne struggled to open the west door, muttering and cursing all the while. Gripping the handle and feet firmly planted, he pulled with all his weight. I might¡¯ve laughed if I hadn¡¯t already experienced his short and fiery temper. The dull metal lump of a knocker, shaped into a crude imitation of a face, suddenly gave a maniacal laugh. ¡°Open, you worthless thing¡± Herne snarled. The knocker only laughed. ¡°What have you brought home this time? Another stray bag of bones?¡± It peered at me, ugly mishappen eyes narrowed in malice. ¡°A youngin this time, eh? Are we robbing children¡¯s hospitals these days, Herne?¡± Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. Herne only barked at him for silence. ¡°If you don¡¯t let me in, I really will burn you to the ground this time?¡± ¡°Should¡¯ve known not to go round the back, I go to all this trouble to avoid Mallory and this is what I get.¡± The door creaked open reluctantly. The knocker still had a knowing smirk on its face and when I passed it hissed a ¡°boo!¡±. The house was just as decrepit inside as it was on the outside. The hints of a glamourous past showed in the elaborate, yet dirty crowning and the old, nicked furniture made with richly colored, fine-grained wood. An exquisitely thick, woven rug displayed the same leviathan as earlier, as did paintings of other nautical life draped the walls: a ship, mermaids, an octopus. We had entered a sitting room, though I doubted a house this badly kept entertained many guests. The air was full of dust and the smell of mildew. If I had to live here, I feared my lungs would start molding and rotting like a real corpse. I think Herne noticed my distaste since he glared at me and gave me a nasty smile. ¡°If you don¡¯t like it, you¡¯re always free to die again.¡± I glared back at him but schooled my features into a neutral look and said cordially, ¡°I¡¯ve changed my mind, I¡¯d like to return home. To Macha¡¯s house.¡± ¡°Can¡¯t do that boyo.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± I asked petulantly, not caring that I let a whine creep into my tone. ¡°There are rules, kid. You¡¯re dead and that means you don¡¯t have the same rights as the living, including going where you¡¯d like.¡± ¡°So your options are dying, for good this time, I haven¡¯t heard of anyone who¡¯s come back twice, but I suppose you¡¯re free to try. Or you can come with me and find a patron, which would give you a modicum of freedom¡± holding his thumb and index finger a sliver apart. His condescending manner was starting to grate at me. But the fact that I knew almost nothing about this city, where it was, and how I was supposed to leave was a whirlpool of anxiety in my mind. The gate I had entered from could lead anywhere. I might not even be in Scotland anymore for all I knew. Further inside, past the sitting room, I was greeted by a half rotted, thinly carpeted stairway. The house was too dim for me to see the top and the effect was like staring into the gaping maw of a massive beast, the carpet a curling tongue ready to grab me for the monster to swallow whole. The rest of the room was similarly shadowed, the glowing lichens the rest of the city seemed to favor were absent here. From the living room crept a girl about my age with sleek chin-length hair and a red cloak as if she was preparing to go out, despite the late hour. ¡°If you were trying to avoid me by coming round the back, you¡¯ve failed¡± she said to Herne, disdain dripping from every word. ¡°Deidre dear¡± Herne said sweetly, ¡°Why would I avoid you? You know how I love to hear your angelic voice and see that cherubic face of yours¡± He reached out to pinch her cheek but, she swatted away his outstretched hand. The sudden change in Herne¡¯s demeanor was quite shocking. Deidre had stalked over to me and was eyeing me the way a cat watches a mouse. She was not a pretty girl. Her lips were very thin, like an old lady¡¯s. All her features were too sharp, nose too pointed, her cheeks were a sharp plane. But together, they gave her an arresting look, intense and intimidating. When she reached out as if to pull me closer, I shrank away. A mirthless smile graced her face, as if my reaction was a test. ¡°Skittish isn¡¯t he?¡± she said to Herne. That rankled. I scowled which only made her grin all the harder as if all she wanted was to get a reaction out of me. All I wanted was to leave the damn place, to stop breathing in the damp, moldy air, to stop fearing that the half rotten beams holding this shack together would fall atop me. Herne eventually scolded Deidre, ¡°Stop pestering the boy. Have you prepared the attic like I asked?¡± He gave her a pointed look, to which she scoffed and sniffed, ¡°Good enough for him I should think.