Chapter 7

Hell is the name of the first werewolf. He was a farmer who cared for his livestock so fiercely that he approached the great witch Hecate with a request. He needed help defending his animals from the many creatures who left the wilds to terrorize his home. Hecate created the curse that changed him into a powerful wolf-like beast. The contagious bite of a werewolf and the madness that occurs during a full moon were unexpected side effects. Although Hell can still be approached safely, most werewolves should not be trusted.

-A Witch's Guide to the Arcane

Quiet

Rorick collapsed back onto the bed, arms spread wide like wings, feet dangling.

I rolled my eyes at his prone form, tempted to shove him off onto the floor. If I did, he couldn't do a thing about it till nightfall. An appealing thought. Instead, I decided to ignore him for now. Without the strength and speed of a vampire watching my back, it was vital I secure the room quickly.

I removed my hat, propping it against the arm of the chair, then reached inside the cold void to call my wards to me. Three golden metal knots shaped like charm bracelets answered the summons. Both of them were nearly as old as I was, and my eyes stung just looking upon them. They were cool to the touch between my fingers and light against my skin. They only seemed frail. All three were quite hardy and dripping with magic. Penance had made them for me.

She'd been a full-grown witch at the time, though I could only guess at her age. I had been just a foundling and was new to the house. Members of the Society of Academic Sorcerers were expected to volunteer monthly between the Home for Foundlings and the infirmary.

Penance visited me much more often than was required.

My favorite thing about her was that she didn't seem to mind when I didn't want to talk to anyone. I was eight years old and didn't know what to say, and it made me feel distressed when others, especially grownups, tried to pry words out of me. Penance never did that. She had beautiful copper hair and a friendly smile. She dressed in fashionable clothing that made her look fancy and elegant.

She'd bring me treats and sit in my spartan little bedroom and tell me about what it was like to be a witch, and I would listen to her talking, enjoying the sweetness in her voice, feeling special because I had her attention, though I'd done nothing to earn it.

During one of her visits, I had a nasty bruise on my cheek. She asked me what happened. I shrugged my shoulders, refusing to tell her that I'd gotten into a fight when another child tried to steal my lunch. She ended that visit early. I was worried sick that I'd done everything wrong and she wouldn't come back.

But she did. Same time the next week, Penance was there with her sweet voice and friendly smiles, and she had a present for me.

"I'm good with knots," she'd whispered, like it was a great secret only I knew. Her glowing grin had felt as magical as the wards in her hands. "I made these for you to help you feel safe here."

She'd fitted the first around my scrawny, eight-year-old wrist, and the second she'd slipped over the knob of my bedroom door. The air in the room had changed in an instant. It felt pleasantly balmy, and it smelled strongly of herbs and sunlight. It smelled like Penance.

"When that one is on your door and this one is on your wrist," she'd said, tugging on the golden chain that matched the locket around her neck, "no one and nothing is coming into your room unless you let them in. You're safe in your space now, Quiet."

She'd been the first to call me that. I started talking to Penance then. Little bits that grew longer with practice . . . She brought me more knots that I could share with my friends because, after practicing with her, I was starting to make some companions of my own: strong Astor, little Goose, and lovely Prim. I learned so much from Penance. We all did. We owed her.

Seated on the ottoman, all three knotted wards clutched in my hands, I had a good cry over the lovely sister that I'd lost.

Let it out, Penace would have said, and although it was my imagination, I could almost hear her voice. The salt in your tears will strengthen the wards. I imagined her patting me on the head like she had when I was small. Tears don't feel nice, but they're excellent for the soul.

It was a much tighter fit now, but I slid the first knot over my wrist. Making myself stand, I crossed the room and draped the other ward over the doorknob. The room warmed and smelled instantly like sunlight. The last charm, I set out on the desk for Rorick.

"Penance," I breathed, "I'm going to find you," I promised her.

Then I wiped my eyes. I gave another thought to shoving Rorick onto the floor, but I found him shuddering on top of the blankets, consumed by cold. He was such a pathetic lump I couldn't just toss him onto the ground, as much as I wanted to. I kept picturing him protecting me from that falling armoire, taking a drawer to the head in my stead, shielding me with his hardier body while the castle tried to destroy us.

Instead of pushing him off the bed, I helped him out of his waistcoat, untied his cravat, emptied his pockets, and unbuttoned his overshirt. I folded the clothing up nicely and sat them on the armchair with his belongings, beside my hat.

It took some doing—he was not a small man—but I got his head on a pillow and his body tucked under the blankets. I turned on my side, trying to crawl off the large mattress so I could ready myself for sleep. My skirts tangled in the bedding.

As I struggled, his arms came around me like a vice. He was still shivering.

"Rorick," I grunted, trying to shove his hands away, "let go!"

He pulled me flush with his cool body, muttering incoherently. I threw an elbow into his chest which only served to hurt the joint and did nothing whatsoever to deter the slumbering vampire. Wriggling, I twisted in his arms until we were nose to nose.

