Authors: C.N. Crawford
Look at her eyes, Tobias.
His skin warmed.
What were we talking about? A deal.
“Do you want the deal, or not? You’re not the only demon I can conjure, you know.”
She dropped her hands, and he looked away. “We have a deal.
But what will you do with him when I’ve drained him?”
“I’m going to kill him.”
She grimaced. “So predictable. I was hoping for a bit more creativity.” She turned, skulking away, her feet snapping over twigs as she walked. Her pale body disappeared into the dark trees. He had a sudden urge to plunge into the James to cool off.
The chorus of frogs droned louder. Tobias sheathed the athame, shoving it back in his pocket. He rubbed his arms, suddenly cold. A breeze from the river rushed through the trees, prickling his skin into goose flesh.
What things don’t I remember?
He picked his way through the magnolia grove, trying to rub the tension from the back of his neck.
It doesn’t matter what happened in the past. In the future, I kill Jack.
Warm sunlight bathed Thomas’s skin as he stood outside the Tower of London. He was home again, his strange American nightmare over. With coffee in hand, he’d taken his usual walk past the streets with his favorite names—French Ordinary Court, Savage Gardens, Crutched Friars.
Leaning against a fence, he listened to the gentle murmuring of tourists who milled around the Traitor’s Gate. They talked of Anne Boleyn and Lady Jane Grey. The places of misery always drew the biggest crowds.
Twenty-one towers in all stood along the Thames, a fortress guarding the city for a thousand years. How many people had met early deaths here? There were beheadings before crowds, and torture in the basement of the White Tower. And in the Bowyer Tower, Richard III’s brother was drowned in a vat of Malmsey wine for his treasonous acts.
Thomas stared at the empty moat below, unable to rid his mind of the image of his own body in a rickety wooden boat, floating through the Traitor’s Gate.
Why am I thinking about that?
Something black swooped at him, and the sound of beating wings filled his ears. One of the tower’s ravens must have gotten loose, and it circled his head, pecking at his hair and forehead. He swatted at the bird, his hands flying up to defend himself. It soared away. But when he looked back at the moat, he saw a deep red liquid pouring from the Traitor’s Gate, like Malmsey wine filling the empty moat—or like blood.
Was this another hallucination? His heart skipped a beat, and he glanced around. The crowds were gone now, and the sky had darkened to an iron gray. Cold, dank air filled his lungs.
He gasped, opening his eyes. He lay on the stone floor of a dark cell, and something sharp poked through his shirt. A thick, scratchy bedding of dried rushes and rags covered almost the entire prison floor, and the room reeked of every kind of bodily fluid.
It was a large room, nearly empty apart from the messy floor. An iron-bound wooden door blocked the exit.
Am I in the Tower?
He rubbed his eyes, sitting up straight against a damp wall. With a sinking feeling, he made out Oswald’s form in the darkness.
Maremount is no illusion. It’s as real as the damp stone behind my back.
His head still ached from where he’d been hit, and his throat was rough with thirst. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been imprisoned, but his rumbling stomach let him know he was overdue for a meal or two. He rose to peer out the window, and his legs nearly gave way as he took in his altitude. He and Oswald were in one of the central fortress towers that seemed to pierce the clouds.
This must be the Iron Tower
. In the darkness, he couldn’t see the ground below, just a ring of white stone towers through the fog. As he stared, the sky began to lighten to a dusty purple.
He turned, slumping against the wall again. From a window, morning light seeped into the cell, illuminating carvings that scarred the smooth stone. They were mostly names of prisoners who’d been locked here before: RAVELLIOR, MALCHIUS, URSULA.
One name stood out—MORELLA. It was carved above an empty fireplace in a large, ornate script with a herald above it—a sparrow surrounded by vines.
Pale, bluish light bathed the room, and Oswald shifted in the rushes. The boy had a straight nose, and a dimple in his chin. Thomas could imagine how pretty his sister Eden must have been before she’d been imprisoned. Oswald slung an arm over his eyes to shield them before forcing himself up, blinking. He scowled. “They caught us.”
“I noticed.”
He scrubbed at his face. “Is there water?”
“Nope.” His dream of a moat filling with blood seemed less surreal than this. “I don’t know if I want to ask what will happen next.”
Oswald rose to stare out the window. “With luck, we’ll get a quick death.”
Thomas’s breath caught in his lungs. “And if we’re unlucky?”
“They’ll break our bones and drain our blood until we’re near death. At least, they will for me. I’m a Ragman. They’ll want to learn where the others lurk in the Cwag. Then they’ll submerge us in a vat of charmed water in Lullaby Square, along with a few scorpions. Our lungs will fill to bursting, but we won’t die. They’ll hang the vats over the city gates as a warning.”
Panic spread through Thomas’s chest and he leapt up, a dull pain throbbing at the back of his head. “You didn’t have to help me. You should have run.”
Oswald stared out at the morning sky. “I would have ended up here sooner or later.”
Thomas clenched his fists. “There must be a way out of here.”
Oswald turned to glare at him. “There isn’t.” He nodded at the rags on the ground. “We probably won’t make it that long anyway. Have you seen the dried blood on the cloth? We’ll be dustmen of the token before long.”
Perfect. They’d be dead of the plague soon. Thomas closed his eyes, swaying in place. He could almost feel the ravens pecking at his eyes. He shook his head to clear his mind. “I’m going to figure something out.” He chewed a ragged thumbnail, pacing across the well-worn stone floor. “William said Eirenaeus escaped the Iron Tower.”
Oswald stood, resting his arms on the windowsill. It was open to the air, but barred. “That was centuries ago. After that, they lined the tower with iron.”
Thomas paced across the room. “Why iron? What does that mean?”
