Chapter 24 #2
In response, I feel hands pressing in on me from both sides and behind, shoving me forward in a surge of bodies.
From the front, people reach out and grab at my arms and clothes, tugging me on despite my resistance.
I may as well be fighting the ocean tide, my feeble attempts at pushing back and turning around completely ignored.
Don’t resist, I hear the voice say, and I go limp as they jostle me toward the stage.
Eventually, I am shoved onto the steps at the stage’s side and stumble up them, if only to get away from the grasping hands of the crowd.
As I trip toward Arla, my eyes scan the faces below trying to locate Levi, but the lights dim on some silent cue and everyone falls into shadow, each body merging into the next until they form one shapeless, faceless mass. I pray he got out already.
Soon, Arla is beside me, her spirit rising off the floor like phosphorescent gas, taller than both of us, her hand clutching mine, dragging me to the mic.
It’s then I look down and see what’s painted at our feet, the stage covered in a complex network of shapes and Aramaic.
The symbol for the Fathom at its core, wrapped with a drawing of a dragon whose body is covered not in scales but in words.
Behind us, an equilateral triangle is sketched, lined with writing except at its center.
Pentagrams and solar crosses abound, as does a maze of curving lines that end in arrows and spirals and footed crosses.
It’s nearly as dizzying as the well chamber itself.
But from the floor below, they’re not visible.
“We have a very special show planned for you, and Judeth is our star!” Flames spew from dark corners, applause swelling like a roiling sea.
The mass seethes and writhes, responding to her energy.
“But before we begin, I want you to repeat after me,” she says to the room, and everyone quiets as if on cue. “Yida. Khatam. Shamar. La’olam.”
Her voice echoes through the club as everyone copies her, the words foreign to their tongues, and yet they persist.
“Yida. Khatam. Shamar. La’olam,” Arla says again and the crowd sways and repeats after her. “Yida, khatam, shamar, la’olam,” she says, faster this time, the sounds of each syllable blending into the next.
From around the room, the words ring out on repeat now, a chorus of Aramaic, the meaning unknown to them as they chant in unison.
Arla beams. “Keep going, my pets!”
She holds one hand out and presses it down, encouraging them to lower their voices. They chant in low whispers but never stop. She has them completely in thrall.
Reaching over, she pulls a stretch of puddled linen from the floor, throwing it over my shoulders, then grabs a wreath of goldenrod that was beneath it and places it atop my head. In my confusion and overwhelm, I’d overlooked them. The dark tones of my shirt and jeans are muted beneath.
“Tonight, Judeth will be playing our witch!” Arla calls, the crowd chanting and cheering in response.
It’s then I notice plumes of swirling, perfumed smoke misting up through the lights around the stage, a piney, green-smelling incense burning in dishes to either side.
She must have lit them using my power as this was starting.
They’re really getting going now. A few people cough but the chanting continues unbroken—“Yida, khatam, shamar, la’olam. ”
“What’s going on?” I whisper to Arla.
“Follow my lead,” she says, a hand over the mic and her face turned away so only I can hear. “And don’t worry about them. As far they know, it’s all an act. Which is exactly what they came for, so let’s give it to them, kitten.”
A scuffling sound causes us both to turn.
Twig and Rock enter the stage from behind, draped in long swaths of the same white linen, nothing but their skin glistening naked underneath, a whiff of licorice and cinnamon wafting in their wake as they pass by me.
They are dragging someone between them. She is bent at the knees, feet tracing the floor, head slumped forward as if unconscious.
Her wrists are bound in a red silk sash, hands wrapped so they’re poised in prayer.
They stop when she’s squarely within the confines of the triangle.
My heart beats out her name, and I take a hasty step forward.
Twig responds by grabbing a fistful of silver hair and pulling her head back.
It’s then I notice the ball gag buckled into her mouth, the bands of sweat and grime ringing her neck.
She is bruised and dazed, the fight beaten out of her, a trickle of blood dried along the side of her face from a cut over the brow.
But I’d know her anywhere. It’s Cadence.
Shock quakes through me. My arms and legs go rigid. My mouth dry. I’m so startled to see her that I lose all sense of time and place, everything tying me to reality. I am suspended. I am nowhere. I am lost.
