Chapter 6 From Shadows Hewn

6

From Shadows Hewn

Thank the Mother and Crone for cocktail trucks. Best damned idea I'd ever had, and straight to fuck with all of Gawain Blackmoore's snotty commentary on the subject.

As I waded through a sea of tourists wobbly from a day of sun, food, and drink, I had to admit that my family demesne looked downright bewitching, exactly as planned. Against a dusk-dipped sky of velveteen blue and indigo, the horizon still ablaze with syrupy streaks of peach from the recent sunset, The Bitters loomed like a temple consecrated to some enticing darkness. If anything, its peeling gray fa?ade and gothic Victorian splendor—crookedly set widow's walks, spike-tipped towers, a wolf-and-snake weathervane clinging to the steeply pitched black roof—seemed cut from the same shadowy cloth as the approaching night. A legion of candles had been lit in each of its many arched windows, all framed in a stone tracery of stylized brambles. The effect was a penumbral kind of sacred. The equal and opposite of those Thorn orchards singing their blooming songs of life.

I'd already made my official rounds, checking in with all the food trucks and ticket kiosks, skating around visitors gawping at the scattering of oversized firepits burning with multicolored flame. Avramovs in carnival masks and our traditional gray-and-mulberry robes mingled with the normie crowd, offering palm readings and mini séances in the fortune-telling tents pitched all across the yard. It had been another of my, dare I say, more brilliant ideas. On-theme entertainment for the tourists as they waited their turn for a spooky candlelight tour of the inside of the house— and, of course, the spectacle itself.

With everything running smoothly so far, I'd given myself a little leeway. Enough to sample a sriracha-honey beef kebab and even sip a spiced old-fashioned to dull the memory of those vengeful birds and Ivy's regretful eyes.

Normally I didn't drink during events I was overseeing, but tonight the darkness groped at me, its claws hooking into my frayed edges. Reminding me how sweet it would feel to slide across the veil, to sink into that delicious burn that scorched everything else away. It was always worse when I felt vulnerable, and the confrontation with Ivy had thinned my reserves of restraint. The finality of it had struck deep; the way it had felt like this time, there was truly no hope left with her.

"Almost time!" Amrita announced, appearing at my elbow in her spectacle regalia, a feathered jet-and-amethyst domino mask concealing her eyes. My sister had an uncanny sense of when my control was slipping—or else it was incidental, a side effect of the way she scrutinized me whenever we occupied the same space. "You excited to see all your hard work bear some highly dramatic fruit?"

"I am," I said, and to my surprise, I found that it was true. Alongside the churn of all that negative emotion, a banner of pride had somehow managed to unfurl without me even noticing. Our demesne had drawn a crowd that, to my practiced maximum-occupancy eye, outstripped the throng of tourists I'd seen at the Thorn spectacle, even though they had an entire orchard of attractions on offer.

I'd done that. Even with most of my days still a struggle, I'd pulled off something pretty damn memorable.

I breathed in long and slow, letting myself sink into the simple satisfaction of a job well done as I inhaled smoke and flame and nippy autumn night, the savory smell of grilled food dueling with the deeper scent of dead leaves and damp that wafted from the Witch Woods. I felt at home, I abruptly realized. Even with the other side tugging at me, I felt more like I belonged here than I had in a long time.

"Everything really is looking fantastic," I conceded further. "The food and drinks are both fire, the candlelight tours seem to be proceeding with only the expected number of jump scares, nothing overly dire is being prophesied in the tents. I'd give it a solid 8.5 so far."

"I'll bet the spectacle tips it past that half point for you." She glanced over to the stage, set a few paces in front of the wrought iron fence, where stomach-droppingly high circus silk rigs had been erected for the normie aerialists. I'd had the stage placed for maximum dramatic effect, with the depthless dark of the Witch Woods spreading like an inky tangle behind the billows of silks. "How did the Thorn show go, anyway?"

