Chapter 12 - Reap and Sow

For the next three days, Robin holed herself up in her bedroom, emerging only to eat and check on Old Bastard. Her hands quickly turned inflamed and raw. Eda asked more than once what she was making; Robin told her to keep her nose out.

In the meantime, Eda was put to work.

Creeper vines, she groused to herself, trudging through a nearby copse of trees. What does she need creeper vines for? Eda was no country woman. She’d hardly stepped foot outside Blackbridge; her knowledge of Wesland’s native flora was wanting at best. Yet every day she’d been sent out foraging, either for plants or feathers or some other mundane, decidedly nonmagical thing.

Eda liked the open space. She liked the fresh air, so crisp compared to the cloying smog of the city. She liked the sounds of birds in the trees and water sloshing against the Oriana’s hull. She did not like being an errand girl, she decided, nor rooting around in the dirt like a pig looking for truffles. Especially when it became increasingly unclear what exactly she was doing it all for.

Robin was crafting something, and Eda was grateful, but she couldn’t bear the waiting. She doubted it was a ring. Some sort of clothing, perhaps? Or a potion that would turn her invisible? She’d witnessed a demon transforming into a menagerie of animals; anything was possible.

Eda found the creeper vines after an hour of searching: dark, rubbery tendrils choking a half-dead ash tree near the center of the copse. She drew a knife from the pocket of the skirt Robin had lent her—her own clothes still drying from their much-needed wash—and began cutting them away as directed, carefully arranging long spools into her wicker basket. Maybe this is what it’d be like, Eda thought bemusedly. To be a provincial farmhand or one of the riverfolk. Get up, have breakfast, gather herbs and plants for brewing…

If she tried hard enough, she could almost pretend this was her life. She liked being among nature, she decided, even if she’d yet to truly understand it.

Eda trudged back toward the river and down the gently sloping bank. There she nearly tripped over her own feet in astonishment, for Kit lay stretched out on the bow of the Oriana like a cat basking in the midday sun. It was a fine day for autumn and mild enough to work up a sweat in direct sunlight. Perhaps that was why his shirt gaped open to the navel.

Eda’s stomach fluttered at the sight of him, so uncontrived in his own splendor. She could not deny that he was beautiful. It made her teeth ache.

“You could help, you know,” she said, trying valiantly not to stare. Eda hauled herself onto the gunwale and shuffled toward the bow so that he might properly appreciate the full force of her glare.

She needn’t have bothered. Kit had procured himself proper footwear over the last few days and apparently a set of tinted eyeglasses, too. Only the very rich could afford such things, and these looked expensive—dark as oil smoke and perfectly round, capped on the edges to better shield the eyes. He notched them down and raised an eyebrow at her. “Remarkable hair you have. It appears to have expanded since I last saw it.”

“Because I’m run ragged doing all the work!”

He crossed his hands behind his head. “I’m not suited to manual labor.”

“And I am? The lowly mortal down where she belongs, rooting around on her knees in the dirt?”

“No one gets on their knees for me unless they wish to, darling, I assure you. Perhaps if you asked for my help politely…”

She could throttle him. Traitorously, she found herself surveying the topography of his body instead. Kit was slender yet hard with understated muscle. Sunlight illuminated his sandy-gold skin, casting shadows across rolling abdominals.

Eda had seen Ben and Lawrie naked countless times growing up. The male body was no stranger to her. But Kit was not her brothers—she couldn’t remember ever being so painfully aware of another’s physicality before. Even Wymond, her first and only lover, had not looked like this.

She bit her lip. Eda remembered what it felt like to lie with a man. Fevered kisses. Warm hands tracing her inner thighs and breasts, a hard body pressed against hers. Breathless, giddy laughter shared in the dark. Her romance with Wymond had been brief but precious, and her heart still ached whenever she caught herself recalling his warm eyes and loving hands.

Saints, how she missed being touched.

Kit propped himself on an elbow. She could feel his scrutiny even through the black glasses, intrigued by her silence. It put her ill at ease. She’d hardly seen him over the past few days. He did not eat with them, and when he did appear, it was for little more than a cursory update on Robin’s progress. Eda had no idea where he went when he wasn’t on the Oriana.