¡± I would hate to know what she thought I deserved, but I¡¯m sure to find out, since I really have nowhere else to go for this night, or day by now, at least. The attic was cramped and filthy but with the dimly glowing lichen shining in from the streets below and the budding sunrise, it was brighter than the rest of the depressingly dark house. Deidre brought me up and left with a flash of her cloak and a call from the stairs, ¡°I don¡¯t hope that you like it, because you¡¯re not staying long, country boy¡±. The smell of mildew permeated everything. The blankets were free of dust but that couldn¡¯t be said of the rest of the room. Mouse droppings lined the edges of the walls and I could hear them skittering in the ceiling and behind the walls. With a firm tug, the window reluctantly swung open, letting in a cool night breeze. I¡¯m not sure how I fell asleep in that dump, but I did because the next thing I knew the lichen lamps were glowing bright as daylight and I could hear the daily clamor of a waking city outside. The room looked even dingier in the daylight. Downstairs things were not much better. Softly glowing lamps in warm tones flickered throughout the house if it could even be called that. The house had lost its eerie, haunted atmosphere, and now simply looked weary and run-down. Though the sun had yet to rise for at least another hour, Herne and Deidre sat in the dining room eating breakfast and arguing heatedly. ¡°I¡¯m not saying we should side with the Underhands but you must admit they have a point¡± Deidre hissed. Herne looked pointedly at her, ¡°I¡¯m not doing this again. They¡¯re a bunch of lying, pissing, low-lives who are more likely to dress in drag and dance a musical than sign a rational treaty written in ink rather than pigs¡¯ blood. The heathens.¡± Deidre just leaned back and stuck her tongue at him. They both noticed me standing in the doorway at the same time. ¡°You sniveling, little eavesdropper. How long have you been standing there?¡± asked Deidre in a snide voice. ¡°Deidre¡± Herne warned. To me, he simply gestured towards the food on the table and said ¡°Breakfast, we¡¯ll be doing a test of sorts after you¡¯ve eaten. I don¡¯t know how long it¡¯ll, could be half an hour, could be half the day. It might hurt like a bitch, and you¡¯ll wish your sister left you for dead or it¡¯ll be the most pleasant experience of your short, peasant life. So enjoy this last moment of normalcy, because nothing¡± he looked me dead in the eyes, with a grin so intense and devoid of any mirth, that I almost ran out the door, ¡°Nothing, will ever be the same again¡±. Needless to say, breakfast was a tense affair. After, we moved to the courtyard where Herne consulted the stars. The night was perfectly clear and the moon was a sliver of crescent light. In other words, it was a perfect night for stargazing. I desperately hoped that was all we were doing, but the knot in the pit of my stomach said otherwise. Herne looked to us with a smile and his hands clasped together. ¡°Wonderful night for fishing, eh?¡± From the puzzled look on my face, Deidre sighed, as if my ignorance was a slight to her, and whispered, ¡°Fishing is when you cast about looking for a god or goddess to be your patron. You give them something, emotion, imagination, whatever it is that they want, and in return you get magic.¡± She whispered a small cantrip and a tear on her voluminous sleeve stitched itself together, ¡°See?¡± ¡°Stop whispering, children¡± Herne commanded, ¡°Finn, come here¡±. He tapped the eye of the leviathan with his boot. Reluctantly, I did as he said. ¡°No need to be afraid¡± he said, trying to be reassuring, but mostly failing. ¡°I was just jesting this morning. Hardly anybody gets any of the Savages, the ones who drive people mad and practice those barbaric rituals of eye gouging and cannibalism. Practically no one, really. Just a joke, thought I could get you to piss your pants boyo, looked like you nearly did¡± he laughed at his own joke, which really was not funny at all. He handed me a cup of wine ¡°for courage¡±. It was a deep red color and moved slow as molasses. One whiff and I almost gagged, it reeked of rot and poison. If I drank it, I was sure I would die. Both Herne and Deidre looked at me expectedly. They couldn¡¯t actually expect me to drink this stuff, could they. I tried to plead with Herne, but he just looked at me the way you would look at a whining toddler. ¡°Just drink it, ya great cowardly oaf¡±, a hint of an accent accidently peeking out of annoyance. Herne didn¡¯t seem to be the sort who¡¯d take no for an answer. If I didn¡¯t drink it, he¡¯d likely pry my jaw open and have Deidre pour it down my throat, not caring if I choked or not. I looked over at him, then down at the wine. It looked innocuous enough if you could ignore the smell. I drank it. It was thick and sickly sweet, the most disgusting wine I have ever had the misfortune to drink, if it was wine at all. As I tried to gulp it down, it moved so slowly down my throat, I thought I would suffocate. And I think I did because I started to run out of air, and the black stars of unconsciousness started closing in. When I woke, I wasn¡¯t in that moldy, rattrap of a home. Where was I? The room around me had queer, off-white walls, tiled in white and yellow stained tesserae. Rough and slightly warm to the touch, it almost felt alive. The floor was carpeted in coarse, black fur that soaked up all the dim firelight from the torches fixed to the walls. Past the bone white door were rooms and hallways made of the same off-putting, white walls. I must have wandered for what felt like an hour (with my frayed nerves, it was hard to tell how much time had truly passed) when I found a man sitting on an armchair, thankfully made of very normal looking plaid cloth. ¡°Where are we?¡± I asked. He looked at me and I could tell instantly that he was mad. There was a wild gleam in his eye and his lips were pulled into a painfully wide grin, showing off his dirty yellow teeth littered with who knows what. ¡°Finn!¡± he cried, like we were old friends, ¡°I¡¯ve been waiting ages for you.¡± ¡°This is your house you know, you should know your way around¡± he tutted at me, with a comical frown on his bug-eyed face. His hair was a rat¡¯s nest, gray and tangled, falling to his shoulders, and I could swear it moved by itself. Rail thin, gaunt really, he moved with a frenetic, almost deranged energy. He wasn¡¯t ugly per say but everything about him felt skewed and off putting. ¡°What do you mean this is my house?