Authors: C.N. Crawford
Asmodeus’s attention remained riveted on his victim. He tutted. “I’ve fouled up the N.”
Thomas rose, bar in hand, and crept closer to Asmodeus. Oswald’s blue eyes shifted toward him, wide with disbelief. When Thomas was just inches away, Asmodeus turned, his face blanching at the bar raised over his head. He brought it down on the torturer’s skull with his full force. The Theurgeon crumpled to the floor. Thomas knelt, searching his robes until he found a set of keys tied around his waist. He untied the knot and scrambled up.
Rage burned through Thomas at the sight of Oswald. Bruises covered the young philosopher’s body. One eye was swollen shut, and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. His collarbone jutted out, its jagged edge piercing the skin near his shoulder. And across his chest, seared into his skin, was the word RAGMAN
,
the last three letters crammed together. Oswald’s lungs heaved, and he winced, his eyes closed, as though waiting for another burn.
“Oswald,” Thomas whispered, trying to jam a key into the lock. It didn’t fit.
Oswald’s body twitched at the sound. He hadn’t believed that Thomas was real.
“Oswald. It’s me. Thomas.” He tried another key. Relief flooded him as it slid into the keyhole. He unlocked the shackles with a clink.
The Ragman’s blue eyes opened, locking on Thomas’s in shock. The corner of his lip twitched in something like a smile, and his eyes glistened. “You’re real…”
Thomas shifted to unlock Oswald’s ankles, and then stuffed the keys into his trousers.
They might come in useful later.
“I found a way out of my cell. Eirenaeus left a code. There were seven—” He shook his head. His throat tightened when he looked at the young man.
How many bones had been broken?
“It doesn’t matter. I can get us into an abandoned stairwell. Can you move?”
Oswald closed his eyes and swallowed. With effort, he rolled onto an elbow, the shackles clanking to the floor as he shifted. He wavered, unable to sit up on his own until Thomas supported his back. Oswald shifted his legs so his feet rested on the floor, and stared at the crumpled body of his tormentor. “Dead?”
“I don’t know. But definitely unconscious.”
“Check,” he croaked. He swayed against the edge of the table, his right arm tucked up by his chest.
Thomas crouched, rolling Asmodeus’s body so it faced the ceiling. The Theurgeon’s jaw hung open. Thomas placed two fingers on the man’s neck, finding a pulse. “Still alive.”
“Fix that,” Oswald croaked.
“Why?”
“Erelong he wakens and sends wardens usward.”
“Right.” Oswald had reverted to his dialect, but Thomas got the meaning. Asmodeus risked sounding the alarm if they left him alive. Thomas picked up the knife that lay on the floor, the blade still hot from the branding. Swallowing hard, he held it next to the Theurgeon’s neck, watching the blood pulse through a purple vein beneath translucent skin.
Oswald cradled his shattered arm. “Go on!”
Thomas’s heart raced. “Do I just—” He pulled back his hand. “I just jam it in to his neck?”
Oswald released a deep sigh. Wincing, he lowered himself to the ground.
Thomas ran a hand over his forehead. “I’m a boxer, not an assassin.”
Oswald grimaced as he reached the ground. “Give it here.” Using his good arm, he grabbed the knife. He brought his arm back before thrusting it under Asmodeus’s ribs. He must have killed him almost instantly, because when he yanked it out again, the blood pooled instead of sprayed. Thomas’s stomach twisted.
Oswald wiped the knife on his trousers. “We can use this for attack spells if ever the wardens follow.” He reached up, gripping the edge of the table. He hoisted himself up with a grunt. He wasn’t putting any weight on one of his legs—probably broken, too. “Let’s not straggle.”
“Right.” Thomas rose, his head swimming. He crossed to Oswald. “Lean on me. It’ll be faster.”
Grunting, Oswald draped his good arm over Thomas’s shoulder, and they staggered toward the stairwell.
Thomas closed the heavy wooden door behind them and groped around in the darkness until Oswald called up a sphere of foxfire.