“You could do something to help, is all I’m saying,” she mumbled.

“I’ve been motivating Robin to work faster.”

“How?”

“Told her to finish her little magic project within the week, or else I’d drown Old Bastard in the river.”

“You’re joking.”

His mouth twitched. “Aathnur.”

Eda was immediately diverted. “That language. You’ve spoken it before. The speech of demons?”

“Infernal is the tongue of my world, yes.”

“But you know Weslic. I never thought—I mean…do all demons know human language? What about Forisian? Rakeshi? Galdinian? It seems so obvious, but I never considered it! How many languages must you know to make Pacts all across the world?”

Amused by her poorly veiled awe, he sat up and slid the glasses onto his head. His eyes danced. “As many as it takes. Mortal tongues are taught among all wellborn houses. Weslic is so widespread in this world that it’s been the favored language of the courts across Infernus for generations. Even our familiars and servants are expected to speak it. It’s considered…unfashionable to use Infernal among good company.”

As it’s considered unfashionable to wear anything less than the finest Forisian wool here, she thought wryly of his black trousers. Wesland loved to borrow—or steal—from other cultures to signify its own wealth and status. If denizens of the Otherworld had journeyed here for millennia, was it so surprising that they’d do the same?

Crack!

Tripp popped into existence right by her feet.

“Ah!”

“Ugh, listen to it yowl! It hurts Tripp’s ears!” The imp clutched his head dramatically.

“Children, please,” Kit drawled, “no fighting before luncheon.”

“Tell him to stop materializing beneath my skirts, then.”

“Tripp does not come to look at nasty human underthings! I have news for His Lordship.”

Kit sighed. “Go on.”

“I found him, sire—the human cleric. Florian Fane, the name is.”

Unease like cold water filled Eda’s belly.

“And?”

“Tripp cannot get too close. The bishop is always in these human holy places or surrounded by the warriors with silver swords. But today he made a public address. City’s in uproar, it is.”

“What? Why?”

Kit did not reprimand Eda for interrupting. Tripp was so happy in his usefulness that he actually answered her directly: “There have been attacks. Five or six in every quarter of the city. Seven humans dead.”

He drew a crumpled broadside from inside his robe. It must’ve been printed only hours before. Eda went to take it, but he passed it to Kit.

The demon’s eyes flew across the page.

“What is it?”

“The incidents are described here by multiple witness accounts. Talk of creatures attacking people on the street, at first mistaken for large dogs, but…” He trailed off. “I know what these are. Fiends.”

“Don’t make me ask what you’re talking about again,” Eda bit out.

“Fiends hail from my homeland. The old histories tell us they were once a subspecies of demon—intelligent, thinking creatures. But they were driven underground, where they grew feral and twisted. Just hearsay, mostly.” His hand tightened around the parchment. “If fiends are roaming a human city, it’s because someone gave them passage. They are like dogs in a way. My kin have subjugated and bid them before.”

Eda knew what he was getting at. “Your brother. That’s who you think brought them here.”

“Who else? As to why…” He looked at Tripp. “What has this to do with the bishop?”

“The bishop called for an address at the Great Templehouse gates, m’lord. He claims the fiend attacks to be result of their impiety. Punishment from their Lordfather.” His mouth curled derisively beneath his hooked nose. “During the speech, another creature attacked. The bishop made it turn tail and flee with only a wave of his hand!”

Eda froze. She was cast violently back into that night in the cellar, when she’d hidden in the dark and listened to Fane air his plans.

With your help, I can make the presence of the demonic felt more than ever in this city. They shall flock to the Faithhood for protection—and I will offer it to them.

This was Mr. Night’s doing. This was what he had given the bishop in return for the promise of so many years. The fiend turned and ran not because Florian possessed some mystical holy power, but because he wielded the power of a demon. The people of Blackbridge would see it as a miracle, and would unknowingly sign away precious years of their life to buy his protection.

She felt faint.