¡± I asked. The man only cackled in delight. He cooed and I could see a few crooked teeth hanging from his gums. ¡°Old man Herne is really throwing you in the deep end isn¡¯t he?¡± he muttered, which set him off on another howling fit of laughter. The only thing I wanted to do was leave, but the thought of wandering aimlessly amidst the halls of bone sent shivers up my spine. ¡°Pardon me, but could you show me the way out? I wouldn¡¯t want to take up any more of your time.¡± I asked, trying to suppress the quiver in my voice. ¡°Oh ho, but don¡¯t you want to make a contract?¡± he asked as he danced around me. ¡°After all isn¡¯t that why Herne sent you here?¡±. Suddenly, his voice dropped to a menacing growl. From behind me, he commanded, ¡°Sit¡±. I turned around, about to ask where, when an armchair that most certainly had not been there before had materialized in the center of the room. The old man sat with businesslike behind a gorgeous desk of dark wood, hands steepled beneath his chin. He gestured to the chair, his fingers had stopped twitching and dancing, and his gestures were instead laced with polished grace. Even his appearance had changed, he was now dressed in a suit of luscious black silk and his tangled mane was now smoothed back from his face, though I thought I did see it twitch from time to time. I sat. The chair, like everything else in the room was warm to the touch, and the black leather was disturbingly soft and pliable. ¡°Now, to business¡±. He drew a thick sheet of creamy paper from a drawer and laid it in front of me. ¡°Here are the terms.¡± Chapter 4 The document, though it was only a single page, was crammed full of crabbed writing. Every word was tiny and nearly impossible to make out. For how long I sat there, attempting to read, I do not know. But when I was finally done, I looked up to see the god, for what else could he be, still in the same position as before, hands folded neatly on the desk and staring with patient attentiveness. The first line read, ¡°The acolyte, in return for magic, enough to fulfill a task shall give flesh as befits the magic used.¡± ¡°Flesh?¡± I asked the god, suddenly queasy. ¡°I don¡¯t need magic. I have it, see¡± I tried to cast a spell for light, a simple rhyme, a nursery rhyme Macha had taught me when I was still afraid of the dark. ¡°Star light, Star bright, May night be light as day, and my days be merry and gay.¡± Nothing happened, so I tried again. ¡°That¡¯s not going to work¡±, the god said with the words mashed together as he was propping up his chin with his arm on the table. ¡°You¡¯re dead, dear boy. There¡¯s no life, no magic left in that sad, too young corpse of yours. I could help with that, perhaps flesh is too high a price to pay for now.¡± ¡°What do you have to offer? Herne wouldn¡¯t be too happy if you came back empty handed, would he?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t care what Herne wants, he could drop dead and rot for all I care¡±, the venom with which I said this surprised even myself. I had never hated anyone before, not even the other villagers when they turned and hunched a bit when Macha walked by, nor when they raised the prices when we ventured out to be meat and produce. But Herne, whenever I thought of that crooked little man, I felt a hot rage that scorched my throat like a burning shot of whiskey. ¡°Oh, such a grudge against your new master already I see. Hmm, in that case, you would need something more than flimsy anger to take him down, eh?¡± he said, conspiratorially, ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ve got just the thing for you.¡± ¡°Are you sure you don¡¯t want to trade meat for magic? I swear, I¡¯ll only take skin, just a bit¡±. I shook my head horrified. ¡°Alright, it was worth a try.¡± Sighing, he muttered, ¡°What I wouldn¡¯t give for some fresh meat.¡± ¡°What to do, what to do?¡±, he stood up and walked around me, ¡°Skinny, cowardly, no don¡¯t protest you know it too, not too much brain in here¡± he leaned in flicked my forehead as he came back around behind his desk. ¡°Hmm, the only thing you have plenty of is health and good memories, so pick one. Which could you live without?¡± ¡°Health? You know I¡¯m dead right?¡± ¡°Oh sure, but you still got all your teeth, don¡¯t you? All your senses are in good order. You could trade your sense of hearing for a generous dose of power. Enough to raze Baile Bo to the ground three times over. I know you have a distaste for the city.¡± I was quite fond of my teeth and my hearing. Sure, I might¡¯ve hated Herne and his city, but not enough to trade their destruction for a lifetime of suffering. ¡°How much is a memory worth to you?¡± I asked him. ¡°Depends if it¡¯s good or bad, whether it¡¯s a pivotal moment, or it¡¯s what you had for breakfast¡±, his voice took on a serious, business-like tone, ¡°I pay better for good ones sure, but sometimes the bad ones are necessary, you wouldn¡¯t know who you¡¯d be without them.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll take it, memories for power.