I looked over at her, my stomach flipping a little. "You haven't heard?"

"Heard what? I came straight here from my shift at the Emporium, barely had time to change. We were fucking slammed—in the best possible way, clearly, tourist crush being an excellent problem to have. But of course Ms. Wynter chose to take the day off, get balls-deep in those Cavalcade launch vibes ." The unabashed crassness, and the way her "vibes" somehow came across as a verbal eyeroll, yanked a giggle out of me. "So I had to pick up her slack on top of everything else. I'm sure she's roaming around here somewhere, high off her perky little ass on that skunky mugwort-and-weed vape she carries everywhere. So yeah, I've talked to no one and heard nothing. Why, what happened?"

I gave her a brief recap of the unexpected aerial combat show, along with that noxious sense of necromantic manifestation I'd felt as the birds fought each other. The visceral unease I'd seemingly shared with Issa that something wicked was cresting the horizon.

I considered telling Amrita about what had transpired between me and Ivy, but the reopened wound still felt too raw for that. And I didn't want to dwell on it, not when I was finally feeling like I might be edging a little closer to acceptance. I'd tell her eventually, because I told my sister everything that mattered. But this wasn't the night for that kind of vulnerability.

Amrita let out a low whistle. "Mother and Crone, that's fucked. And on Thorn grounds?"

"Exactly. Not unprecedented, given what happened two Beltanes ago. But damn close."

"It sounds like Rowan and Linden managed to get it under control without too much trouble, though," she said. "And without you and Issa having to intervene. So maybe it registered as necromancy, but was really just some…weird spike in the normal flow of magic?"

"Could be," I waffled, though I knew what I'd felt, that bubble of maleficence expanding in my chest.

"And the lake's been so strange lately," Amrita added, still trying to put me at ease. "Maybe it's causing fluctuations. Besides, we're lifting the oblivion glamour for the spectacles, which means a bunch of normies are witnessing magical displays en masse and actually retaining the memories." She flicked a robed shoulder in a shrug. "Who knows how that's affecting things."

"But do you think I should find Elena before we start, give her a heads-up?"

"You said Issa was there, right? So she'll have reported back if she thought there was anything worth flagging." She squeezed my arm, her eyes twinkling in the mask's dim holes. "Quit being such a worrywart, sister mine. This is your night. Your spectacle, practically."

I snorted at that. "I won't even be casting any of the shadowplay—Adriana and Morty are in charge of that entire piece of things."

"That's because you're the theatrical director, the creative mastermind. Now's your moment to rest on your laurels, revel in your masterpiece a little." She tipped her head against mine in an affectionate bonk, then gave me a tug toward one of the cocktail trucks. "Also, I've got Saanvi on Kira duty all night, and I'm planning to get very comfortably tipsy, if not early-twenties-drunk. So come grab another drink with me, and let's enjoy your show."

By the time the aerialists slipped onto the stage, lithe in their sequined bodysuits, I'd had a glass of mulled wine on top of my cocktail, and such a hefty dose of Amrita's relentless optimism, that I was finding it hard to cling to any qualms.

We stood in the very front, behind the bespelled barricade that separated the audience from the stage. Although there wouldn't be any summoning, the shadowplay portion of the performance did depend on a lot of raw ectoplasm floating around to be molded; we didn't want any of its tendrils slinking over into the normie fray. The normie aerialists were all shielded against its influence, of course. Each of them had been assigned an Avramov handler, who'd be preventing any stray ectoplasm from interfering with their performance.

Below the center silk rig, Morty Gutierrez, the owner of the Shamrock Cauldron, caught my eye and winked, the silver sequins and glitter in their dramatic cat's-eye makeup glinting in the firelight. I'd spoken to them earlier today when I checked in about the food trucks, but in their performer's guise, with the liquid spill of the bloodred silks pooling behind them and the gloom of the Witch Woods hulking beyond, Morty was nearly unrecognizable. Their dark hair slicked back as if lacquered, eyes a piercing azure against that extravagant makeup. The snake-scaled bodysuit clinging to long muscles, strategic cutouts exposing obliques and shoulders that were at once cut and delicate.

