Chapter 19
Ipull the hood of my cloak further over my head to hide my face in its shadow.
As the heavy material shifts, I catch a hint of my brother’s scent in its folds, and I close my eyes for a brief moment.
I can never go back. Not after tonight. My love for my brother and sister will never diminish, but my path is clear.
Whyte and his demons must pay for every single act of cruelty and agony they have inflicted on those weaker than them. I’ve stalked my first target all day. I won’t call him a victim. He isn’t. The young men he raped and tortured were victims, and I…
I am their angel of vengeance.
The hour is late. I watch the dim glow in one of the upstairs windows and know he is readying himself for bed. The last servant has just left, so he is all alone. He’s far too cheap to have a live-in staff, and besides, he likes his privacy.
Whyte used to snatch patients from their beds and have them delivered to this house in the dead of night. Young men were the owner’s particular choice, the younger the better, and by the time they were returned to Crowscroft in the small waking hours…
Well, there wasn’t much left of them to return. Those who were fortunate died before the dawn.
It sounds heartless, but better that than to not only bear the agony of those physical wounds but to relive the atrocities that were forced on them against their will.
And they would relive them, every minute of every day thereafter or until the next time Whyte decided to peddle their flesh to one of his cronies.
No one should have to live with those kind of nightmares. I should know.
I glance down the now empty street. Letting my magic flow through my body, I relax as the witch smoke swirls around me.
The darkened street and the silent houses lining it blur and disappear, and when the smoke disappears, I’m standing in a parlour.
Oil portraits of the man in question hang from every wall.
A pair of thick golden candlesticks rest atop the mantelpiece above the fire, and between them is an ornate gold cross decorated with jewels.
Every surface is decorated with golden trinkets. Heavy and expensive velvet drapes hang from the windows, and plush chairs and sofas are covered with expensive silks.
Such gaudy opulence.
I curl my lips in disgust. Raising my hand towards the fireplace, I watch in satisfaction as the neatly arranged logs burst into flames, filling the distasteful room with warmth and light.
As I sweep my arm across the room, the chairs, sofa, and small tables are shoved out of the way, piling up noisily at each end of the room.
I don’t even bother to try and conceal what I’m doing.
I want him to come down here to investigate; it’ll save me the time it takes to go looking for him and drag him to his fate.
I’d rather he just walked straight into it.
Flicking my hand absently causes the thick Persian rug to skid across the floor and pile on top of the furniture, leaving a good-sized space of bare floorboards in the centre of the room.
A moment later, the door to the parlour is flung open and the man in question appears, wild-eyed and furious as he takes in first the mess of his furniture and belongings and then me. I draw my hood back and stare at him unflinchingly.
“Who the hell are you?” he roars. “How did you get in my house? If one of the no-good servants let you in, I’ll have their hide bloodied for it. Do you know who I am?”
“I know exactly who you are”—I smile coldly—“Bishop Fairchild.”
His eyes narrow. “I’ll see you before the magistrate for this, and don’t think you’ll get off lightly because you’re a woman. I’ll make sure you are punished severely.”
“That’s enough.” I make a pinching motion with my fingers.
His lips snap shut and several jagged, uneven stitches appear, piercing through his skin to hold his mouth closed. Eyes widened in panic, he reaches up with his hands to feel the thick twine, his fingertips coming away damp with his own blood, which oozes from the wounds.
“Sit.”
He thuds to his knees on the ground, as if an unseen hand has forced him down.
He’s a large man, tall and thick, with a protruding belly and fleshy jowls. Patches of unpleasant, yellow, oily scales cover his scalp beneath sparse greasy strands of hair.
A life of cruelty and excess etched is clearly on his skin. His nose is an ugly purple colour, and his cheeks are ruddy with broken veins. Blinking, his beady black eyes dart around the room nervously.
“That’s better,” I remark, and take a step back. “I’m not quite ready yet.”
Ignoring the muffled sounds coming from behind his damaged mouth, I withdraw The Book of Lala Khal from my bag.
“You know what to do,” I whisper to it. Holding it open on my flat palms, I watch as the pages fan and then stop abruptly. Glancing at the incantation on the page, I smile. “Perfect.”
The book always knows exactly what I want or need with barely a word spoken aloud.
Sometimes I wonder at the connection between us.
