The Short Life of Sparrows (22 page)

His eyes still. He places my hand over his heart, covering my fingers to hold my palm to his shirt. “A lot of power requires channeling from a large source—or multiple things. But drawing from something living to do a small spell doesn’t take much. Try it. Channel me.”

I hesitate. I’d never considered that someone could channel from a willing subject. It feels beyond personal, to draw from another person—even more so that he’s letting me. He waits, lifting the corner of his mouth when I budge. “Do you need help with the words of a chant, because—”

“I know plenty of them,” I interrupt, not wishing to feel anymore ignorant about channeling than I already do at this moment. I almost laugh as I decide on a chant—remembering the time that Daphne was so frustrated over a burnt out candle that she made my bedposts glow until she could light a new one. It was our deepest secret growing up, having broken our mothers’ biggest rule. My eyes close as I recite it to myself before saying it aloud. “Meline-vit-alesse. De nitch-te. Ama-luz.”

Nothing happens.

I start to take my hand back, but he clutches it tighter. “You’re hesitating. Don’t. You can pull from me without it hurting. At most, I’ll probably feel like one of my limbs has fallen asleep. Try it again.”

Rolling my shoulders back, I let my fingertips press into his chest. He’s staring at me, and although I’d rather look at the hem of my dress while I do it, it would only prove I’m afraid. I lock my eyes on his, taking a careful breath as I try again. “Meline-vit-alesse. De nitch-te. Ama-luz.”

A heated, faint glow fans outward from my hand. I whisper it again, mesmerized by how the light ripples around his arms and along my fingers. We stand there, neither of us moving away from the pulsing that comes from the center of my hand. “You did it,” he says, a bit of a smile reaching his left dimple. “And miraculously, your cheeks are still pink. See? Harmless. If you never at least question the things you fear, you might miss out on something good.”

My lungs contract, and I swallow hard as I lower my hand from him. I feel the invisible tug in the space between us as I do so, his arms flinching from the release of it. “I don’t want to tire you,” I say, playing it off as I take a generous step backward.

“There are worse things,” he says. “Keep practicing. You’ll get it. And let me know if you need any more help. You can tire me any time you want.”

Rowe doesn’t allow me the opportunity to answer his obvious insinuation. He winks and turns away, like the dependable bastard that he is
. Ugh
.
It’s become far too typical for him to show up on my property and then leave just so he can say he had the last word.
As I hear the clatter of Seers emerging from their houses, I study my palm, bending my fingers in and out. I receive a smug nod from two of them as they let their pails float to and from the well, without leaving their back doors. A yawn betrays my resolve to pick up my water buckets and do my morning chores—but I’m still grinning. There's something satisfying about knowing I have the power to do the same as the rest of them, and choosing to walk to the well instead.

28

ISAIAH

M
urdoch looks around the Willow Circle, ridged wrinkles pulling at the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Is everyone accounted for, Odella?”

Odella nods. She twists her bent finger at her long, very fake blond hair. “Yes, everyone’s here.”

“Good.” Murdoch mutters at the dirt, as if he’s agreeing with himself about what he’s decided to say. He wriggles his jaw, his wiry beard moving with it. “You all know you’re free to leave this coven, should you wish it. This isn’t a prison. The wall around this village is to keep Ordinaries out, not to keep you all in. There’s nothing stopping any of you from choosing to leave this life—provided the rest of us have your promise that you won’t go around using your gifts to attract Ordinary attention. I hope that’s all this was. That two of our Seers decided this wasn’t for them, and they asked someone to aid in them running away.”

Calli turns her head in to me, and I tip my ear to hear her. “Something is wrong. Really wrong. I heard their things were still in their rooms. Even their clothes.” Her lips press together as Murdoch turns toward us.

I sit up straighter as he purses his mouth at us. He flicks his arm downward, a long stick forming in his empty grasp. He drags the stick through the dirt, drawing a strangle oval with curls and dots. He looks up with no expression, but his shaking hands betray his stifled anger. “Some of you younger Seers don’t know this symbol. It’s branded onto the ankle of every fifteen year old Nightblood. An oath. A sign of loyalty, fealty, and unity to our coven. Last night we failed to catch the trail of two missing Seers. Lillian. Ruby.  So while some of the Elders continued the search on foot, the rest of the Elders and I did a summoning. When anyone disappears like that, we have to know that they’re safe. We were sure if we hurried, it would tell us where to find and recover these two young women. But, the fire spoke of nothing. Imagine our horror. Someone here has been covering their tracks. And it would take more than the chanting of the two missing Seers to do it. More than what most Nightbloods can do. The words of the Black Curtain have been chanted by one of you. And I can’t help but wonder why that would be.”