"Liam Rorick, unhand me!" I shouted. Even if he couldn't hear me, I had to try. All my thrashing wasn't doing a thing by itself. I shoved at his face, pushing his chin up.

He squeezed me tighter, mewling and shivering. "So cold," he whimpered.

At the sound of such pitiful distress, some of the fight went out of me.

With my fingers, I held open his left eye, but there was no sign of life in the violet iris. "If you let me go, I'll try to light a small fire for you."

He didn't let me go.

I released the eyelid, and it closed wetly. "Drat it, why am I even talking to you? You're practically unconscious."

"I'm alive," he muttered so softly I barely heard him. "I'm here. I'm alive." His legs tremored.

"Oh no," I moaned. He was having a nightmare. The sympathy that I wasn't supposed to feel for him clotted in my throat and twisted in my stomach. There were few horrible things in this world that could possibly be worse than waking up trapped in a coffin, buried deep in the earth.

Ugh, buried alive.Having to break out and dig to the surface, alone, scared, and confused. I shuddered at the thought.

Oh no! My words in the note I'd sent him before seemed in poor taste now. Did I owe him an apology? Damn. Rorick was the one man I didn't ever want to owe anything to.

And I wanted to punch Alex Harker right in his dead face for burying poor Rorick after he'd turned him. Why the devil had he been so cruel? Or was he just plain stupid? Rorick was a poor pitiable mess now. I ran a hand through his hair soothingly, and he leaned into my touch. His vice grip on me loosened.

"I'm not dead. Please let me out!" His skin was icy.

"Shh," I hushed him, maneuvering so that I was under the covers with him, creating the heat his body couldn't. "You made it out. You're not trapped anymore, Rorick. You're safe." I rubbed calming circles into the sides of his scalp, the ward on my wrist clinking gently.

His arms locked around me, hugging so tight it was hard to catch a full breath. Finally, his legs stopped shaking and his body went still. "Please . . ."

"You're all right," I cooed, tempering my voice as I raked fingers through his silky hair, once again jealous that his tresses didn't knot themselves into unmanageable nightmares at the slightest movement. "Listen here, old man, you better not remember any of this when you wake up. Ugh, you are going to remember this, aren't you?" My groan was beleaguered. "You'll be insufferable tomorrow night, I just know it."

Plastered to his body, his cool breath puffed against my cheek. He smelled like apples. I was so tired, I let my brow drop against his chest and sleep took me.

* * *

Despite Rorick doing an excellent impersonation of an anaconda—all winding limbs and just as cold-blooded as the reptile—I did manage to stay asleep for at least a few hours. I awoke well before dusk feeling ravenous. He was still aggressively cuddling me, but renewed by rest, I deduced that temperature was the cure.

"I could use your help again, friends," I called toward the armchair in the corner of the room. Lightning beetles lifted out of my hat. At my request, they planted themselves over Rorick's bedding, warming him until his grip loosened.

As I crawled free of the covers, he tried to grab for me again. I shoved one of the larger pillows in his arms. Having something to squeeze against his chest soothed him back to stillness.

I hadn't wanted to sleep in all of my clothes, but Rorick hadn't given me much choice. It took a moment to readjust my corset and chemise. Everything had wound itself tight in odd places while I'd slumbered. At least the enchantments would keep my garments clean.

My newly improved assistant, the chunky little glowing moth, left the padded blotter on the desk to alight on my shoulder.

"I'm hungry," I told him. "Any chance you'll help me find food, water, and a safe place to relieve myself?"

I kept emergency supplies in my void, but finding a reusable source was my priority. I had no clue how long we'd be trapped here. The gilded knot around my wrist allowed me to open the door. I slipped out into the hall. The castle was dark and still, only the glow of my moth to guide me. The stink of rot soured in my nostrils. I shut the door tight at my back so the warding around the knob would continue to keep Rorick secure while he remained in his vulnerable state. I was now the only person who could enter the room from the outside.

The moth guided me to the lavatory. It was safe enough there. I found only one little coffin-dweller inside the toilet bowl—a lesser shifter that was easy to dispatch in its tiny eel-like form—after a good flushing didn't work. With my wand, I cursed it into a fly and sent it on its way.

It was the greater coffin-dwellers that were a true menace. On an empty stomach, they'd flatten themselves to blend in with their surroundings, and they had tentacle-like limbs that could stretch for acres. These shifters had a massive mouth and razor-sharp teeth that coated their tongues, and they could change their outer coating into this nearly impenetrable, scaled shell.

And they were always hungry.

Coffin-dwellers loved cold, damp places, which was why they frequented burial sites, but they didn't actually care if their meal was living or dead.

The taps in the lavatory worked, thankfully. Fresh water was a gift from the goddess, even if hot water wasn't an option. I saw to my morning ablutions and drank my fill.

My assistant guided me to the kitchen next. The larder was infested with lesser coffin-dwellers. The nasty things hissed at me as I made my way down the creaking steps. Thankfully, they were distracted by the black rot pooling on the walls. They'd been feasting on it and hesitated to leave their meal to attack me. I didn't want to waste more magic on them with curses, so I grabbed a chunk of cheese, a basket of eggs, and left as fast as I could.

