Stacia Kane - Unholy Magic

Run she did, though, ducking in and out among the bodies, her mouth forming words of power that meant little more than nonsense syllables in her weary, semi-panicked state of mind. Her salt line thickened and thinned; she moved too erratically to keep it even.

Through the haze she saw Terrible, had time to register the blood pouring down the side of his face before he disappeared from her sight again. Bodies jostled her, elbows catching her ribs and arms, feet almost knocking her over. She could only hope she wasn’t leaving huge gaps in the salt line, that it would seal into the ground properly.

Somehow she thought it wouldn’t, but there was nothing she could do about it.

She drew her own knife from her pocket, ducked under the last few fists. Almost time to close the circle.

Oliver caught her eye, saw the weapon in her hand. She made a slicing motion with it and pointed to herself, hoping he’d know what she meant.

He did. He nodded, cut around the fighters to the edge. The crowd had definitely thinned. Slow-moving ghosts hung around the edges, a few of them outside her salt line, all of them held by the dirt and Oliver’s words of power. Should she send her psychopomp after them before she went inside? Or would that be a waste of time?

Unless … Her gaze traveled up, to the familiar sight of birds circling the building, riding the air currents above the fighting men. Psychopomps. Wild ones, whose use was not recommended in ritual; she’d never heard of anyone actually doing it, save with an owl like the one Kemp and Vanita used, and even then she knew they’d trained it, worked with it extensively. They must have.

These were common birds: sparrows, pigeons, crows. She thought she glimpsed a hawk, but it disappeared before she could be certain.

Oliver shouted something she couldn’t make out. He was struggling, weariness apparent in his hunched shoulders and slowed movements. If he ran out of energy, if he were injured or killed, the ghosts would be unstoppable.

Okay, then.

The last of the salt fell through her fingers, completing the circle. Magic swirled around her, the wind died. Time to seal it.

Her knife’s handle was warm, a little slick from sweat. She raised her left hand palm up over the salt line. With her right she placed the point of the blade on her left pinkie, beside the healing wound from the graveyard.

“With salt I make the circle whole. With blood I make the circle whole. With my power I seal the circle that it may hold strong and be not broken.”

On “blood” she sliced herself, a quick, hard movement that opened the pad of her fingertip. Blood welled in the cut, dripped over the edge, and hit the salt.

Her entire body shook. The black magic guarding the house was reacting to her magic; she felt pulled in two directions, battered from both sides like a piece of meat caught in a garbage disposal. A scream forced its way out of her mouth, past her tight lips. Her head was about to explode.

From a million miles away she heard Oliver’s echoing shout. Shit. It was hitting him too, of course. If it immobilized him—He was powerful, yes, but he was not a witch despite his education and natural ability. She could fight this—at least she thought she could—but whether he could, she did not know.

She flung her left hand up, watching her blood leap from it into the air. “I call on the escorts of the dead! Ornithramii mordreus , I command you!”

Power slammed into her like a wall, hard; unseeing, unfeeling and cold as death itself. Her body screamed, every muscle and nerve vibrating with agony as it struggled to absorb the blow. Too much, way too much, she was going to fall apart, dissolve into nothing. Her mind overloaded, the small remaining conscious part of it screaming at her, pounding its fists, trying to get control before she went insane.

Without her knowing why or how, the words burst from her again. “ Ornithramii mordreus , I command you! By my blood and by my power I command you!”

Abruptly the power left, swooping out of her with the same rage with which it had entered, leaving her struggling to stand, still battered by the dark welcome Kemp and his ghost had left for her.

Overhead the birds screamed.

She had them. She thought she had them. Deep in the back of her mind she felt them, angry and curious in equal measure, fighting against her control.

It made her sick. They were chaos, they were a hivemind, and she didn’t know how long she would be able to hold them. Couldn’t stop being amazed that she’d been able to catch them in the first place, couldn’t stop hearing the warnings of Elder Bewick about how unpredictable wild birds were in ritual and the dangers of attempting to use them.

Danger was relative. She could use the birds and possibly die, or she could not use them and certainly die. Along with everyone else.

She set her firetray down and heaped herbs into it, wolfsbane and ajenjible, sandalwood, black cohosh and hyssop and bat nut. Her lighter flared to life, and she touched the flame to the herbs.

Fire leapt from the tray, blasted a few seconds of heat onto her skin. In her hasty bag-packing she’d thrown in some dehydrated earthworms, hard and twisted like scraps of tree bark, and she threw those onto the fire, a small offering to echo the larger one she was about to make.

This time she sliced across her palm, barely noticing the pain through the throbbing of magic in her veins. Her body beat in time to it, her head pounding. Wings fluttered in her eyes, feathers touching her body. Not the birds, but the power of the birds, their essence, fighting her control.

“I offer appeasement to the escorts for their aid,” she said, watching her blood fall onto the fire. Waiting to see if her sacrifice would be accepted.

The birds fell silent.

Chess looked up. They still soared overhead, their wings flashing moonlight, but they made no other sound. In her head their frantic energy calmed. Still wild, still unpredictable, but—for the moment—accepting.

“Escorts of the dead, I command you, take those souls which do not belong. By my blood, by my power, by my sacrifice, remove them from this world and take them back to their place of silence!”

The birds turned. For the first time since she’d passed them, Chess allowed herself to look at the fighting men.

They were barely visible. Black smoke filled the air around her, the physical manifestation of the dark wards. She’d been so caught up with the birds she’d barely paid attention, but when she stopped she still felt it, whispering around her, trying to sap her strength.

Terrible’s head moved above the crowd; he still stood, still fought. She caught a glimpse of Lex’s spikes, of Oliver’s pale, exhausted face, of a few others she recognized.

But everywhere were bodies, and everywhere were ghosts.

The birds swooped as one. Oliver’s head turned in time to see them, in time to see the hole opening behind him. His lips formed words she could not hear, his arms rising and lowering, pushing the living away from the open gateway.

Ghosts flailed and fought to no avail. The birds did their job, their wingspans seeming to grow as they dove, as they clutched the lost souls in sharp talons and dragged them from the world of the living.

Chess felt each flexing of claws, each lifting of wings, as if her body had suddenly sprouted those parts. Her body was moving, imitating, carried away by the strength of the magic coursing through her.

It seemed to happen so slowly, to take so much time, but as the hole closed on itself she realized it had taken just seconds.

And not all of the birds had gone. Half of them still circled the building, waiting for her next command.

Too bad she didn’t know what that could be—but she figured there was only one way to find out.