¡±, confidence suddenly swelling in my breast, I¡¯ve always thought about what I could do if I had as much power as Macha did or if I had an ability like superheroes in comics. But now I had an offer to gain just that, just barely within my grasp. I read the rest of the document hastily. It listed trivial requirements: an iron rich diet, routine exercise, moon bathing once a month, etc. But hidden near the end, squeezed in along the border, a line caught my eye, the handwriting was neat and feminine, a sharp contrast to the messy scrawl that the rest of the document was written in. It read, ¡°The acolyte, after a six-month trial, shall gain all and unrestrained access to the divinity¡¯s power unless the terms of the contract have been violated.¡± Interesting. ¡°Any problems? Questions? Concerns?¡±, the god asked. ¡°I ¡­ um¡­ this portion here¡±, I choked out the words, if he saw me as a coward already, all the better, I¡¯d play it up and when the six months were up, I¡¯d rob him of everything he has. I pointed to one of the many arbitrary rules, one forbidding me interacting with any religious figures and visiting any shrine, temple, or church dedicated to another deity. ¡°Why can¡¯t I interact with other religions?¡±, I ask. ¡°Ahh that, I¡¯ve had one too many acolytes stolen by those filthy, silver-tongued mongrels they call priests. You don¡¯t need to worry about that¡± the god said, ¡°You wouldn¡¯t dare desert me would you?¡± He gave me a knowing look, his blood shot eyes searching my face for any sign of trickery, then traced the line with his finger and as his bony index moved over the spidery text, each letter lifted itself off the page and sank into his nail, darkening it just a touch. I shuddered slightly, perhaps I shouldn¡¯t have said anything. Despite my newfound confidence, I knew I was still a coward at heart. The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°Now, anything else you would like to amend?¡± This last word was said with a tinge of menace, enough to raise the hairs on the back of my head. There was in fact, something I would like to change, the bit about renting one of the chambers of my heart to the god as a living space. But my throat gave up on me, and I dared not utter anything but glum acceptance of his terms. ¡°Good¡±, he sounded pleased. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a beautiful, wooden fountain pen. The bronze nib was polished to a brilliant shine and engraved with delicate designs. The grain of the rich oak was just barely visible beneath the polish. Exotic, Japanese koi swam across its surface, occasionally sinking into the pitch-black lacquer only to reappear elsewhere. He held it out to me. When I didn¡¯t take it, how could he expect me to handle such a beautiful instrument, he shook it, ¡°Well what are you waiting for? Take it!¡± The pen was surprisingly heavy, it weighed what as much as a full mug of ale. I couldn¡¯t imagine how long it would take to write the contract before me. ¡°Where do I sign?¡± I asked. There was hardly any room on the page for me to even make out individual words let alone enough space to sign my name. The god looked down at the page, ¡°So sorry about that, here let me¡± whisking up the paper. He shook it then handed it back to me, the document had grown an inch or two. I signed, the beautiful, heavy pen sank deep into the page and the ink flowed freely leaving thick heavy lines in something that resembled my name. ¡°Ahh, I love that smell¡± the god said, taking a deep breath, ¡°fresh ink on a new contract¡±. He slid the paper towards him, picked up that beauty of a pen, and signed the pen with a graceful flourish. Holding the page between thumb and forefinger, a flame slowly crept up from where he pinched it, devouring his name before I could read it. He let go, the fire and paper simply hovering in midair. ¡°It¡¯s been ages since I¡¯ve signed a new contract. You don¡¯t know how many people just leave as soon as they land here. Hardly any have come in the last, god I don¡¯t even know how many years.¡± At that my heart leapt into my throat. Just what had I gotten myself into? ¡°Wait, earlier how did you know I was with Herne? I never mentioned him. And I never got your name¡±, I¡¯m ashamed to say my voice did trail off at the end there. ¡°Figured it out eh? I know everything you know kid, this is your mind¡±, spreading his arms out to emphasize his point, ¡°I¡¯m a bit embarrassed to say I took a peak while you were still wandering about. ¡°As for my name, it¡¯s Azaroth, but don¡¯t tell Herne that. He¡¯ll go into his little library, filled with his trifling mortal knowledge and he¡¯ll come to some conclusion that I¡¯m some minor ocean deity or whatnot. And when he does let him, alright? Don¡¯t mention me and don¡¯t use my power until you get to a point where you can wreck some real havoc.¡± Azaroth looked at me knowingly and raised an eyebrow, ¡°Alright?¡± I nodded. ¡°Well, it¡¯s been a pleasure doing business with you!¡± he held his hand out for me to shake. But when I was a bit too slow, he simply grabbed mine and as he did, I felt a sharp, burning pain on the back of my hand. A sigil of a koi wrapped around a crescent moon had been burned into my flesh. A second later, I found myself back in the courtyard with Herne and Deidre staring curiously at me. I was still standing but the glass of wine I had been holding lay at my feet, red splashes on my pants and shoes. It must have been in that haunting place for a few minutes since Herne and Diedre were looking at me with eager attention, but no longer than an hour as the sun had not yet fully risen. ¡°So, who¡¯d you see?¡±, asked Herne, ¡°male or female? young or old?¡± ¡°Were you scared to death?¡± asked Deidre. ¡°Did you piss your pants¡±, glancing down. Herne grabbed my hand, peering intensely at the sigil, still warm and stinging, trails of blood running down my arm. ¡°What is this? A fish? I¡¯ve never seen this before.