He wasn’t sure how Oswald would react to his plan, but it wasn’t as though the young Ragman had many options.
Oswald had to hop down each step, and Thomas faltered, struggling to keep upright. “We need to get to Celia.”
Oswald froze on the steps. “What?” he spat out. “You trust that loathsome pearl-licker?”
“We don’t exactly have a wealth of options. If we don’t leave Maremount, we’ll be murdered as soon as we get into Lullaby Square.”
“We can slip through the sewers,” he managed. “They join the under dungeons.”
“A, I don’t know how to get to the under dungeons. And B, the sewers will come out within the city walls. There will be guards all over, and you can’t even walk.”
“Thou ’ad better left me with Asmodeus.”
Thomas tried to swallow, but his throat was like sandpaper. “Look, Celia sent me a note saying she could get us out of Maremount if we can get to her in the Gold Tower. You said yourself, she’s a prisoner too. She’s convinced her family that she’s mentally deranged—an imbecile. She’s obviously feigning idiocy out of fear and wants out of here as much as we do.”
Oswald grunted, hobbling down another stair while gripping Thomas. “Fine. But I only agree since thou ha’ the token. We’ll need a monstrous strong spell to fix it.”
The token?
Panic snaked through him, and his neck throbbed. Now he understood why he felt like he’d been murdered and brought back to life by a shabby necromancer.
I have the bloody bubonic plague.
Fiona swatted at a mosquito buzzing around her shoulders, stepping along the main garden path in her soggy-teabag dress. Her mask was pushed up on the top of her head, wilting flowers glued to its surface. It already smelled of decay. Maybe she’d change her costume idea from “crazy Victorian hooker” to “freshly dug grave.”
Or why not combine the two? Freshly buried hooker.
She squinted in the warm afternoon light, peeking over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching. She, Tobias, and Alan were going to try out the spells from the spell book, in case any of them granted powers that would help in finding Mariana.
Maybe we’ll luck out and get super strength, or a locator spell, or some sort of truth-telling charm that will force Mrs. Ranulf to spill the beans.
Between the gardens and the river, where soft grasses usually rustled, little round tables surrounded a dance floor. Servants bustled around, setting up candles and flowers, and some brought trays of food out to banquet tables along the gardens’ edges.
A seagull squawked overhead—her mother’s favorite animal. A good omen, perhaps?
A few guests had already begun to trickle in, and they lingered by the paths through the gardens. A large man dressed as a medieval knight wore a silver mask with a red feather, his broad shoulders covered in chainmail. A tall, lithe woman wore a lilac dress with a bodice made to look like a butterfly, and a swooping feathered mask to match, inset with blue jewels. She looked stunning among the orange and yellow wildflowers. Fiona tried not to meet anyone’s eye, hoping she could go unnoticed in her fresh grave ensemble.
From the gardens, she crossed toward the magnolia trees and approached the copse where the willow grew, its leaves in full bloom.
Tobias and Alan awaited her, already dressed in their suits. Alan had borrowed a chocolate brown suit, complete with a waistcoat, a pale gold shirt, and a maroon tie. He held his arms out to the side, gripping his wolverine mask in one hand. “The basement trunks were good to me.” He adjusted his tie. “I sort of wish this was a cravat, though.”
She let out a low whistle. “You look amazing.” She looked down at her own shapeless dress. “I think the basement trunks have a vendetta against me.”
By Alan’s side, Tobias leaned against a tree in a perfectly tailored, charcoal gray suit. He wore a white shirt with no tie, and a red handkerchief poked out of his breast pocket, its color a perfect match for the fiery mask slung around his neck. When she glanced at him, he shot her a half-smile and pulled on his mask to show her his full ensemble. It covered his eyebrows and nose, though the lower half of his face was uncovered. His mask was gorgeous—red, orange and yellow feathers woven together to look like tendrils of flame, and a few black and red gems along the eyeholes that looked like smoldering embers. His dark eyes smiled in the mask. The red feathers brought out the warm tones in his chestnut eyes. “And you look…” She swallowed. “Fantastic.”
