Chapter Seven #2
“I did,” the witch said, inclining her head.
“But a single line can alter the meaning of a glyph significantly. Whatever is wrong with this one, it appears to be crucial enough that I cannot decipher the claw’s magic.
” She looked at each of them in turn, her face grave. “We appear to be at an impasse.”
“No,” Lyssa said. “No, we’re not. Let’s try one more time. Maybe—”
“I’m sorry,” Ragnhild told her, her eyes filled with sorrow. “But without more information, it would only yield the same results.”
“You could wait until the Beast is out of hibernation,” Nadia said. “Try to get a better look at the glyph when it wakes up.”
“We don’t have time,” Lyssa growled. “The Hound-wardens will be swarming the forest soon, if they aren’t already.
Even if we can sneak past them long enough to get to the Beast’s den and somehow catch a good enough glimpse of its glyph without getting slaughtered, we’ll still have to gather the ingredients and forge the weapon.
Honoria will steal it right out from under me, and—” She bit down on the rest, clenched her teeth so hard it hurt.
And my one chance for revenge will be gone forever.
Alderic pressed his lips into a thin line. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as though he wanted to say something, and then he held out his hand. “May I have the chalk for a moment, please?”
Lyssa and the witches stared at him, then at each other.
“You’ve seen it,” Lyssa said with sudden understanding.
She had always thought she was the last. The monster had vanished that night, and no hair of it had been seen since.
But of course Alderic had seen it—he had discovered its lair, was keeping an eye on it out in Bleakhaven.
He must have caught a glimpse. “You’ve seen the Beast.”
“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “I hide whenever it emerges from its den.” At her expression, he flushed.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that! I’m no hunter.
That’s why I hired you to kill it. But I’ve done research of my own.
I found a mention of the Beast and a drawing of the mark it wears in an old book, once. ”
“Bullshit.” Lyssa crossed her arms, eyeing him.
“Rags and I have combed through what little information we’ve been able to find on the Beast, and there are no drawings of its glyph.
” There had been no written records of the Beast at all, until a little over two hundred years ago, when it wiped out a small farming community in central Ibyrnika.
All Lyssa had been able to find about that first appearance was a list of the dead, and a brief description of the creature from the sole survivor.
The child hadn’t described the glyph in any detail, just that there was a glowing mark on the thing’s chest.
The lack of information had been frustrating, although not exactly surprising.
The Hounds had been created a very long time ago, and many of the written records from that period had not survived intact.
But none of their histories were quite as elusive as the Beast’s.
With a little digging, Lyssa was usually able to figure out where a Hound had first been formed, at least—old wives’ tales stood the test of time in a way ink and paper did not, even if they became more and more exaggerated with each telling, and people were eager to warn their grandchildren about the monsters that lurked in the forests outside of town.
The Beast, though … the Beast seemed to have appeared out of thin air.
“When one is friends with royalty, one has certain resources at his disposal,” Alderic said lightly, drawing himself up to his full height and looking down his nose at her.
“There is a certain book in the Royal Library. Stories from old Ibyrnika, beautifully illustrated. The only one of its kind. I saw the symbol in there and copied it down. I have stared at the image often enough that I might be of some assistance here. I was reluctant to step on any toes, before, but it appears that I have no choice, if we are to succeed in this endeavor.”
Lyssa gritted her teeth. Of course. Of course the rich asshole would have access to books she and Rags did not. Of course that was where the information they needed was kept.
“Go on, then, Mr. Important,” she snapped, waving her hand at the glyph on the floor. “Save the day for us poor wretches.”
“Do you have something to erase with?” he asked.
“Just use your sleeve,” Lyssa said, and he looked at her like she had just suggested he use a kitten as a cutting board.
“Here,” Nadia said, crouching over the glyph. “What do you want to erase?”
He pointed, and Nadia smudged away the chalk lines he indicated with the hem of her dress, while Rags and Lyssa exchanged a bemused glance. When the little apprentice stood, her hem was white with chalk and her cheeks were flushed. She refused to look at either of them.
Alderic knelt and began adjusting the shape of the glyph on the floor.