I shut the larder door, which functioned like a hatch in the floor, and latched it. For good measure, I pushed a small table over the top of it to keep it shut. It wouldn't deter the slimy things forever, but it'd give me time to search the rest of the kitchen for supplies without being harassed.

The scullery was so full of lesser shifters it was the enchantment on my boots that saved my toes from being bitten off. At the sink, a slug-like coffin-dweller crawled out of the pipes and plopped into the standing water. This one was large enough to have small tentacles. The creature tried to eat my moth, snatching at it with one of its serpentine limbs. I covered my glowing assistant with my hands and flew out of there, kicking the door shut behind me.

We stopped in the kitchen. Another lesser shifter, a rat-like being, had crawled into the open bag of flour on the counter. Someone had abandoned the bread they'd started. The dough had gone hard and crusty beside the cold oven. I wondered not for the first time what had happened to the staff, then I shuddered because, based on the status of the larder and scullery, I may not actually want to know what had happened to them.

With my moth as my guide, I found another clean sack of flour, a jar of oil, a small bag of sugar, and a heavy cast iron pot with a matching lid. I let out a cheer when my assistant lit up a jar of baker's yeast. We found potatoes, carrots, leeks, onions, a hefty supply of garlic, and more salt that I didn't need because I always had plenty—but one could never be too careful in a malevolent castle.

I added them all to the void in my pockets, one at a time when the bags were too big. The pot and the sack of flour had to be carried by hand. There was no wiggling them inside, and I didn't dare make the openings to my void too wide. That was how dangerous gravitational forces were created.

Back in the bedroom, I used a spell taught to me by the lightning beetles to cast a small magical fire into the grate. As the room warmed, the walls rumbled a little. I was ready to put the fire out if the castle protested further, but the walls calmed, and I kept the blaze small. Just enough to create coals to set under my pot and atop the cast iron lid, readying it for baking.

I ate the cheese and mixed together a simple bread dough. When it was kneaded and ready, I covered it in cloth from my own supplies and set it aside to rise.

Rorick remained asleep, but the beetles had left him while I'd been gone. Shy and curious, they explored the room. He was shivering and muttering again. He'd knocked pillows off the bed in his effort to find warmth.

I stuffed the sack of flour in his arms to keep him from grabbing at the heat I emanated as I tucked him back in. Then I sprinkled pollen from my void over his blankets so the lightning beetles would stay put longer this time while they fed. I cleared off the desk that sat against the far wall so that the knotted charm was the only thing resting on the blotter for Rorick to find. Without one of his own, he'd be trapped in the room, and I couldn't have him tearing at the walls again. I was scared of what the darkness would do if he did.

"Now," I told my moth, "show me how to get out of this blasted castle."

The moth circled the room several times before I took the hint and called him back to me. He rested in my palm, antenna twitching.

"I take it that's your way of saying there isn't an exit. Or at least not a straightforward one." I sighed. "I'd really rather it was a straightforward one, moth. All right, how about you take me to something that will help me get out of this castle, then."

The moth took to the air. He led me back into the hall and toward the second-story library.

There I paused. The library doors had changed. Something large and round covered the entrance, and my assistant swooped toward it, circling it once before perching on its center. The round contraption reminded me of a game one might find at a carnival. The wheel was painted in black and red stripes with metal pegs sticking out from the end of each paddle. There were strange etchings along the edges.

It didn't smell like rot, and I spotted none of the creeping darkness that unsettled me. I studied the wheel and the markings, but they weren't in a language I recognized. Frankly, they looked like gibberish. Afraid to touch it, I removed my hat, reached inside, and summoned a special piece of glass to my fingers.

The round lens had been a gift from my friend Goose, a witch whose specialty was time. She'd made me the lens out of one of the glass coverings from the clock pieces she was always experimenting with. Her wand was a pocket watch. She'd used it to calibrate and enchant the glass for me.

I held up the lens to my eye and peered through. Not only was the wheel magnified but time slowed ever so slightly, allowing me a deeper look. The wheel was made of something . . . ethereal? For lack of a better word. I simply didn't know how else to classify it. And yet it was solid enough for my moth to land upon.

I lowered the lens. I spotted a bit of the creeping rot in the far corner near the vaulted ceiling, and I examined it through the enchanted glass.

I flinched. It was just as horrible as I feared. The haunting darkness was hatred and malice and death. And it was my newest number one suspect for all that ailed me and my coven. But the darkness wasn't new to the castle. It felt old, like it had been growing more powerful here for some time.

It wasn't clear whether the darkness had finally taken root, a consequence of the murders or the cause of them. And if it had caused them, what terrible deed had made the creeping essence so powerful it could manage something as sophisticated as murder? The presence haunting this house had a mind, it had intent, and that was scariest of all. I'd never seen a consequence of terrible behavior grow so powerful.

Music played and the wheel spun on its own, causing me to jump so hard I nearly toppled over the banister behind me. Hand over my heart, I sucked in my next inhale, struggling to calm myself.

It sounded like circus music.