At my back, Arla cries, “Oh look! A volunteer!”
She spins around and reaches over, curls an arm tight around my waist. “We got you a gift, kitten,” she snarls into my ear, her hand over the mic again. “Say thank you.”
“What the fuck?” I manage. “What have you done to her?”
She looks irritated. “Nothing that wasn’t required.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, bewildered, a drone of people spread behind us who can’t possibly understand either but seem content to go along.
She shrugs like it’s all so simple. Silly Jude. Silly stupid girl must be told everything. “I didn’t think it mattered who, given your history and all.”
My blood sluices like ice. What mattered? It can’t be good.
“You wanted to see the Fathom, did you not?” Arla asks me. “You came to my door, pounded your angry little fists, made demands.”
My mouth opens but refuses to work. I want to say no or stop. I want to argue, but when I reach for the words, they’re not there.
Rock, I see, can barely conceal his glee at my confusion.
“Everything comes with a price, kitten,” Arla explains. “If you want to see the show, you have to buy a fucking ticket.”
The poster in the areaway screams inside my head— The face of a woman, the body of a monster, the power of a demon … Come and See for Yourself! IF YOU DARE.
Turning back to the mic, Arla announces to the audience, “Tonight, in a feat of incredible magic, our very special guest star, Judeth the Witch, will make this woman disappear!”
Whistles and applause explode over the chanting as excitement builds for our magic-themed BDSM show.
To our right and left, plaster columns flank everything in a sick mockery of the estate where I grew up.
I look down at Cadence suspended between the twins.
Her eyes are dull but not lifeless. They meet mine and flicker with recognition and fear.
How did I get here? How do I get out?
I shift in Arla’s direction. “She’s my ticket?”
“Actually, these are,” she says, brandishing an open arm as someone I recognize as a barkeep arrives onstage carrying a gleaming silver tray.
On one side sits a hammered brass vessel: a crude but polished bowl big enough for punch but empty, sigils etched around its rim.
On the other, a black-handled knife gleams sharply beneath the lights, fashioned in every way to match the sword Arla is still gripping.
Between them, a small glass and filigree vial, the flame-shaped dabber set into it.
I try to meet Cadence’s eyes, but they dart from one terrifying detail to another. I take a step back.
Arla’s expression darkens. “Delivered on a silver platter, kitten. You couldn’t ask for more.”
“I—I still don’t understand,” I stutter. The crowd has quieted behind us, their strange chant low and monotonous.
“Collateral, Jude. You want to have more of us, so we must have more on you.” She steps over and squeezes Cadence’s jaw in her hand, turning her face this way and that for the audience.
“But Cadence is one of us,” I argue. “She’s in the circle.”
Arla rolls her eyes. “Yes, yes, obviously. All part of it, kitten.” When I don’t react, she continues.
“Come now, don’t pretend you didn’t know where all this was leading.
The hour has come, Jude. We’re all here, gathered in her name.
What Rudzitin began we must finish. One quick action from you, and the real ritual can begin.
We can complete the pigment, descend into the darkness, paint the seal. ”
I shake my head, my eyes beginning to water. A sick twisting in my gut is taking over. All I want is to leave.
“This is the price,” Arla hisses. “Do you want to keep her forever, or do you want to go back to your miserable life with no one and nothing, not even the power you came in with?”
When I don’t respond she steps closer, takes my chin with her free hand and forces me to look into her eyes, beautiful and wicked. “This is the price, kitten. Everyone has paid it. Now it’s your turn.”
My eyes shoot to Twig’s, then Rock’s, so self-satisfied.
I shouldn’t be surprised. They’d follow Arla into hell if she asked.
My gaze slides to Cadence. Her hands tremble before her, her mouth quivering.
Her pupils are big as plums and glossy with unshed tears.
There is fear in them but not guilt. Whatever she knows, it’s eating her alive. My heart sinks for Brennan, for Aaron.
“This isn’t right,” I tell Arla. “You never said anything about this.”
“Blood, kitten. I told you.” Taking a step back she holds out the sword so that the point of the blade is only inches from my chest. It takes both hands for her to heft it.
“Every club has its dues, and you’ve paid yours along the way.
I didn’t come this far to stop now, Jude.