¡± Fear and anxiety sank in my stomach. The god I had met was almost certainly mad, insane, a rogue agent with malevolent intents. I yanked my arm back, the back of my hand still steaming slightly from the fresh burn. Pain rippled down my arm as I flexed my fingers, I hissed at the sudden sting. It was a fish like Herne said but painted in a way that resembled a relaxed stroke of a brush, an effortless sort of elegance. ¡°What did you do to me?¡± Herne simply raised an unconcerned brow. ¡°I helped you, more than you would ever know.¡± He then spun on his heel and called out. ¡°Now, to the library, children¡± The library, like the rest of the house was ancient and smelled heavily of mildew. Cobwebs wreathed the corners and crowned the walls. Rows of bookshelves packed full of messily stuffed books filled the room. But with the sun just barely beginning to rise, sending orange rays of light slanting through the tall windows, it looked ¡­ cozy and inviting. Almost like Macha¡¯s kitchen, crammed full of drying plants and potions. Whatever I had expected Herne to find in the library, an arcane tome of lost knowledge, a wizened old librarian with the ability to answer any question, it was not impish creature standing before us. ¡°What is that?¡± I whispered to Deidre. ¡°A book¡± ¡°No, I mean that¡± I said, emphatically, nodding towards the creature. ¡°A book, didn¡¯t you hear me, it¡¯s a shoseki, you dunderhead. Haven¡¯t you any basic knowledge of spirits?¡± She looked at me like I was a yapping lap dog, no worse, like I was a piece of dung that she had found, tragically stuck to her new shoes. ¡°They¡¯re objects that turn into spirits after serving humans for a hundred years¡± she explained, each word dripping with disdain. ¡°Oh¡±. I turned back to Herne and the creature. Looking at it again, it did look a bit like a book. Its body thick and rectangular with thin spindly limbs. Each breath it took was accompanied by a faint rustling sound and I could almost see the pages rustling. Its head was small, compared to the body, and looked almost like a turtle with its large, bulging eyes and a beak for a mouth. Herne spoke to the shoseki in a low and formal voice, then waved me over. I inclined my head in greeting, unsure whether the creature spoke English or not. Herne grabbed my newly branded hand and presented it to the shoseki which peered intensely at the mark and spoke to Herne in a quiet rasping voice in a language full of light vowels and a skipping rhythm. After the shoseki had finished speaking, its heavily lidded eyes trembled and slowly started to close, its limbs curled into itself, and when it was finally asleep, only a book remained. A perfectly ordinary leather book, titled ¡®On the origins of Gods and Myths¡¯. There was no author. Chapter 5 ¡°So what did the Shoseki say?¡± Deidre asked, ¡°He¡¯s been marked by a death god hasn¡¯t he?¡± We were walking to Herne¡¯s study because he needed ¡°to attend to business that were not our concern¡±. ¡°I¡¯ll explain later¡±. Frustration or perhaps annoyance clipped Herne¡¯s capacity for small talk and general ability to weather Deidre¡¯s incessant pestering. Unable to get any information out of Herne, she turned to me. ¡°What¡¯d he look like? This god of yours. Or goddess, you have that cherubic look, old ladies must love you, don¡¯t they?¡± ¡°Um, I guess¡±, chatting with Deidre seemed like a quick route to getting verbally clawed. Needless to say, I was trying to keep conversations to a minimum. ¡°It was a god, with these crazy, bulging eyes, messy hair, homeless looking. He had this gorgeous pen. I¡¯ve never seen anything like it.¡± ¡°Huh, that doesn¡¯t sound like anyone I know.¡± ¡°What¡¯s with those contracts though?¡± Deidre looked at me, incredulous. ¡°Do you really not know anything?¡± She turned to Herne, ¡°How could you not even explain the contracts? Is he even dead?¡± She picked up one of my hands, the unmarked one, examining it with scientific rigor. ¡°There isn¡¯t even any sign of cracking, the color¡¯s perfect.¡± She looked me in the eye, ¡°there isn¡¯t even any sign of clouding of the lens.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t know how lucky you are, Finn. Glaucoma has to be the worst thing about dying.¡± Looking at her again, I did notice that her skin had a pale, gray sheen, and her eyes were a very pale blue, made more so by a slight clouding of the lens. ¡°There¡¯s no way you did his resuscitation, Herne. It¡¯s too good.¡±, she glanced at me with an eyebrow arched. ¡°So who did it?¡± ¡°My sister¡± It hurt to even think about Macha. Homesickness rolled over me like a sudden wave of thunder. Deidre gave a scandalized gasp, ¡°Herne! You grave robber, what a thing to do, stealing poor babes out of their caskets! How could you?¡± ¡°Stop being so dramatic, Deidre. I did no such thing. Finn was dead. He came to life. The only thing I did was open the lid.¡± Herne said, exasperated. ¡°If Herne didn¡¯t rescue you from the grave, why are you here, Deidre?¡± Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. Deidre tossed her hair over her shoulder. ¡°If you must know, my full name is Deidre ¨® Maoilriain, heiress to the Maoilriain company and fortune. Or I was, until a tragic incident that ended with my beloved betraying me which resulted in ¡­ you know¡±, she gestured flippantly, ¡°at least we hadn¡¯t gone through with the wedding yet, then the company would really be in trouble. Anyway, after all that drama, Papa decided it¡¯d be best for me to live and learn with our dear old guardian, Herne, for the time being.