Chapter 23

The Lady Maiden bobbed in the waters of the Mississippi, a seesaw motion that mired the captives in a bog of weariness and boredom. For an hour it had been moored in New Memphis, and Brahm leaned back against the wooden walls of the cargo hold, awaiting her fate. The creaking of the ship grated on her nerves like a dull song droning in her ears. She pulled at the loose threads of the drab gray tunic and pants her brother had offered her.

At least it was better than that fucking dress.

Lya lay asleep on the floor, having now joined them. White Feather sat chained on the other side of the hold. On occasion he glanced in Brahm's direction, his eyes appearing thoughtful at times, confused at others. No longer did she feel the heat of his anger, yet she wondered what ruminated in his mind.

Diarmuid waited near the door, his ear turned to the crack.

“Someone is coming,” he said.

His chains rattled as the pepper-haired man shifted away. An unsteady clopping echoed down the hall. She knew it was not her brother's deliberate stride. The being walked with an awkward cadence, and she knew him instantly.

Imp.

The door inched open and Breland stepped in, offering her a shallow, mocking bow.

“My lady.”

His bulbous head held vacant eyes. “We are disembarking momentarily. New Memphis is a busy port. Should you try to escape, no effort will be wasted to re-capture you. You will be killed on the spot.” His hollow gaze lingered on Brahm. “The sight of you will likely stir some heated emotions. I suggest you keep a low profile and try to look humble. It's hard to say what might happen should an uprising occur.” His face twitched. “I am sorry it has come to this, my lady. The price for treason is high.”

“You seem different since last we met, Breland. Are you unwell?”

The man shuffled over to where she sat on the wooden floor, his meaty fingers bedecked with lavish gold rings. “I'm as well as always, my lady. The Lord has been good to me.”

“You still believe that drivel?”

His eyes hinted brief irritation. “Though it may not seem so, God has also smiled upon you this day. Senator Thurmond has surprised us with his presence. He is attending a Revival tonight.”

“A Revival?”

“Some of the flock have strayed here,” he said. “They need the chance to save their souls — as do you. I'm sure it has been a hard road since you left the flock.”

Strayed?

Brahm’s face pinched. “I think I'll pass.”

His lips slithered into a smarmy grin. “You don't have a choice. You're going to be held up as an example of what happens when you drift from the presence of God. Your capture is a good omen.”

The door opened again and Mason strode in. “Breland, what are you doing in here?”

The shorter man’s eyes flitted anger before his face melted into humility.

“Encouraging your sister and her friends to find their way back to the flock. Perhaps tonight's Revival will save their souls.”

Mason waved him off. “I think you should be worried less about their souls and more about their interrogation. Leave us, I must take them down to the docks.”

“As you wish.” Breland bowed low, and then hobbled out the door.

Brahm took the opportunity to prod her brother. “You were not expecting Thurmond.”

“No.” He closed the door. “The Senator wants you in his custody immediately. He will be personally escorting you back to Charleston.”

Charleston.

She remembered the place well, and the stench of ink and oil as bibles were mass-printed on some ancient contraption from the Age of Marvels that Thurmond had supposedly discovered. Despite the fact that it was a forbidden item, it seemed the Confederation was willing to overlook such an abomination if it furthered their cause. They sent the neatly printed books throughout the land, even overseas, in their bid to proselytize the Good Word. And the Senator had become like a god to the people with his findings.

“Is the Imp coming with us?” she asked.

Mason lifted an eyebrow. “Did he tell you that?”

She shook her head. “Just a guess.”

Mason said nothing as he shackled each of the captives at the waist.

She prodded further. “Was he involved with Lya's capture?”

He re-examined the silver collar around Brahm's neck, ensuring the lock still held.

His breath caught at the question. “He ordered—.”

Mason paused, his eyes lost in thought, and then he scowled. “I no longer answer to you, Brahm. I see the seeds of doubt you are trying to sow. They will not take.” He said nothing more and led them out of the room.

They passed the locked closet where the kahbeth and the other weapons sat. Brahm thought of reaching out with her soul to see if they were still there, but as Mason pulled on the chain, she left the idea behind.

A heavy breeze carried with it the bustling sounds of the port city. It was tainted with the scent of raw fish. The docks were crowded with Confederation cruisers and barges, moored in precise order. Gulls soared through the air and alighted on the wooden docks, suffusing the port with a thick veneer of white slurry.

