The Second Coming (23 page)

What was that
smell?

They halted
and Fang trotted to the crest of the small group. She peered down
the ridge.

The she-wolf
inched forward, sniffing the air. She recognized the smell now,
from a past long gone.

Burnt flesh
.

She sniffed
again and closed her eyes. She prayed for the lost.

How many had
died?

***

For three
hours the trio rode, the jagged mountains of the Black Hills
funneling them south through a lush valley of balsam fir and gangly
cedars. Brahm had heard that heads were once carved into the
mountain's surface, but as she scoured the craggy range she found
no trace of them.

Roan's flanks
heaved under her as she rode past the collapsed bodies of two
Confederation horses. Their throats had been slit. And if they
didn’t break, she feared that Roan might share a similar fate.

“
Diarmuid!”

He rode twenty
yards ahead of her, his gaze cast skyward towards the falcon that
circled above the Witch Hunters. The man slowed his horse. A dark
hood of irritation shrouded his usually bright features.

Brahm reined
her horse to a halt.

“
They have horses to spare. We can't save anyone if ours
collapse.”

Diarmuid
considered her proposal and dismounted. “Fine, but we leave at
first light.”

Brahm slid off
Roan's back. “We will find her, but we can't exhaust ourselves in
the effort.”

The
pepper-haired man stared into the trees. “The Witch Hunters
followed us all the way from Fairfax.”

Brahm patted
Roan's neck. “You passed through the Westwood and Lindhome. How
could they have tracked you?”

He hung his
head. “I don't know. Something isn’t right about this. I’ve never
known them to spend this much time on a couple of witches. They are
either desperate or something else is driving them.”

A thought
niggled at her. “Diarmuid, one of the Hunters said something to me.
She said, 'They will be ours.' Does that mean anything to you?”

“
No.” He shook his head. His shoulders stooped. “I should have
kept watch.”

Brahm took his
callused hands in her own. “Don't put that burden on yourself.
There was no way you could have known they would follow you.”

White Feather
dismounted and cleared his throat. Brahm caught his gaze sliding
from their joined hands before he spoke.

“
We will find her, Diarmuid.”

Diarmuid's
face crimsoned. They had ridden through a swarm of locusts, over
fallen trees, and had had to gather what little silver they could
to ward off four spirits that spooked the horses to near panic. Had
it not been for Brahm’s ability with the Tongue, Roan would have
thrown her.

Diarmuid
strode into the woods, taking his air of frustration and a silver
dagger with him. She knew what he planned. She wasn’t sure it would
help him. The wraiths and spirits of the wells and trees were never
easily appeased. What deal he might make with them could be
dangerous. Brahm pressed her lips together and said nothing as he
left. White Feather shuffled towards Brahm, his eyes shifting
between her and where Diarmuid disappeared into the trees.

“
Aren't you going after him?”

“
No, he'll return when he's ready.”

The
Haudenosaunee looked again to the trees. “Start a fire. I will
catch dinner.”

Brahm watched
him for a moment, the spring in his step diminished as he walked
into the forest. She turned back to where Diarmuid disappeared,
then gathered wood as the sound of White Feather’s footsteps
faded.

Brahm waited
next to a meager fire that she had struggled to start. Her thoughts
wandered during the time she had to herself. White Feather was
taking his time hunting for food and Diarmuid was still brooding in
the woods.

Or maybe
worse.

She sat by
herself, although she wasn’t truly alone. She never was.

-Mine!
Mine!-

Brahm groaned.
“Shut up.”

Was her past
coming back to haunt her?

White Feather
stood at the edge of the woods, two hares in hand.

His look was
filled with perplexity and concern. “Who are you talking to?”

“
No one important,” she muttered. She took the hares, and
worked at preparing their meal.