¡± ¡°He has a history of dealing with these things¡± she said in stage whisper. ¡°So that¡¯s my lifestory. Woe is me¡±, placing her hand dramatically on her forehead. We arrived at Herne¡¯s study, a great hulking beast of a door barred the entrance. Herne whipped around, ¡°Stay!¡±, he spit, then locked himself in. Instead of opening on its hinges, the planks of wood and metal simply rotated as Herne walked towards it, opening up a perfectly sized whole to allow him entrance. Once he was inside, I could hear at least several locks being turned, the entire door shuddering, the metal and wood flipping back into place as gears turned, aligning in a wonderous feat of engineering. The whole contraption stopped with a great, satisfying thud. I tried walking towards the door, which unsurprisingly, stayed shut. It might as well have been a wall. The whole display only left me more curious about what could be behind that door, such a device must offer great security and not even the door to the house was so secure. ¡°Have you ever been inside?¡± I asked Deidre. ¡°No of course not¡±, she replied archly, ¡°Don¡¯t even think of asking, I did once, and he got himself into such a rage, he wouldn¡¯t even look at me for three days.¡± We waited, or rather I waited, after a few minutes Deidre lost interest and wandered off, to the library, or her room, or elsewhere I do not know and she wasn¡¯t interested in sharing. Finally, Herne emerged and again the door made a wonderful performance of turning itself inside out. ¡°Still here, eh?¡± Herne glanced at me, with glazed disinterest. ¡°That god of yours is bad news, boy. Took me ages to track him down, an obscure one. Tries to keep a low profile, but when he gets ahold of an acolyte, that¡¯s you by the way, bad things happen¡±, an ominous tone creeping into his voice. ¡°Well, that¡¯s not by problem¡±, he said nonchalantly, ¡°that¡¯s for whoever sponsors you.¡± He led us into the living room and dropped himself in an armchair, kicking his feet up. ¡°Sponsor?¡± I asked. ¡°Oh did I forget to tell you? Old age you know¡±, he tapped a finger on his head, ¡°you¡¯re dead. I think we established that. Well, us living folk don¡¯t really like having the dead running around acting as if they¡¯re just as good as the living, not me though I couldn¡¯t care less to be honest, so they established a sort of patron system where the dead need a patron in order to go about the lives. It¡¯s unfair and unnecessary if you ask me but it pays my bills so I don¡¯t mind a bit. The divine contract bit is just to make you more attractive to the patrons, you can get quite a bit more for a corpse with some magic than one without.¡± ¡°Though I don¡¯t know whether the customers would like a slave who¡¯s likely to set the city on fire or drive the parliament mad.¡± He added. ¡°Hmm, the Underhands might be interested. In fact, I¡¯d think they pay a hefty sum really.¡± My heart was pounding, did he just say slave? At this rate, I¡¯d never make it out of the city, much less find my way back home. Herne was a businessman, or at least he seemed to be one, and businessmen were loathe to make losing deal. All I had to do was make it seem like a terrible idea to sponsor me and make life for Herne miserable enough that he would be begging me to return to Macha. Chapter 6 After the episode with the demon and his contract, Herne locked me in the attic, providing only a bucket for all my bodily needs and meals twice a day. Boredom invaded my mind as much as the smell of piss in the corner. Within three days, I felt as if madness was an inevitability, a destination we would all find ourselves at one day. At first, I tried to find the powers that Herne claimed I possessed but they showed no sign of revealing themselves. They couldn¡¯t be triggered through emotional outbursts and if they could I would¡¯ve burned the house down along with everyone in it, me included. I tried meditating and casting the small cantrips that Macha had taught me, all of which refused to work no matter how long I spent muttering the spell. Though the pitiful amount of magic I possessed seemed to be gone, I was glad to find that my heartbeat sounded unchanged despite the occupied chamber, I tried not to think about the unwanted resident if he was even there that is. The only thing I hadn¡¯t tried yet was trying to actually speak with the god. Somehow, I felt that if he appeared broad daylight, surrounded by solid, earthly things, it would turn this entire nightmare into reality. But I would need answers, and more than that I needed power, if I was to escape Herne and this city. I knocked on my chest, feeling a bit silly, ¡°Azaroth, are you there?¡± I whispered, in the (very unlikely) case that Deidre was listening at the door. When nothing happened, I sighed in relief. The air was rancid and stale, it¡¯s shocking how I couldn¡¯t recall when I last took a breath. ¡°Are you really so disappointed that you couldn¡¯t see me?¡±, a voice asked teasingly. I whipped around, but the attic was empty. My only company, the mattress and blanket and dirty, rotting wood. ¡°Look up¡±, the voice called, so close it felt as if the voice was right next to me. I jerked back, but there was nothing there so I did as it said, but only empty rafters and the wind howling through some unpatched hole greeted my view. A short burst of cackling, this time from somewhere below me, and there on my hand was a lipless mouth grinning at me with rows of razor-sharp teeth. Somehow when it opened up to speak, I could see the cavern of teeth and tongue, impossibly deep when my hand was less than an inch in depth. When it spoke, I could feel a light puff of air as it drew breath from a nonexistent set of lungs. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°Azaroth?¡± I asked tentatively, in a barely audible voice. Fear knifed its way through my heart. If I had any doubt that the being I had met was a demon, they resolved themselves there. #??????? ¡°Glad to see you remembered my name kid.¡± ¡°How is this even possible?¡± ¡°What¡¯s mine is yours, what¡¯s yours is mine. You didn¡¯t think an exchange of power was as simple as buying a bauble, did you?¡± ¡°I suppose not. Well now that I¡¯ve held up my end of the bargain, where¡¯s the magic that you promised?¡± Azaroth chuckled, a deep throaty sound which I could feel all the way up my arm. It¡¯s hard to believe I would ever grow accustomed to having cohabitating with a demon. ¡°Patience little one¡±, he said, slowly sinking into my arm, ¡°you¡¯ll get what you bargained for all in due time.¡± ¡°Wait, Azaroth! Help me get out of here¡±, I called, panic overriding any sense of secrecy. But the demon stayed silent. My arm was left exactly as it was, pale, smooth skin with all the usual scars and esoteric cuts and bruises. Through the single, dirty window in the attic, rare rays of sunlight peaked out from behind the perpetual layer of grey clouds. I could see the bustle of Baile Bo, virtually unidentifiable from the city I had glimpsed the night I arrived. During the day, I saw very view if any chains or shackles, the slaves must only come out at night. The thought of such a life lived without sight of the sun filled me with a dark rage. Outside people were dressed in a mixture of styles, many of the humans favored modern clothing, t-shirts and suits alike while many of the bestial and spiritual creatures eschewed clothing altogether or dressed in medieval cloaks and robes. I watched as an old couple trundled along with a winged donkey pulling a rickety cart full of bundled straw and apples. Despite the presence of the odd t-shirt, I saw no sign of any electronics nor automobiles. At home we had only an old rotary phone which I seldom used. It was passed down from Macha¡¯s mother and magiked to connect to both the human and witch networks. Macha only used the phone when I was out of the house but every so often, I¡¯d spy her with the phone pressed to her ear and speaking in harsh, irritated Welsh, a language she rarely used but I suspected was her mother tongue. Pedestrians ambled along with slow, unhurried steps, their heads turning this way and that as they gazed at the myriad of wares the city had to offer. Children raced along, their high-pitched laughter so like the warbling of birds. All of them seemed unaware of the dark underbelly the city revealed once the sun lifted its watchful gaze. I stayed there peering out that cracked yellow window, high above the cobblestone streets, watching with petulant anger at Herne and the city as if the two were somehow inseparable, a single entity with no thought but to be the cause of my suffering. Chapter 7 Herne didn¡¯t let me out of the attic until a week after I first arrived in Baile Bo. He had finally arranged for a buyer and when I stumbled downstairs, still in the same clothes as I brought, he grimaced at the smell and layers of grime. ¡°We can¡¯t have you looking like that when the Necrium come, boyo. Though I¡¯ve sniffed quite a few that put you to shame¡±, he chuckled. The bathroom was tiled with blue mosaics and lit with a warm buttery light from ornate wall scones. But most importantly, there were no windows. The sink was simply a large porcelain bowl fixed to cedar countertop; there were no sign of pipes, yet when I turned the faucet cool, clear water flowed out. At the bottom of the bowl, the water emptied out through a seemingly ordinary hole which upon closer inspection to be a sticker. I wouldn¡¯t have noticed at all if one of the edges hadn¡¯t peeled away. I picked at the sticker, which easily came off, and pocketed it. The tub was a simple, clawfoot tub and like the sink, there were no piping. I filled the tub with deliciously warm water and stepped in delicately. I scrubbed myself with a coarse bristled brush and a bar of old-fashioned lye soap. After I was done, my skin was the fresh pink of a newborn baby and I could feel the ghostly lines that that abrasive brush had traced against my skin. Deidre had dropped off a pair of slacks and a white button-down shirt earlier with a smirk and a knowing look. ¡°See you never, dead boy¡± she had whispered, blowing me a kiss. The clothes were old but clean, slightly too large for me. The shirt was so worn, it was practically transparent, and the pants had obviously been patched many times. On the underside of the belt were a monogramed AM. Somehow, I doubted Deirdre had legally purchased them, or if she had, it was from the rattiest secondhand store in the city. Though I suppose the clothes were well suited to my mission. To complete the look, I buttoned up the shirt wrong and left it untucked, let out my belt an extra notch, then mussed up my hair. I emerged from the bathroom clean and if I looked a bit sloppy, we could just put it down to nerves. Herne was waiting for me just outside the door and when I came out, he looked at me with the gaze of a farmer calculating the value of a prized bull. ¡°There that¡¯s much better! Tuck in your shirt and fix the buttons.