Chapter 6 - Reap and Sow

The Blades lit the remaining sconces. The cellar swelled with light. Eda shrank back, scared that someone might see her, but the margins of the room were dark, and the stairwell made for good cover. She should have left already.

Her feet wouldn’t move.

Eda had to know what they were going to do with them. She had to see.

Florian Fane approached her brothers with clasped hands. She’d thought him handsome when she first saw him. Now his presence only turned her stomach. Why? Why are you here? He was a bishop—far too grand a cleric to personally oversee arrests like these.

“Allow me a proper introduction. My name is Florian Fane, recently instated as bishop here in Crowgate. I’ve already had the dubious pleasure of meeting Mr. Lawrence Shaw. But you, Shaw the Elder, I do not know. Benjamin, is it?”

Lawrie’s light brown curls hung over his eyes, but Ben met Fane’s gaze without a flinch. The mirror was a sinister, damning presence at their backs. “Forgive my language, Father, but kindly cut the shit. Are you arresting us or not?”

One of the Blades holding him raised a fist; Fane waved him off. “No need for that, thank you. Though it may be more mercy than you deserve, Mr. Shaw, considering the appalling mess you made upstairs.” He gestured at Ben’s bloody shirt. “That was you, I take it?”

Ben said nothing. Fane turned to the Blade upon the stairs. “Jessen. Have you checked all the rooms?”

“Aye, Father. No one else is home.”

“Hm.” Fane asked her brothers, “Where is Miss Eda Shaw currently?”

Eda’s blood pounded in her skull.

“She’s not here.”

“Then where is she?”

This earned him no response at all. Fane sighed. “Very well. Mr. Jessen, if you would.”

Jessen called down in a deep timbre, “Lawrence and Benjamin Shaw. You have been found in possession of a demonic artifact and are hereby arrested, under suspicion of both murder and soul brokerage. You will be taken from this place forthwith to await trial.”

Trial, Eda thought numbly. There are no trials. Accused murderers might slip the noose with good enough legal representation, but if anyone charged with soul brokerage had escaped the gallows, she hadn’t heard of them. Those stories only ever ended one way.

The Blades dragged her brothers unceremoniously from the room. It took all of Eda’s willpower not to call out to them, to burst free of the chute and run to their aid. She wanted to claw at the Blades that held them. Drag them off, scream her fury. But common sense rooted her in place. If she revealed herself now, she’d be captured just the same.

She could do nothing but watch.

“I’d advise leaving the room until more Blades arrive, Father. That mirror is dangerous.”

“Worry not for my safety, Mr. Jessen. While your Order are certainly experts in matters of subduing the demonic, we Faithful are not without our own protections. I would still like some time alone to bless the Gateway.”

“Commander Tenelle would insist—”

“Jessen.” Fane’s smile turned hard. “Tenelle is not here. A few moments, if you please. Come only if I call for you.”

A shuffling of feet. “Aye, sir.” The cellar door swung shut behind him.

Eda frowned. The Blades were not simply a militant branch of the Faithhood; they alone had the weaponry and training sufficient to deal with demons. A bishop had no place being left alone with a Gateway, even for a simple blessing. Yet they hadn’t stopped him.

Fane considered the mirror in silence. He wore the same ensemble as he had at the templehouse: a clean white cassock with amethyst paneling and gold trim. Only his matching cloak was absent.

After a moment, he approached the Gateway.

Bishop Florian pressed a hand to the mirror’s fathomless black surface. He wore a golden ring on his middle finger, molten in the firelight.

“Demon,” he whispered, “I summon you.”

Her cheeks ran cold. He’s summoning Mr. Night.

The surface of the mirror rippled, shining like oil. In the flickering shadows, the grinning imps and screaming horses around the border seemed to shift and breathe, as if alive. The bishop barely had time to step back before Mr. Night was striding through the mirror.

Eda had witnessed many small flickers of emotion cross the demon’s face over the years—irritation, scorn, amusement. But never had she seen him angry.

The sight was difficult to behold. Mr. Night’s eyes were no longer silver but a molten orange, like the volcanic lava from which his Gateway had been formed. The scowl slashing his face in two was outright malevolent. By his sides, his hands curled like claws.

Eda did a double take.

They were claws. Pale and slender as ever, Mr. Night’s fingers were now tipped with long white claws as sharp as a scalpel’s blade.

“Who,” the demon hissed, “are you?”

Fane took a moment to gather himself. “My name is Bishop Florian Fane. I am a cleric of the Faithhood, servant of the Lordfather. And I wish to make a bargain with you.”

Eda nearly slipped off the ladder. A Pact. A cleric of the Faith comes to make a Pact. It sounded like the start of an offensive joke.

Mr. Night was unmoved. “The Shaws guard this mirror, by my will. Their own Pact binds them to me. Where are they?”