“Thank you.” He pulled off his mask again. “I like your red lips.”
She raised her brows, settling down on the felled tree trunk.
Well, he’s from Maremount. He probably doesn’t know how to give a normal compliment.
She stared at him, maybe a little too long, before narrowing her eyes. “Is that what Munroe picked out for you? How did she know your exact size?”
He shrugged. “She measured me.”
Heat rose in Fiona’s chest. “She
measured
you? Like, with her hands?”
“Guys?” Alan interrupted. “We need to get on with the spells.”
Fiona closed her eyes, inwardly cursing herself. “Right. Sorry.”
Why do I care? Munroe’s roving hands are not important right now.
Tobias pulled the spells out of his pocket, stepping across the clearing to hand them to Fiona. “Your diction is perfect, and these spells are new to me. I think you should try them out first.” He sat next to her on the trunk. “I’ve been translating them. From what I can tell, one of them is about a feast, and the other is about a spirit, but I have no idea what they really do. With any luck, one of them will be useful.”
“The feast seems like a safe starting point.” Alan rubbed his stomach. “If nothing else, I’m desperate for some real food.”
She plucked the spell from Tobias’s hands, tracing the tips of her fingers over the fragile, yellowed page, entranced by the looping Angelic letters. After taking a deep breath, she carefully sounded out the words. The aura rippled over her skin, raising the hair on her arms. At the spell’s end, the Fury’s agonized howl rose in the distance, and the clearing began to change.
The fallen trunk began to tremble, and Fiona jumped up, gasping as the tree transformed into a long banquet table. Moss and lichens transformed into a gold and green embroidered tablecloth. From the fabric, wooden bowls and plates bloomed with food: a spread of cheese, fruit, and marigold tarts, chicken and goose roasted in butter and spices, boiled eggs, and rows of succulent pies.
Fiona inhaled above a dish of stewed trout. “I smell a butter and white wine sauce.”
Alan’s hand was already reaching for one of the meat plates.
“It’s an actual feast.” Fiona stepped closer, her mouth watering. Dishes continued to appear, covering every surface of the large banquet table.
“Apparently they didn’t have this spell in Jamestown. Or they wouldn’t have eaten each other.” Alan bit into a spiced sausage. “Damn. This is a million times better than the cucumber soup.”
Fiona stared as blossoms sprung up in the copse around them—curling ivy with vibrant pink flowers. And as she watched them grow, her soggy teabag dress began to transform into satin—a burnt amber color that extended down to her feet. Her neckline plunged, and she could feel the air on her shoulders as the back plummeted to just above her tailbone. The dress cinched in at the waist, fitting her figure perfectly.
“Fiona, your dress!” Alan grinned.
A long necklace snaked over her shoulders, joining in front of her bellybutton and sprouting a teardrop-shaped pendant inset with diamonds. Her sneakers transformed into delicate gold heels. She pulled off her mask, staring as it shimmered into a pale gold tulle with ribbons, and vibrant wildflowers blossomed from its sides. In a final scintillating flash, rings shaped like curling plants flourished on her fingers. She smiled. Munroe would be furious.
Tobias stepped toward her, his eyes wide. Both of the boys had stopped eating to gape at her.
She twirled, intentionally giving them a view of her exposed back. “It’s not the most useful spell, but at least I have a proper dress.” Her only complaint was that the outfit came with narrow high heels that pinched her ankles and toes. She yanked them off. “I love whoever wrote this spell. But these shoes are for chumps.”
A ghost of a smile crossed Tobias’s lips. “You look extraordinary.”
Before she could reply, a clanging noise from the table caught her attention. The crust on one of the pies was quivering—
bulging.
Alan started toward it. “The pie. It’s alive.”
“What
is
that?” Fiona stared, edging closer.
A tiny bird’s beak stabbed through the crust, trying to hatch itself from the pie. They stared as a small, furious blackbird burst through in a spray of flaky crust, taking flight. Four more followed, and Fiona stepped back, watching them squawk and flap out of the pastry.