Kit stood. “This is Baelion, though I can’t understand the bishop’s part in it.” The lithe, muscular figure that had moments ago seemed so appealing now tensed like a wildcat. He sneered at the broadside before his eye caught on something. He went very still.

Eda stuck her hand out. “Let me see?”

Molten eyes flickered. She might have quailed, considering how easily he could rip her arm clean off, but held firm until he handed it over. “You won’t like it,” he said.

Eda scanned the headline—SEVEN DEAD IN DAEMONIC ATTACKS—and glanced down the page until she caught a smaller but no less horrifying heading. Wanted on suspicion of involvement: Eda Shaw, 20 years. It went on to give a brief, stale description of her height and appearance. Nothing of her brothers’ arrest was mentioned, nor the mirror. It only ended by saying: Shaw should be considered dangerous. If Surrendered alive, a sum of 50 gold marks will be Payd by the Order of the Blade.

Eda stared at the words. They swam across the page, incomprehensible. “He’s blaming the attacks on me,” she breathed in outrage. And then, because there was no eloquent way to say it: “That pasty-faced fucknut!”

Tripp said, “What’s a fucknut, mortal? What is it?”

Kit only watched her. The heat of his gaze drew hers: a moth to open flame. “You know this bishop,” he said coolly.

No point in denying it. “He was the one to arrest my brothers. I managed to get away before he set the Blades on me. Suppose I make for a good scapegoat, what with them finding a Gateway in our shop. A likely culprit for these…fiend things.” Her voice shook.

“Why didn’t you say this before?”

Eda whirled on him, too raw with indignation to be cautious. “It didn’t seem relevant. Not that you ever listen to a word I say anyhow!”

Tripp bristled. “How dare—”

“And you can shut your mouth, you ugly little turd.” Eda took a step toward him with a mind to punt him overboard. Tripp skittered back in alarm. “Insult me one more time, and I’ll rip those stupid wings off and shove them down your throat!”

She wouldn’t, but Tripp didn’t know that. He peered at her from behind his lord’s leg with a wary expression. Curiously, it was the least hostile look he’d ever spared her. Maybe I should threaten bodily harm more often.

“Careful, darling,” Kit warned. “You forget yourself.”

“I’m not an imp you can order about, and you cannot drown me in the river like a cat. So stop trying to intimidate me.”

Kit’s expression shifted from stony to something like amusement. “Trying?” He stepped close, until their clothes brushed. Suddenly, his hand lashed out and grabbed her by the shirt.

Eda’s bravado died at once. She dropped her basket, clawed at his wrist. “L-let go!”

“I cannot harm you in earnest, that’s true. But there are always loopholes.” Eda’s heel wobbled over the edge of the boat. “So don’t threaten me with a good time.”

He shoved her overboard.

* * *

Eda glared across the clearing.

Kit picked at his nails, hip cocked. They were waiting for Robin to unveil her creation in a candlelit circle beneath the trees; the old woman’s stooped form was draped in shadow as she unwrapped it.

Eda knew she should pay more attention, but she still smarted from her unforeseen trip into the Embel the previous day—Kit’s darkly satisfied smirk, leering down at her from the boat.

You saints-damned arsehole! she’d raged as she pulled herself onto the riverbank, dripping wet. What if I couldn’t swim?

Then I suppose I would’ve had to fish you out, he said. Either way, I make my point.

If Kit felt the burn of her glower now, he did not acknowledge it.

Robin had instructed them to join her here in the copse once the moon reached its zenith. Eda still had no idea why.

“A bit much, Robin, isn’t it?” Kit said. “The candles, the moonlit woods. You say you’re no witch, but you’re certainly living up to the stereotype.”

“Be quiet.” The old woman was vaguely breathless as she straightened. “Things must be done a certain way, or else all my work is for naught.”

And with that, she held up a short, tangled cape.

At least, Eda thought it was a cape. In the warring spill of moonglow and firelight and shadow, it looked almost formless—a garment made of natural things. She recognized various items she’d gathered herself: leaves and bird feathers sewn into an intricate web of creeper vines that would hang jagged, around elbow-length. Holding it closed at the throat, a dried chicken’s foot had been sewn on, bent unnaturally to hook through the other side.