Sometimes it feels like it’s a part of me, like we’re one, and other times it seems to fight me.
Still, right now it matters not. I have what I need; I may as well get started.
Taking a deep breath, I begin speaking the words on the page. I doubt the disgusting priest can understand, but I know this tongue as if born to it. After all, I listened to the servants speaking it for the first several years of my life.
Suddenly, the floor erupts in flames. Bishop Fairchild is screaming behind his sewn lips, but it’s really nothing more than a muffled yell. I wait patiently, and as the flames bank down, a perfect pentacle is revealed, burned into his polished floor.
I glance over to him as he stares at the pentagram at the heart of the circle. I’m certain he’d cross himself if he could free his arms from my restraints.
Hypocrite.
Setting the open book on the ground in front of me, I withdraw a knife with a wickedly curved blade from the pocket of my gown and glide its sharp edge across my palm. But I don’t even flinch at the sting. I’m used to pain.
Holding my hand palm up as the blood pools in my cupped hand, I turn my attention back to the pathetic bishop, trembling on the floor in his sweat-stained nightshirt.
“Any last words before we get started?”
He glares at me. Even though he’s clearly scared, his expression still retains an air of defiance. Stepping closer, I use my knife to slit the stitches so he can once again part his lips, then move back to where I had been.
“Witch!” he snarls, bloodied spittle flying from his mouth and hitting the floor. “I’ll see you hang.”
“No, you won’t,” I say calmly. “I have all the power here, and you… You will not live to see the dawn.”
“Why are you doing this? I am a man of god.”
I hum low in my throat. “No, I really don’t think you are. You pay lip service to your god and then indulge your depraved appetite every chance you get. Chances facilitated by Dr Ignatius Whyte.”
His eyes widen and his mouth clamps shut.
“Yes, I know all about Whyte’s demon club, and if it’s any consolation, you won’t be the only one punished for every single moment of pain you have caused in order to sate your cravings.”
“Who are you?” he growls.
“I am Cordelia Crawshanks. I am Death.”
“You think I’m afraid to die?” He sneers. “I will be welcomed back into the arms of my god, whereas you, satanic spawn, will burn in Hell.”
“I think you have that the wrong way around.” I smirk. “I won’t be sending you into the arms of your god, as you put it. He doesn’t want you. I will, however, be sending you somewhere else entirely. Somewhere you’ll suffer…for eternity.”
Before he can say another word, I begin reading from the book once again. This time, it’s not the language of my heart. It is far older and more powerful, a language I instinctively understand and can speak fluently although I have never been taught it. The knowledge is inside me.
I continue to murmur the words over and over, no longer needing to look at the book. I step into the circle and, kneeling, press my bloody palm to its centre.
Blood magic, the strongest magic there is.
The ground begins to shake and heave beneath my feet. I stumble back, scooping up the book and cradling it protectively in my arms. The floor splinters, boards cracking and spearing up, as something tries to break through from underneath.
Two thick arms reach up, followed by a head of thick, curly black hair, a torso, and then, finally, thick legs.
I look at the demon I have summoned and bound to me with blood, and a dark thrill whips through me, heady and seductive. This is true power.
The demon’s smooth skin is a beautiful golden colour and shimmers in the firelight.
“Ishaan.” When I speak his name, his blood-red eyes snap to me. His power makes the air ripple and seem impossibly heavy. It also carries with it a rich, spicy, and smoky scent.
“You know who I am?” I ask him.
He bares his pointed teeth and growls. “Yes.” He bites off the answer.
“Say it.”
He growls at me again.
“Say it!” I snap forcefully.
His eyes narrow. “Mistress,” he spits out, his eyes filled with hatred.
“Good.” I smile at him coldly, then my gaze slides across to the cowering bishop. Ishaan’s eyes follow. For the first time, the demon banks his belligerence and smiles almost gleefully.
“No! No! Please, I beg of you! Mercy! Mercy! I am a man of god! You can’t do this. Please god, save me!” the bishop babbles in panic, his voice shrill and his eyes wild.
I glare at him in contempt. “Your god is not listening.”
Ishaan looks to me.
“Make it hurt,” I demand.
And as the first limb is ripped from Bishop Fairchild’s flabby body, his screams of terror and agony are more beautiful than a symphony.