“I have arrested them.” The sconces flickered in outrage. Mr. Night took a single ominous step forward, and Fane hurried to add, “They are yet unharmed. Your Pact with the Shaws—I assume they bring you years? Whatever they are bound to give, I can give far more. The years of Blackbridge itself.” His tone swelled with hubris. “I can give you a city’s worth of souls.”

Eda froze. Her heart sat like a rock in her chest.

Mr. Night’s scowl eased into something bordering on intrigue. His eyes shifted back to gray. “I cannot make a Pact that will interfere with another. No matter how…audacious the offering.”

“Audacious it may seem, but entirely plausible. As for the Shaws, their arrest was necessary to avoid suspicion, if I wished to call upon you like this.” Fane cocked his head, growing confident under Mr. Night’s consideration. “This Gateway has been with the family for some time, no? How close are they to fulfilling their Pact?”

For a moment, Eda wasn’t sure the demon would answer. He eyed Fane like a curious bird of prey. “They owe ten years.”

“And how much time do they have left, to bring you those years? I have read much on the subject. Pacts do not come without stipulations.”

Mr. Night began to circle Fane, just as he’d done to Bartholomew. If he was wary of the colloidal silver hanging about the bishop’s neck, he did not show it. “Fifty years by each autumn harvest. That is our deal.”

Fane kept very still. “Then they are almost out of time. What manner of punishment awaits them if they miss their quota?”

“I will kill them.”

Eda felt faint. They were discussing her life—her brothers’ lives—as if discussing the weather. You can’t actually be entertaining this, she thought furiously at the demon. She recalled a finger upon a tearstained cheek. A lifetime of indulgent smiles and patient words, his quiet confidence in her. You can’t.

“Then let me be frank. You will not tolerate the Shaws’ deaths while their Pact still stands—this I understand and honor. They shall live. But whether they fail to fulfill their contract by autumn harvest, for whatever reason, is not for you to influence. Correct?” Fane seemed to interpret Mr. Night’s silence as confirmation. “The Shaws will remain in custody of the Blades until autumn harvest, and they will fail to bring you your last ten years. But I can ease such a small hurt. I can give you thousands in the same time.”

Eda stared at the back of his head. Thousands of years…

“How many? Be precise.”

“Two thousand.”

“Five.”

Fane’s eyes narrowed. “Three.”

Mr. Night’s expression betrayed nothing save for a flash of raw, visceral hunger. “Very well. How, young bishop, do you propose to gather such a number within a few short weeks?”

“Blackbridge is a festering boil upon the face of Wesland. The people here have forgotten the ways of the Faithful. They must feel the ramifications of their impiety if they are to return to the Lordfather’s light. 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. They need only agree to dedicate themselves to the Lordfather in return. A formal promise bound by blood. When enough have signed, peace will be restored.”

There was a pregnant pause. Then cold laughter. “You mean to trick the city into signing away their years to me.”

“Only a few years each. Nothing that would arouse suspicion. Should enough sign, that is all you would need. And they will sign.” Fane’s voice dipped. “They will not be free of fear until they do.”

Horror roused bile in Eda’s throat. Demonic magic could bend nature, but not break it. Above all, demons could not alter free will. No mortal could be forced to sign a Pact. But it seemed they could be tricked. If the wording were spun just the right way, if the meaning could be interpreted differently…

Mr. Night clearly knew this too. He towered over Fane, as close to excited as she’d ever seen him. “And you, Florian Fane. You will be the hero that saved this city from ruination?”

“My only desire is to restore Faithfulness where it is needed most. The Patriarch is weak,” Fane spat, eyes aflame, “as were his predecessors. Should a leader not be willing to stain his own hands if it means guiding his flock true? Seek the greater good? I am willing to bear this burden. I am but an instrument of the Lordfather’s will. All I need is the power to make them heed me.”

“Yes,” the demon sneered. “Naturally.”

Fane’s jaw tensed. “Details must be discussed further, of course, but this is my offer—assuming you can provide that which I require.”

“If it’s fear you want, Bishop, you shall have it.”

“Then we have an accord?” Tentatively, Fane extended his hand.

Mr. Night did not even look at it. “One matter remains. There is another of my kind, hiding somewhere in this very city. He has figured out a way to evade me, but it is vital that he dies.” His voice rang low and cold. “He is a skilled shape-shifter. You and your Blades kill him, and I will grant you another boon. Whatever is in my power to give.”

It was Fane’s turn to grow excited. “I accept.”

“Wonderful. Oh, and Bishop? About the Shaws. You say you’ve arrested them.”

“I have.”

“All three?”

Fane hesitated. “One eludes us yet. But she will be found.”

“Hm. I daresay wherever she is…she should start running.” Mr. Night’s eyes snapped to Eda’s.

Horror struck her like an anvil. She jerked in shock, and her foot squeaked upon the ladder.

Fane whipped around.

Shit.