He paces, one foot in front of the other around the Willow Circle. Murdoch makes certain that each pair of eyes in the front of the crowd meet his as he passes. “Some of our men came to the council in confidence, volunteering to do something that shocked us all. Peter. Rowe. Zenon. These three volunteered to endure the blistering pain that would allow us to name our traitor. But we couldn’t in good conscience. The Elders carry that burden so our young Nightbloods don’t have to. And we don’t trust our young with all of the old language until we’re sure they’re mature enough to do magic of importance. The youth sometimes think they’re invincible because they can light a candle with a blink, or bring up a breeze with one hand. Our youth are tutored slowly in the art of spells, because of this. Because we want them to respect the weight of what they do. An Elder did this spell. And he’s hidden these girls. I want to know why.”

Daphne glances over at me. I’d like to reassure her somehow, but I know better than to be caught staring at her in public. Instead, I stare at the worn cracks in my boots. There are hurried gasps and whispers among the Seers, although the Nightbloods seem prepared for what Murdoch is saying. The gold and beads woven into his hair clink as he walks. Murdoch rests a hand at his freckled neck. “Like I said, our conscience wouldn’t allow us to trade the innocent pain of one of our Nightbloods to summon the name of a guilty Elder.”

A small, high breath escapes the lips of a man at the front. Everyone turns to look at him as Murdoch walks straight for him. “Dante,” Murdoch says, his chin held up as if the man smells putrid. “My dear old friend. What punishment would you give to a Nightblood who would betray his people like this? If an Elder lied about the very girls in his charge, the ones he is Caster for—what should I do about it? What should this council of Elders do?”

Dante nods quickly, as if a nervous tick has overtaken him. His blue eyes dart wildly beneath his drooping eyelids, looking to the other Elders before answering Murdoch. “I’d give him the same kindness that Ordinaries have given our kind for centuries. I’d sentence his dirty soul to be purified by flame.”

Murdoch glances back at the council of cloaked Elders, wearily taking account of their solemn poses. “So you’d burn him for his crimes? Roast the very skin from his bones? Yes. That would be one way to end the matter.”

With a movement that seems much too quick for someone of Murdoch’s age, Murdoch chokes Dante’s neck. “Where are they? Tell me now. Where are they?”

The tears well and drip onto Dante’s shriveled cheeks as Murdoch releases him. His tears coat his neck until it glistens, and he removes his black cloak. The old man wears a tragic smile as he cries. I have to swallow to keep from retching, because the smile is one made of madness.

“Oh, Murdoch. I did them a kindness. I just couldn’t watch their nightmares anymore. I couldn’t let them suffer through another night. They’re sleeping now. Those sweet girls are at rest. Finally. I even buried them. And I want to be the one to break our Seers’ curse. Let me be the one to try to end it.”

Murdoch shakes his head violently. “No.” The shock flashes in Murdoch’s eyes. “No.” The head Elder falls to his knees, a heaving of his chest taking over him. He doesn’t cry, but he clenches at his clothes with his hands. “No.”

Two women burst from their seats, bawling and emitting high shrieks. It’s evident who the mourning mothers are, as they both wail and claw their hands at the dirt. The other Elders arise from their chairs in unison. Their eyes hold none of the open emotion that Murdoch or the mothers do, and I wonder how they can look like stone figures upon the broken women—or upon Dante’s crazy smile. Opening their palms with their fingers curled, they hum. Goosebumps pull the hairs on my arms upward, and locking my fingers doesn’t stop the icy sensation running along my spine. “What are they doing?” I whisper to Calli.

She’s slow to return my gaze, her usual sass absent as she pauses before answering. “We have an old story about a Seer who was burned by her lover. It’s one of the supposed myths about how our nightmares started—that a Nightblood cursed future Seers because the women in the coven had defended her. That he sealed that curse with her screams as he put her to the flames. Dante is saying he wants to be the Nightblood who tries to break it. Oh, god. He planned this. Murdoch would never agree to this if he hadn’t done the worst of things.” Calli throws her arms around Daphne’s neck, unable to hold in her sobs. Her body shakes.