Diarmuid
returned much later, the creases in his forehead faded. His arm was
bandaged with shreds from his shirt. The blood was still seeping
through. She remained still when she noticed the cinders of his
anger still evident in how he re-bandaged himself. He tore off
fresh pieces and grumbled. At points he wavered where he stood. She
assumed the price asked was more blood than he had been prepared to
part with. And the bags under his eyes indicated that whatever it
was had taken more than just blood. She hoped it was worth the
price.

“
Are you all right?” she asked.

He looked at
neither of them and sat, head between his knees. Brahm took the
hint and ate in quiet as the night sky settled on the land.

After eating
in a rush, White Feather retired without a word.

Just fucking
great. Nobody’s talking.

Diarmuid
hardly ate, so not only did his silence unsettle her.

“
Whatever you did, it took a lot of blood,” she
said.

She first
thought of a Nix, but the spirits of deep wells or bogs could
almost never be trusted. Diarmuid knew that. The same was said of
the Undead; those that dwelt between the worlds of the living and
the departed. And their price was as costly as the true dead.

He stared off
into the trees. “When I was freed from the Wormwood, I lost the
power to summon and a lot of my memory — I still have blanks. I
have enhanced all the skills I learned as a Hunter, yet there are
moments when I would trade it all for being able to summon one dead
soul, or cast a spell. We’re losing them and I had to rely on
help.” He pulled up the bandage, and there, wriggling upon his arm
was a flat wormlike creature that was red and puffed as it fed.

“
Oh, Diarmuid,” she muttered. She knew it when she saw it, and
so did the second soul within her.

-Soul
leech!-

He made a pact
with a ghoul.

He rolled the
bandage back down and prodded at the remains of the fire with a
knotted branch.

Brahm winced,
wishing it hadn’t been visible. She imagined that the thing sucking
on his arm was painful — a constant reminder of the pact.

Brahm put her
hand on his arm. “We will get her back. And we will find a way to
deal with that thing. What price did you agree to?”

He continued
to poke the embers.

She looked to
the ground with his silence.

It was
heavy.

There was
nothing that could be done at the moment. There was no removing
that thing, not without killing Diarmuid where he sat. The soul
leech was for assurance. Once he called upon the ghoul for aid, it
was time for payment. And if it wasn’t delivered within the time
agreed the hungry, soulless fiend would take his soul.

What price did he offer?
She wasn’t
sure she wanted to know.

“
We should get some sleep,” she said. “We must ride
early.”

Diarmuid
nodded, but remained still.

Brahm settled
into her blanket. The ground jutted into her back.

Her second
soul prayed.

-Please let us
find her.-

Brahm prayed
with her.

***

Two days
later, under clouds of somber gray and an ill feeling that turned
Brahm's skin to gooseflesh, they stumbled upon a mining town set in
the midst of the Outlands —a placed called Underwood. Diarmuid
pulled them to a halt along the bend in the road, just at the
entrance to town. His spirits were raised somewhat, but he
continued to remain quiet in the evenings.

“
We're here for one night, we get supplies and we're gone,” he
said.

Brahm nodded
as did a silent White Feather. Her eyebrows furrowed as the warrior
rode ahead of her, following Diarmuid's lead. She tried to make
conversation with him a couple of times, but his responses were
curt. Something was eating at him too. She shrugged it off. She
didn’t have time for men who pout and she was more worried about
Diarmuid.

As they
approached the entrance to the town four men hailed them, each
bearing a crossbow. The tips of their arrows were crude and mottled
with silver.

A burly man
limped forward. He wore an unkempt beard and soot on his face.

“
State yer business.”

Diarmuid
pulled his horse to a halt in front of the man. “We're making our
way east and are looking to spend the night and buy supplies.”

The man's eyes
scoured White Feather like day old pots. “Are you Sioux?”

White Feather
shook his head. “Haudenosaunee.”

The man
scratched his beard. “I suppose you're not bloody Witch Hunters in
disguise.”

Diarmuid shook
his head. “Have you seen any pass through here?”

The man spat
on the ground. “Aye, a band o’ them came riding through here a day
ago. Nearly run me down.”