The four captives shuffled down the plank, careful not to step on each other. Their chains clanked, drawing unwanted attention. Gawks and hushed murmurs shadowed them as Mason and five Hunters escorted them into the city. The onlookers muttered and Brahm dodged an overripe tomato.

“Witch!” a voice called from the crowds.

Another tomato flew and struck Lya in the side of the face. Brahm caught the young woman's look as she turned and scanned the crowd. Her expression spoke nothing but loathing.

Another voice called out. “Fiend! Monster!”

Mason took stride next to Lya with his sword bared. He said nothing, yet his presence silenced any further calls.

They continued through the city, past horse-drawn carriages and teams of Hunters. The nobility of the city stared from under their frilled parasols, their faces puckered in disapproval. Brahm sensed their stares, and their looks of recognition. As a daughter of New Memphis, she was well known among the upper class. She supposed her parents would have been shamed.

As if on cue, they strode past the lofty crypts of the New Memphis Cemetery. A warm breeze wafted through the stone vaults and Brahm caught its silent voice.

Mother.Father.

A morning dove cooed from atop one of the granite mausoleums.

What would they think of this?

Sweat trickled down the back of Brahm's neck as she noted the neat rows of stone tombs that lined the cemetery streets. She caught a brief glimpse of her family's crypt with its weeping angel clinging to a cross. On each side of the stone door were carved two elongated swords.

When a man's ways please the Lord, he maketh even his enemies to be at peace with him.

She remembered her father's wishes for that inscription, as he lay dying with her mother on the floor of the Confederation Courthouse, an assassination attempt on one of the senators gone awry. The same inscription was etched into the tiled ceiling of the judicial building, just under a stained-glass window. Brahm remembered well the image in that window, with the angel kneeling before God, sword in hand. It was the last thing he saw. That angel still haunted her dreams, for it was under the image of that angel, clutching the frail, dying hands of her parents, that she rebuked everything to do with the Church of the Ascension. Mason never understood.

Her brother led the captives east towards a towering, stone church that stood upon a hill. Its soaring steeple and cross caught the light of the setting sun, reflecting a blinding light that hurt her eyes. It had always fascinated Brahm as a young girl.

No more.

They strode close enough to its entrance to see what was etched into its keystone.

The Church of the Ascension.

Instead of walking through the arch, Mason led them around the side through tall hedges to the back of a building that was being encroached upon by tendrils of ivy. Brahm paused. A large crowd gathered upon the hill behind the church. Hundreds milled about a grand, covered stage while others sat upon blankets, fanning themselves from the early evening heat. Mason ushered the captives through a narrow, black door into the Church. Its creaking sent two mice scampering across the strip floor.

They entered a dank, but sizeable storage room, piled neatly with wooden boxes. The lighting was poor. Mason ordered the Hunters to stand guard while he waited inside with the captives. He closed the door and only slight cracks in the boarded window allowed the sun's failing light to filter through.

Mason paced, slow and deliberate strides that thudded on the floor. His leaden footsteps paused at a knock at the door.

Mason jerked it open and torchlight from the fields flooded in.

Breland stood in the doorway. “Captain, I must take the girl to the stage for all to see. Senator Thurmond wants to use her in his Revival.”

Brahm thought of something there. A suspicion about what lurked inside the small man. Her soul leapt from her body and she fought the silver with all her might. She captured her brother's attention as she soared past him. For a mere second she sensed his anger as she touched his soul and then thrust him towards Breland. She felt her brother's shock at what he discovered. It was as she suspected.

Demon.

Mason hesitated.

Breland questioned his lack of response. “Is something the matter? I need to take the girl. Unchain her and give her to me.”

Brahm reeled back into her body. Mason looked down upon Breland. He straightened. “I will take her myself. I want to ensure nothing happens to her.”

Breland's lips pouted, making his face look piggish. “Senator Thurmond's orders, my liege. You are to remain here to make sure nothing happens to these three.”

Mason's face flushed and his gaze paused for a brief moment on Brahm, as if in confusion. The chains rattled as he unchained Lya. It took him some time to get her ankles loose, his movements deliberate and measured. Lya did not look at either Diarmuid or Brahm.

Breland's thick hands clasped the chains and led Lya out into the torchlight. The rings on his fingers glittered. The door slammed closed and a lock slid into place. Breland walked away, his feet shuffling in a clumsy gait. Mason's fists clenched and opened repeatedly as he stared at the closed door.