¡± He said with a look of disdain then walked over to the living room, expecting me to follow like a loyal dog, which I did slowly, slouching as I went. ¡°Wait here¡±, Herne commanded in the same tone as one would tell a dog to stay. The living room was dim and musty, carpeted in a faded, Oriental rug that had once been a rich red, threaded through with a swirling pattern of gold leaves. The furniture was all dark heartwood and cracked leather that let out a poof of dust as I sat down. I could see myself in the mirror atop the dresser; my face looked pale and gaunt and dark hollows had appeared below my eyes, my normally brown hair seemed to have darkened a shade and was dry and brittle. Death had taken its toll, though the sentence was light. Still human, tired looking but otherwise normal. I waited ten minutes, then twenty; an hour passed. Finally, as I was about to doze off, I heard voices and the sound of the door unlocking. As I listened to that ghastly knocker handed out its customary insults, my heart beat a little faster. I harbored a secret hope that Azaroth would notice and come to my aid if my need was dire enough. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. The door opened, revealing Herne and a grossly obese man by his side. His nearly bald head was shiny with oil and sweat and the rolls of his fatty neck were pink with exertion. ¡°Why must you live like a beggar, so far from the heart of the city, Herne dear¡± he gasped, jowls shaking. His striped suspenders strained against his impressive girth, struggling to hold up a pair of ugly blue pants. A matching blue jacket hung on his arm, giving me a full view of his white shirt, damp with sweat. ¡°My grandfather¡¯s house, it has ¡­ sentimental value¡± Herne replied, graciously holding open the door. ¡°Ah, you must be Finn, Macha¡¯s get.¡± He said by way of greeting. ¡°He¡¯s Macha¡¯s nephew, not that it matters.¡± Herne corrected. ¡°My apologies dear boy, you do resemble her quite a bit, I¡¯ll have you know.¡± The man sat down with a heavy thump in the armchair across from me, a cloud of dust lifting into the air. Herne sat next to me with delicate grace, hardly disturbing the couch as he did so. ¡°Would you like some tea, Baron Mac Raith?¡± ¡°Yes, yes, that¡¯d be wonderful¡±, the baron replied, dabbing at his forehead with a lovely, silver handkerchief. Herne turned towards the stairs and called for Deirdre. She came down quickly, her feet lightly trotting on the thin carpet. Yet once she reached the bottom, she sauntered into view with a slow, elegant grace. ¡°Hello, Baron Mac Raith, it¡¯s always such a joy when you visit us¡±, greeting the Baron with uncharacteristic #graciousness. ¡°Deirdre, I must say, you¡¯re more stunning each time I visit aren¡¯t you¡±, he looked at Herne with a questioning glance and a pleasant smile. Herne simply scowled and mouthed ¡®No¡¯. And as the baron chatted with Deirdre who had sauntered off to the kitchen, I heard Herne mutter under his breath, ¡°for the last time, thrice damned slaver¡¯. Deirdre returned with a platter of fragrant, steaming tea and beautiful, porcelain cups so thin to be almost transparent and painted in delicate, botanical patterns. She poured and handed each cup out with practiced ease and a grace I did not know she possessed. The tea was pitch dark, heady, and floral. One sip and I felt invigorated and refreshed, yet somehow relaxed and calm. ¡°Ooh hoo hoo, what¡¯d you lace this with this time, Herne?¡± the baron chuckled. ¡°Bit of carnelian and Worshchester and a little something of my own making. It is to your liking?¡± Herne asked politely. ¡°It sure is, I must ask you for the recipe after we discuss business.¡± ¡°Of course, and I might politely remind you to refrain from touching the merchandise this time.¡± The baron gave a great, booming laugh. ¡°Of course, my apologies for the last time. You should¡¯ve seen Andrea¡¯s face though, what a hoot!¡± Herne gave him a tight-lipped smile. ¡°Does the boy have any special abilities, talents?¡± ¡°He is Macha¡¯s kin as you know, I suppose that would mean, he has the potential to possess some of Macha¡¯s potion-making prowess. And I had him sign a contract with Namazu, the god of river bottoms and poisons.¡± ¡°That¡¯s quite an accomplishment you¡¯ve got here Herne. I haven¡¯t heard the name Namazu in quite some time and in combination with Macha, I¡¯m almost salivating.¡± The baron grinned, revealing rows of razorsharp, shark teeth. ¡°I hope you haven¡¯t shown him around to anyone.¡± ¡°No, you¡¯re the first, I assure you.¡± ¡°Good, good. Well, the Necrium could use an asset like that. Could you imagine if we were able to doll out a narcotic of the caliber that Macha used to make? We might even be able to take over East Haven.¡± The baron¡¯s eyes lit up with excitement at the thought. He took a loud sip of tea, a few drops splattering onto his sweat-soaked shirt. ¡°How much do you want for him?¡± ¡°Finn, would you mind helping Deirdre brew another pot of tea.¡± Herne asked me, the first time he even said a word to me since walking in. I glared at him. When I tried to snap at him or give any sort of indication of the disgust of being sold like this, my throat clammed up, always my enemy at the worst of times. I could tell my cheeks were going pink with indignation, so I simply stomped away, upstairs. If I couldn¡¯t tell him off, the least I could do, was a blatant show of disobedience. But Herne and the baron didn¡¯t seem to care a bit as they simply went back to their conversation. ¡°I¡¯d hate to discuss money in front of the boy.¡± Herne told him.