It was grim. It was bizarre. It was…

“That’s the ugliest garment I’ve ever seen,” Kit cried, delighted. “She’s got to wear that? Ha!”

“It is not made to draw the eye,” Robin said curtly. “Quite the opposite.”

Eda swallowed. “So…it’s done?”

“Almost.” Robin beckoned them both into the circle. Eda hurried to do so, Kit after a sigh of greatest vexation. She had them face one another. Then she drew a knife.

Eda blanched. “What—”

“Robin, you naughty thing. What sort of delightfully depraved ritual are you conducting, exactly?”

“This is a Mantle of Concealment. It is made only of hidden things. Leaves from the bottom of a pile, feathers from an abandoned nest, vines that grow only in shadow.” Eda’s lips parted, suddenly understanding the absurdly pedantic instructions she’d been given on her errands. “If all these are sewn together in darkness with no others to witness its creation, then all that remains is blood.” Robin met Eda’s eyes meaningfully.

Eda set her jaw. “What do I have to do?”

“Hold out your hand.”

Tentatively, she did.

“The other.”

She hesitated. Her right was already injured. “But…”

“I won’t cut in the same place. Trust me, you won’t want two damaged hands at once.”

Eda did as she asked, trying not to shake. Robin unwrapped her bandage, which had been serving to protect the newly sealed cut on her palm. Then she turned to Kit. “Now you.”

He looked affronted. “I beg your pardon?”

“The blood of the one who shall wear the mantle is required, but so is the blood of a magic user. Magical blood gives the charm its power. My own would be sufficient, but yours is stronger. If you want to fulfill this Pact to the best of your ability, this is the way to do it.”

Eda found herself smirking. The thought of Lord Arsehole partaking in even a fraction of her own torment was gratifying. “That’s right. This is how we get my brothers back. You will help, won’t you?”

Kit’s eyes narrowed slightly. All at once, a strange haze seemed to rise from his skin like steam, turning it ash gray. Sweeping horns materialized atop his head in a plume of black smoke. Knifelike ears poked through dark hair. When he stepped closer, tail swishing, she caught the flash of a sharp canine. “Since you asked so nicely.”

He extended his hand.

Eda tried not to stare at the black-tipped claws. Tried not to stare at any of him, but hardly knew where else to look. She hadn’t witnessed his transformation properly back in the city, and the reality was no less intimidating. She’d almost forgotten his true face. Whatever her own was currently doing, it made Kit’s smirk widen.

Robin rolled her eyes. “Unnecessary posturing aside…” She held up the knife.

Eda pulled her hand back on instinct. Claw-tipped fingers stopped her.

“Steady, darling.” Kit’s hand tightened around hers with surprising gentleness. Searingly warm. This close, she could smell him again: petrichor and wine, the primordial, wild scent heralding a coming storm. Lightning when it strikes the earth.

Robin took advantage of Eda’s shock; the blade swiped quickly across the back of her hand.

She gasped. It was a small but sharp cut that took a second to well, blood rolling down her knuckles. It stung fiercely. Eda did not consider herself squeamish, but without the adrenaline of escaping Blades to distract her, the sight of her own blood was hard to stomach. She stared as it dripped onto the cape Robin held, disappearing among the black feathers and vines. Don’t faint. That would be terribly embarrassing.

“Squeamish?” She looked up to find Kit watching her with an amused expression, but his words were gentle. “Keep your eyes on me.”

She did. He hardly flinched at all when Robin cut the hand holding hers. Despite herself, Eda curled her fingers into his, seeking his stability.

His expression flickered.

Robin whispered words that might have been Old Weslic, totally incomprehensible. The old woman was unnervingly still. A gentle breeze sent the candles flickering and stirred Eda’s hair. Kit’s focus drifted, following the curls as they danced. Then he seemed to catch himself, eyes snapping back.

“It’s done,” Robin said.

Kit released her. The absence left Eda cold. She flexed her fingers; her blood looked black as ichor in the moonlight.

“What now?” she asked.

“Now you test it.”