“
Did they have a young woman with them?”

“
With raven hair? Aye, I saw her.”

“
Did you try to stop them?”

“
Couldn't. Look at me arrows. Little silver left to us now.
The Confederation came and took our silver a week ago. Took Jimmy
Jackson in chains with 'em too. Not a finer blacksmith in these
parts. They even walked into the church and took the silver
goblets.” He spat again. “We's a part o' the Confederation now, for
all the good it does. We'd be better off without 'em.”

Diarmuid
dismounted. “We will not be here long. We are after the Witch
Hunters that rode through here.”

The man
chuckled as he lowered his crossbow. “There were ten Hunters in
that clan that rode through here. You won't catch 'em before they
reach the rest.”

“
The rest?”

“
An army of 'em. A day's ride southeast.”

Brahm's gut
turned.

An army?

Diarmuid gave
Brahm and White Feather a quick glance. There was a defeated look
in his eyes.

Brahm urged
Roan a few steps forward. “Do you have a place we can stay?”

The man looked
the three of them over, and then to his men.

“
Back off boys. These look to be good folk.” He hobbled back a
few steps. “The inn is the third building on the left, with red
shutters. Greta's the innkeeper and she'll feed you well enough.
Tell her Mumford Banyon sent ya.”

Brahm nodded.
“Thank you.”

Diarmuid
mounted his horse and Brahm led the way along the road that snaked
its way into the town. Blossoming lilac trees and potted flowers
lined the cobblestone road, but it was rouge that covered festering
sores. Wooden boards covered broken windows and doors, as did a
light dusting of black powder. The scent of the lilacs did nothing
to cover the acrid smell that wafted on the air. The few people
that walked the streets, the elderly and the pregnant, eyed the
trio with suspicion.

Men and women
armed with crossbows lurked in windows or on rooftops. They
retracted at her gaze, sliding into the shadows.

The three made
their way to the inn, handing the reins to the stable hand, a young
peach of a woman that caused Brahm to take a second glance. White
Feather caught her looking. Her face flushed.

Later that
night, after a thick vegetable stew that warmed the gut and a hot
bath that cleansed the soul, Brahm sat in the common room with
Diarmuid and White Feather. She nursed a beer that was meaty enough
to make a meal. She had not tasted beer in weeks and savored this
one’s bitter bite.

The common
room was barely lit by the hearth in the corner and a few meager
torches and oil lanterns. Droves of men and women overfilled the
place, all covered in soot and grime as they emerged from the
mines. The heavy smell of earth filled the air, masked only by the
scent of pipe tobacco. The innkeeper, Greta, was a thin stick of a
woman. She greeted each by name as they made their way to the
bar.

An old man
with tanned skin sat in the corner, wearing a single, dirtied
feather in his long black hair. Brahm guessed he might be Sioux,
but he wore the typical garb of the miners, dark overalls and a
black jacket. A handful of women and men gathered as he told a tale
of a Sioux woman named Winona, and how she threw herself from a
cliff to escape the untrue love of a man.

Brahm looked
closer at the crowd. Beneath the dark powder of the silver mines
nearly half the faces held tanned features similar to that of the
Sioux man. She heard other bits of conversation over the din,
piecemeal talk that made her ears itch. She took another sip of
gritty beer, straining it through her teeth, and focused on a young
man at the table next to her.

“…
and they didn't touch the horses of Elora Gorge neither. All
they wanted was our silver.”

A young, frail
woman who was covered in the same soot looked him up and down.

“
That's ridiculous.”

“
No word of a lie. Ask that dark-haired fella at the bar
havin' a smoke. That there's Paul Cathman from the Gorge. Arrived
today. Horse trader. Told me himself. Word has it he's a horse
whisperer too.”

The young
woman cast a glance towards the bar. The man had wavy, black hair
and lips red enough to make any woman jealous. He puffed away on a
long pipe.

“
Well, he's a looker.” She smoothed her hair and attempted to
rise.