“Iron is Blodrial’s metal. He’s one of the earthly gods. He has the power to snuff out the use of Angelic by humans. Any magic used in here will be weak.”
This was too much to take in. “Earthly gods?”
“Tobias didn’t tell you any of this?” Oswald scoffed. “Probably never learned it. Always too busy swinging his pike around to impress Eden.” He raked a hand through his curly hair, still gazing outside. “Beforetime, humans had no Angelic. Some of the gods gave it us, so that we could create like they do. That gift caused a war, and the thwarted gods were punished by the others. They were trapped in fire and earth, in the oceans and the cores of planets and stars. Blodrial still wants to make amends. He hopes to be freed again, to live as a celestial god.”
“Ah, the Purgators’ god. The god of iron and blood.” Thomas scratched his stubble. “But there must be another way out. We’ll figure it out,” he said softly, running his fingers over the carved stone.
Oswald nodded toward the stone. “On the walls you’ll see the names of everyone here who died before us.”
Thomas stopped to point at the sparrow herald. “Who’s Morella?”
Oswald turned to look, a half-smile flickering across his features. “They put us in the old queen’s cell. They must think us very princely. She was your little crony Celia’s mother. She was executed in Lullaby Square.”
“I wouldn’t call Celia my crony,” he grumbled. “Without her, I’d probably be back in Boston now.”
“I could have told you that.” Oswald’s voice was ragged with bitterness. “Tobias should’ve known better than to trust a Throcknell. Let me guess—she’s a pretty little blossom. That would turn Tobias’s mind.”
“I don’t think that’s important right now.”
“Right.” Oswald turned to the window again. “You were just about to tell me how you were going to slay hundreds of guards and find your way out of a magical stone fortress.”
Thomas resumed his pacing. “Celia and I did get on well enough. At least, before she betrayed us. She won’t want us dead. Maybe she’ll help.”
“Lady Celestine holds no power. She’s nearly a prisoner herself. Queen Bathsheba would seal her up in the earth if the King would let her. She is a threat to Bathsheba. She hasn’t had children of her own yet. Celia could succeed her should the King die unexpectedly.”
A clanking noise called Thomas’s attention to the heavy wooden door, and he stopped pacing. The door swung open, and four guards dressed in blue and gold edged into the room. Oswald turned to glare at them, and a black-haired guard punched him in the jaw. Another wrenched his arms behind his back as his head slumped forward. There were too many to fight.
Thomas tried to follow, but a guard shoved him back. “What are you doing with him?” he shouted.
They dragged Oswald from the room, the door crashing shut behind them.
Thomas went cold. Oswald had been right. They were going to break his bones, and it was Thomas’s fault.
Jack turned the corner onto a narrow street lined with redbrick buildings, following the route that the scrying stone had shown. It had once been a straight path from the prison to the main street, but so many things had changed. Saint Peter Street in Salem had once been Prison Lane, and where the bodies had swung over Gallows Hill, children now climbed on a jungle gym. And Salem Village was renamed Danvers after a tormented English Baronet who’d hanged himself in his garden.
Cheery old place, the North Shore of Massachusetts.
It was a brisk day for April, and he tightened his gray scarf around his neck. From Brown Street, he turned right onto New Liberty Street. A crimson line marked the brick sidewalk, a guide to tourists hoping to learn of Salem’s dark past.
Jack’s family name remained nearby on the gentle drumlin where he’d once lived: Hathorne Hill. But everything else about the hill was different. For over a century, the grim Victorian towers of the Danvers Lunatic Asylum had blighted his hill’s crest. After the witch trials, they’d found a different way to deal with their outcasts. Of course, the asylum’s name had changed, too. Over the years, even as conditions worsened, the institution’s name had transformed into
Danvers State Hospital
. The bland moniker belied the misery inside: straitjackets, isolation rooms, brutal shock treatments. Where Jack’s apple trees had once grown, doctors performed hasty lobotomies with icepicks jammed though eye sockets, jiggled around until nothing remained of the person inside.
And Fiona says I’m a monster. I may have an unpleasant side, but at least I’m not a rampant sadist.
His father was, though. There was no question about that. But Jack was a visionary.
He turned right onto the pedestrianized brick walkway of Essex Street. Some changes were for the best, of course. When he was younger, this main street had been known by the unwieldy name
Ye street that goeth from ye meeting house to the training place.
After passing a cart selling pentagram amulets, he turned right toward
Ye Olde Witch Shoppe, its front window displaying crystals, a skull, and a stuffed raven. The scrying spell had sent him here, to this charlatan’s playground. Chimes tinkled as he pushed open the front door, and he surveyed the narrow, candlelit room. Incense, herbs, and fake spell books crowded rows of round tables. The scent of patchouli was stifling. To his left, glass bottles lined wooden shelves, and their handwritten labels identified them with names like BAT’S BLOOD, MEMORY OF VENUS, and WOLFSBANE.
Wolfsbane. Now that might actually be useful.
At the back of the shop, a young woman with wavy, dyed-red hair stood behind a counter, her face partially obscured by a candelabrum.
Jack felt something press against his leg, and he glanced down at a black cat wearing a white Elizabethan ruff. The creature rubbed against his calves with a low purr.
“Grimalkin!” the woman called.
The cat turned and ran to her. Jack followed. As he drew closer, past the dreamcatchers and cauldrons, he could see the woman’s curvy figure and maroon lipstick. She had dark, wavy hair, and tattooed alchemical symbols covered her arms. He hadn’t realized she would be so pretty.
She drummed silver fingernails on the counter. “Can I help you?”
He smiled. “It seems fate led me here.”
She grimaced. “What?”
“A scrying stone brought me to you, Alexandria.”
“A scrying stone?” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, staring at him. “What are you talking about?”