“Jessen, quickly!” The bishop lunged for the grate, but she was already half falling down the ladder, adrenaline rushing like a flood. The sounds of commotion echoed down the chute after her, but none seemed so loud as Mr. Night’s dark, melodic laughter.

* * *

The sewer system beneath Blackbridge was a city all its own: an ancient labyrinth of tunnels stretching on for miles like a great rabbit warren. Murky, rancid water rippled and reflected off low ceilings lined with stone. The undercity carried both fresh and wastewater from the surface, but the potent stench made it hard to imagine anything besides foul residing in these channels. Eda scurried along the narrow walkways, her urgency not quite crushing her fear of slipping and falling in. It was hard to see.

Behind her, echoes dogged her steps.

The Blades were following.

Take the right. Through the access gate. Keep heading east. She repeated it to herself over and over until a set of iron bars appeared in the gloom. Eda threw herself against the door. It didn’t budge. She scrambled in the dark for a lock, but there was none. It was simply thick with rust.

Come on!

She rammed the door with her shoulder, hard enough to bruise. The iron rattled in complaint. Shifted an inch. Eda threw herself against it in desperation again and again.

Shadows flickered around the bend of the tunnel. She pushed with all her might, toes digging in, and with a groan the gate finally gave enough for her to squeeze through.

“She’s over there!”

Eda ran, heedless this time of the wet ground, desperate to put more distance between herself and the Blades. Just a bit farther. Just a bit—

Something yanked her sideways. She yelped in shock. Eda hadn’t even seen the narrow side tunnel, but now she was hauled in, strange hands over her mouth and waist. She screamed against the rough palm, kicked, thrashed.

“Be quiet,” a male voice hissed, “or you’ll bring them this way.”

Eda stopped. Stiff as a board, she allowed the stranger to pull her deeper into the shadows until they turned another corner. Another passage. There they stayed, pressed to the stone as though carved from it. Heavy footsteps rushed past. The tunnels echoed with the scrape of chainmail. Eda waited for the Blades to turn into this same tunnel, to find her there trapped like a sacrificial lamb, but they ran on in a steady rush.

She counted in heartbeats until the footsteps became mere echoes in the dark. Then she was spun around.

Her captor had dark eyes and a heavyset brow, with broad shoulders and a scowl discernible even through the shadows. But none of this interested her. Eda saw only his handsome wool tunic and fur collar. Vagrants and criminals were known to hide down here in the undercity, and this man surely wasn’t of the former.

She ripped her mouth free. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“A question better suited for yourself, miss. You come bringing Blades into these parts like a fox fleein’ hounds. On what business?”

She glanced down the tunnel. Somewhere farther along, a dim light glowed. “I don’t need to know your business, and you definitely don’t need to know mine. I’m only passing through. I mean to get back to the surface at once.”

“You know how to get to the surface without runnin’ into any more of ’em?” He tipped his head. “They don’t seem too friendly.”

Eda set her jaw. She wished desperately for her penknife, but she’d dropped it back in the shop. “Are you offering to escort me? What do you want?”

“For you to tell me why you’re down here with the Order on your tail.”

“No.”

“Well, now, these tunnels belong to Severin Lich,” he said slowly, “and anyone bringin’ trouble better have damn good reason.”

Eda blanched. Dread squeezed her lungs.

Severin Lich. Saints, perhaps she truly was cursed. She’d slipped out of the Blades’ grasp only to run straight into that of a prolific crime lord—one who’d been watching them for weeks. Was this some sort of divine punishment?

She paused. Considered the burly man before her.

Her brothers were prisoners of the Blades, and Mr. Night seemed content to let the pieces fall where they may. That should not have hurt so keenly, but it was a knife to the gut nonetheless. Autumn harvest was less than three weeks away. Ben and Lawrie would die, either by Florian Fane’s hand or Mr. Night’s. Eda along with them.

I have to fix this. Their father brought this upon them, but Eda was not blameless. She had been the one to kill their mother, had set it all in motion. Now, thanks to her insipid selfishness, her brothers faced death too. Her fault. Everything, always her fault.

If she could only free Ben and Lawrie. Get Mr. Night his last ten years. Then the Shaws could leave it all behind, including Blackbridge and whatever ill fate awaited it. Perhaps they’d be penniless criminals on the run, but at least they’d be alive.

Such a task was impossible alone. Eda had nothing and no one capable of aiding her. There’s only one sort of power that can help me now.

And if there was anyone in this stinking city who could offer it, it was a soul broker.

Dread and disgust curdled in her gut. For a moment Eda was paralyzed by indecision, so visceral was her self-loathing. She thought of her father. Of all the dealies brought like cattle before the mirror. To actually do this, to become just like them…

Then she thought of her brothers.

Eda squared her shoulders. “Can you take me to him? Severin Lich?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I’ve information I think he’ll find interesting.”

The man scanned her with a shrewd expression. “No shit. And what’re you expectin’ in return for this interesting information?”

Eda closed her mind to the warning of her racing heart. “I need to make a Pact.”