You can do this the easy way or the hard way, but you will do it. ”
Twig and Rock lean in, messing with Cadence’s binds.
Then, in one swift move, they twirl apart, yanking her arms out, each of her wrists now tied in its own twist of silk.
She is suspended between them, a humble bug caught in an elaborate web.
Her head hangs forward, neck stretched out over the ritual triangle holding her hostage.
It’s heating up under the lights, despite the cold strike of terror lancing through me. The stage feels both vast and crowded at once. I may as well be standing on the cliffs at Solidago, the crowd at my back a sea I can’t escape. I gape at her. “You want me to kill her.”
“Blood in, blood out, kitten,” she purrs.
I take a step toward the tray and Arla lowers the sword. She reaches around me and grabs the brass bowl, placing it just so beneath Cadence’s throat on the floor. Nausea overcomes me and I swoon.
Blood in, blood out. If I do this, I will be tied to the Fathom in a way I may never be free of. Bindings require blood, Arla told me. This will be my binding; the price I pay to tie myself to the Fathom forever is tying myself to the group forever. I will well and truly become my grandmother.
I look at Cadence’s swollen face. I tried to tell her to leave, that it wasn’t safe. But I never meant this. Whatever Cadence did or didn’t do, whoever she is, this isn’t who I am.
This power we have—Arla, the Fathom, all of it—it can’t be for this. Whatever happened in my past, whatever role I played in Solidago’s burning, it wasn’t my choice. And neither is killing Cadence.
Slowly, I take the knife from the tray. The barkeep’s arms have begun to shake. Our eyes meet briefly, but his are vacant. He’s just another of Arla’s pawns.
Inside me, the voice speaks. Steady.
I inhale sharply and wrap my fingers around the hilt of the dagger, its cold bearings biting into my flesh. Outside, I am as solid as a stone. But inside, I am a riot of emotions. My only hope is that the voice has a plan to get me out of this.
Arla takes the vial and the barkeep leaves.
She uses the dabber from the vial and swipes something oily and pungent across my forehead.
It glides on so thickly it drips down one of my temples and between my eyes.
But she doesn’t reach to wipe it away. Her fingers grip the flame-like stopper, eyes like shimmering planets.
“Hyssop,” she whispers into my ear. “So you are clean for the bloodletting.”
I hold my breath and turn, Cadence whimpering as I approach.
She sweats profusely, eyes pleading for mercy as her head bobs up and down.
Twig and Rock hold her ties fast, practically pulling her arms out of their sockets, her skin pale from low circulation.
They’re getting a thrill out of this, playing their parts well.
Twig’s eyes are mocking: She wants to see me humbled.
But Rock’s are fixed on Arla, who hovers at my back, watching over my shoulder to be sure I don’t miss a step.
The spicy aroma of the twins’ scented bodies envelopes me, thicker than the incense from this close. It is the same thing I smell rolling down my temples. Hyssop. They must have rubbed it all over themselves beneath their revealing shrouds.
I glance to the side and see Arla’s fingers clutching the vial, her grip tight on the stopper, and something strikes like a match in my heart. Anointing oil.
My arms quiver with the effort to hold them forward against every instinct as my fingers tighten around the dagger, preparing to run it under Cadence’s chin, like parting fabric. Arla breathes down my neck, eager to see it done.
I step closer, lower the blade to her throat, every muscle in my body tensing.
And then I feel a shift in the air, Arla stepping away. She turns to the crowd, urging them in their ritual cries. Their voices swell to give me strength, courage.
It’s now or never.
Sorry, Cadence, I think.
Flames burst from the ties along her arms, racing toward Twig and Rock, whose shiny torsos light like torches.
I spin and fling the dagger at Arla as she twirls away.
It grazes her forehead, knocking the hood of her capelet back to reveal shock and fury.
There is chaos as Rock flails and Twig screams, their hold on Cadence’s binds loosed.
I dive headlong into the psychic’s beleaguered body, knocking her back through the curtains behind the stage and down the steps beyond, where we tumble and roll before scrambling to our feet.
And then we are racing through a darkened corridor behind the stage, Cadence’s burned arm clutched in my hand, as we pray I haven’t just steered us toward a dead end.