The difference was subtle, lines shifted slightly in a way that Lyssa would never have remembered, a small stroke added here and there.
But she could tell the moment Alderic stood up, brushing the dirt off his knees with a look of distaste, that it was right.
A chill ran down Lyssa’s scalp and along her arms, raising goosebumps in its wake. One glance at Ragnhild and she knew the old witch could feel it, too.
“Well, now,” Rags said, staring at the glyph with a strange expression on her face. “This changes things, a bit.”
“Changes things how?” Lyssa asked her.
Instead of answering, Ragnhild moved back into place and began to chant again, the words of her spell slightly different than they had been before.
This time, black smoke rose from the claw, along with the faint smell of sulfur.
“Does that usually happen?” Alderic whispered.
“No,” Lyssa said, confused.
Then there was a shriek, making them all start violently, and a bodiless voice spat words in a language Lyssa didn’t understand.
Dark, poisonous emotions spewed into the air with the black smoke, worming into Lyssa until she felt them as though they were her own.
Rage so hot it blinded her, betrayal so painful it doubled her over.
Screams tore out of her until her throat was raw with them, but she couldn’t stop.
Ragnhild shouted something; Alderic moved slowly toward the glyph, bent at the waist, hair whipping around him as though battered by a powerful storm.
He swatted the claw off the glowing chalk lines, and it all ceased so abruptly that Lyssa stumbled and fell to her knees.
Alderic staggered back and braced himself against the worktable, dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief.
“What was that?” Lyssa asked, her voice cracking. Nothing like that had ever happened during a deciphering spell before.
“That was the essence of the magic that created the Beast,” Rags said, her voice hoarse.
She was staring at the smeared chalk glyph on the floor.
The claw sat innocently beside it, as if it had never belched black smoke or made Lyssa feel the sudden urge to slaughter everyone in the room.
“Most of the glyphs have an … amused sort of magic threaded through them. The Wicked Ones had a penchant for cruelty, and took great pleasure in crafting creatures to cause chaos and harm. The magic doesn’t seem to care if it is unraveled and the monster destroyed, because keeping it alive was not the point of making it.
As long as it kills even one human, it has served its purpose. But the Beast’s glyph is different.”
“Different how?” Alderic asked before Lyssa could.
“This is dark magic,” Rags said quietly.
“Dark even for the Wicked Ones. This is a type of revenge glyph, yes, but not for something simple like a tainted river. The Beast was made in retaliation for an emotional transgression, instead of a material one—something I have seen only once before, a very long time ago. Its glyph is one of discord. Heartbreak. Bitterness and jealousy.” She heaved a sigh.
“Dark magic is extremely difficult to unravel. It doesn’t want to be destroyed.
It wants to cause as much suffering as possible. ”
“Then how do we destroy it?” Lyssa asked, her heart plummeting. She was closer than she’d ever been to killing the Beast, but now …
“The creation of this Hound was intensely personal,” Ragnhild told her. Her lined face looked haggard, as if deciphering this glyph had taken more out of her than usual. “Therefore, the weapon used to destroy it should also be personal.”
“A sword,” Lyssa said, and Rags nodded her approval. There was no death as intimate as a sword sliding into a creature’s heart, blood spilling out on her hands warm as a kiss.
“Because the Beast’s creation was not tied to anything material, there is no particular water or plant to acquire,” Rags continued. “Instead, we will need items of an emotional nature.”
“What do you mean?” Alderic asked, but the witch’s gaze was on Lyssa when she answered.
“All of our usual ingredients must have some kind of personal connection—to you, to Alderic, or to the Beast’s victims.”
Lyssa rubbed at her scar, grateful that Rags hadn’t blurted out what she meant in front of everyone—make sure your items relate to the person the Beast took from you.
She preferred to keep her pain shoved down deep, where no one could see it, like Eddie had always taught her.
Not even Rags knew exactly who Lyssa had lost, only that she had come to the Wood distraught and broken and hungry for vengeance.
The truth wasn’t any of her business, and it certainly wasn’t Alderic’s.
But the lacy bastard was looking at her in a way she didn’t like. “What?” she demanded.
“Is this personal to you, too?”