Daphne looks to me as she runs her hand through Calli’s hair. Some of the Seers rise to their feet and hug each other, their eyes excited and gleeful. Others are holding Ruby’s and Lillian’s mothers, embracing them.
There’s clapping and cheering. Chanting. Sobbing
. The chill echoes in my bones, because some people are wailing in horror and others are jumping and throwing their hands in celebration. I can’t make sense of it, and the Elders are humming so loudly that it vibrates the seat beneath me. Everyone seems to have gone as mad as Dante, and I doubt that if I shouted they’d even look my way.

“Daphne,” I say, gaping at the frenzied state of them all, “what in the hell is that humming for? Why are they humming?”

She cups her palms over Calli’s ears, as if she’s doing a mercy to keep her from the sound. “They’re preparing his soul to be greeted by the Underworld. This chant will call the Gatekeeper. He’ll ride through unseen, on his eyeless horse, stealing the soul that has just been damned. You’ll know the moment it happens, even though you won’t see the Gatekeeper. When the Underworld claims a soul from the body, it leaves a red fog behind instead of a peaceful white.” She folds her arms harder around Calli as I fold mine to my chest. I’m sorry I ever asked.

There’s a muffled crying that’s distinct from the rest—Dante. He stands there, a low gutted moan coming from his wet mouth as those around him step away. The Nightbloods quietly bring armfuls of firewood to the center of the circle. Rowe and three other men hoist a long pole over their shoulders as some of the others dig a hole to secure it. They work quickly to brace the pole with another. Murdoch clears his throat, studying the ruby trim of his robe. He still has dirt at his knees from collapsing. As he turns his attention back to Dante, he partially undoes the top of his shirt. Swollen purple bruises and welts riddle the aged man’s chest. His skin looks as if it’s been beaten without mercy. The demon’s marks are brutal, and I shudder to remember its face.

Murdoch stands square with Dante, holding his shirt downward for a moment before buttoning his shirt and cloak. “As you can see, I asked both Heaven and the Underworld for a name. You’ve been named twice, Dante. I wish it could have been any other name. But you’ve sealed your punishment with your own words and with your atrocious deeds. Death by fire is what you’ve chosen. This is what you wanted, you poor empty fool. May God pity you, and rescue you from the cold depths that are waiting to receive you. And may Ruby and Lillian be in a better place than this. Let their mothers light the flames.”

Murdoch walks back for his chair as Dante holds out his wrists. They bind him, pushing him forward to the mound of wood. Even as one of the deceased girls’ mothers spits in his eye, Dante wears a shapeless smile and begins to shout. “You’ll all be free tonight. The nightmares will be gone. We’ll all be free.”

Calli and Daphne refuse to watch. I don’t want to—the bile is thick in my throat. But I’m not a child. Ordinary or not, I wouldn’t give Rowe or anybody else here a reason to call me weak. The two women call up the fire with their hands, more of the crowd joining in to repeat the same words. As the flames begin to climb up Dante’s legs, he lets out a shrill, gutting scream. Some of the Seers are dancing around the fire, twirling in the veil of gray.

The pyre smoke billows, shifting back and forth with the soft wind. I cover my nose as the disgusting sweet haze spreads. The Elders chant in whispers that gradually become more audible. The flames get higher, ripping at Dante’s clothes—the reddening blaze licking at his tenderized flesh. Humming. The humming grows so loud it competes with the roar of the bonfire. It tickles in my ears, and the ground pulses under my boots from the sound.

Dante’s screams start to resemble the likeness of a tortured cat, a high-pitched yowl. Murdoch raises his arm, his cloak sleeve slipping to his elbow. The Nightblood veins on his forearm twist along his skin like a thicket of thorns, no different than rings in a tree would prove its defiance of time and weather. He snaps his fingers once, and Dante’s head bobs forward on his neck. A scarlet plume bursts from the smoke, a vapor the color of blood disintegrating in the air.

“He’s dead,” Daphne whispers. “Let’s go. They’re done talking. I don’t want to watch him burn anymore. And I don’t want to watch these heartless wenches dance. Or their mothers cry.”