Brahm marked time with the steady footsteps of the Hunters outside the door. She lost count after twenty paces, her mind and body aching with fatigue. Over the silence, voices passed, commenting on the size of the Revival. It wasn't long before the low hum faded into the distance.

A serpent-like voice oozed through the cracks in the door, dripping in a thick coat of southern drawl. “Greetings, brothers and sisters! Greetings, children of the Almighty God!”

The crowd cheered.

“I thank the Lord you have made it here on this fine evening. Praise be to the Lord for this glorious day!”

Voices cried out in unison. “Praise be!”

Brahm rolled her eyes, remembering how she once enjoyed his sermons.

“Praise be to the Lord that we are able to gather in safety in these dark times!”

“Praise be!”

“Dark times are upon us, but here, where we follow the Word of the Lord, let the Light shine! We have spread the Light, my friends, spread the Light into the dark lands that try to consume us. For the bloodcraft and the sorcery of the Outlands is being banished as we speak. The followers of the Horned One and their heathen practices shall be destroyed.”

The crowd applauded and cheered.

“For it is written in the Good Book: Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

Again, praise and shouts of approval.

Thurmond's speech droned in her ears and she focused once more on the pace of the Hunters outside the door. Above the heavy steps, the twang slunk through the cracks in the wood, yet she ignored it. Her head drooped, as if to fall asleep, and she felt a presence. A cold chill entered the room, as if the door had opened upon the lands of the North Moors.

A shadow skulked past her. She could not see it moving, nor hear its steps, but knew it watched her from the dark, its eyes peeling her down to the soul.

“Something is in the room with us,” she said.

Her soul lifted once again from her body, and found what lurked in the room.

The being from the Westwood.

It leeched onto her and battered at her soul. She felt its anger. Its hatred of her was icefire, its cold touch burning her very essence.

She forced it back, its dark touch freezing her.

I need help!

She sensed Mason over her body, his fingers around her neck. They fumbled with the lock of the silver collar.

She reached towards him. Mason, I need you!

As the collar tumbled to the ground, she recognized her brother’s intent. The weariness withered and died. It was the silver that caused the fatigue. Her dependence on the kahbeth had hindered her all along. Her spirit now thrummed, strong and vibrant.

The being withdrew, trying to merge with the shadows. She sensed its fear and grabbed hold, the bitter bite of its frozen touch worsening. She persisted as it melded with the dark. Her soul coiled around it, preventing its escape, congealing it.

A knife from the shadows flew towards her body. Brahm braced for the pain as the blade coursed through the air. Mason stepped in front, deflecting it with his arm. He groaned. The dark spirit emanated fury and hatred and then its physical presence stood before her, having solidified from the shadows. Her second soul recognized his features.

-My love!-

It was Lya’s father.Startled, Brahm whipped back into her own body as Mason thrust himself towards the Firstborn Lord.

Brahm seized her brother's arm. “No, Mason! It's Lya's father!” Her chains clattered as she stepped forward. She strained to see the man in the shadows. “You're alive! I knew someone escaped us when we ambushed the others. It was you.”

His voice seethed. “You killed my Sephirah. I will not let you take my daughter as well.”

“Sephirah’s soul is twinned with mine,” she said. “And your daughter is held captive by the Confederation, as am I.”

His voice hissed. “I do not care.”

White Feather rose from the wooden box. “She has turned from the Confederation and will do anything in her power to see your daughter safe.” He nodded in her direction. “She is one of my people, and they have forgiven her.”

The Firstborn spoke low. “Forgiveness is beyond me. There is little left of what I once was. I have only thoughts of my daughter. She is all that matters now.”

Brahm stood to face him. “Then help me free her. A demon walked out with her.” She was close enough to smell the decay on his breath. “What is your name?”

He wheezed. “Dïor, I was once called.”

She held out her hand. “Then, Dïor, help me rescue your daughter.”

He hesitated before his hand clutched hers, cold and hard. “My fight with you is not over. I consider this a truce. You must still pay the toll for Sephirah's life.” His voice was stone.

She gulped down the fear in her throat. “It is a truce then.” She turned to Mason. “So, my brother, what is it going to be? Have you seen enough? Do you see the truth now?”

He stood silent as Thurmond's voice drifted through the cracks once more.

Mason looked towards the door. “I see only that the Imp must be stopped. He is demonkind.” His face twisted. “I am with you ... for now.”