As far as I knew, Morty and the prim, staid Nina Blackmoore had been happily partnered since the previous winter, but the mechanics of that match continued to elude me.

"Ugh, they're so fucking delicious, I can't even stand it," Amrita groused beside me, as if she'd read my mind about Morty. "What did Nina ‘Boring' Blackmoore ever do to deserve all that ? I need the details, because whatever it is, I bet I could top the—"

And then, in a spectral billow of fog just beyond the wrought iron fence, the spectacle began.

I'd hired an (extremely pricey) twelve-piece band to create a lush score for the aerialists, and at the initial burst of fog, they launched into a haunting, violin-forward melody that evoked the sensation of night falling, the last glimmers of daylight winking away. As the aerialists wound themselves in their silks, a driving percussive beat kicked up, the kind of rushing thump that felt like an external heartbeat, the sound of blood surging wildly through veins. When the performers began their routine—tangling and untangling themselves from the silks with liquid ease, tumbling like falling stars before hitching themselves into place—the entire audience settled into mesmerized silence.

As they clung to their silks with tightly fisted grips, I could see that all the performers' hands had been painted with stylized brambles that echoed The Bitters' window traceries, the same pattern repeating on their cheekbones. Besides the palette, it was the one thing I'd specifically requested from Morty when it came to costumes and makeup; I thought it would be a nice touch, paying homage to the ancient Avramov crest. Beyond that, based on their performance portfolio, I'd trusted Morty to be exactly the kind of independent creative who'd craft something this unforgettable.

Chills stippled my neck with every abrupt plunge and effortless ascent, the music skirling around them like something equally alive. I'd already seen all this happen three times in dress rehearsal, but watching it now left me no less rapt and breathless.

"Fucking perfection," Amrita whispered beside me, squeezing my arm. "Like I said. You absolutely killed it."

"You know I was just the logistics bitch," I protested, but none too insistently. Without my guidance, the spectacle wouldn't have come together this extravagantly—and I was making more of an effort these days not to sell myself short when I actually did something good. "But agreed. The whole aesthetic turned out even better than I hoped."

"Didn't I always say you should've gone into dramaturgy?"

"Just wait," I said, pride tugging at the corners of my mouth. "It gets even better."

Behind the stage, the rising fog roiled and thickened, condensing into a backdrop like a swirling canvas strung against the night. I could have used a mundane fog machine for this, but I'd wanted a more controlled effect, so I'd reluctantly hired one of Gawain's Blackmoore elementalists to conjure this malleable mist for me. Now I was glad I'd handed over the exorbitant sum—especially once Adriana Avramov, the youngest daughter of the main line, began casting her own necromantic shadows against that milky screen.

Ectoplasm was a tricky substrate, semi-sentient and averse to being manipulated into anything that didn't birth shades, demons, or something equally sinister. But where there was a ferocious will, there was a way—and the youngest Avramov was an uncanny wildling of a girl, unafraid to wrest even ectoplasm into something bizarre and beautiful. Where she stood tucked away behind the rightmost corner of the stage, I could see the intent concentration on her pale, angular face, dark hair braided tightly away from her temples, hands twitching in front of her in a cat's cradle of casting gestures. Using the ectoplasm's ferny roil like paint, she shaped a landscape of Hallows Hill, twisting and turning the image until our sight line hovered right at its summit.

A grayscale likeness of Lady's Lake, ringed by sketchy depictions of its encircling trees.

Then, above the landscape, she conjured a legion of drifting shades like some dark and gathering flock. Just the way they'd swarmed four hundred years ago, when the Dread Lady Margarita Avramov called upon them to come bear witness to the founding.

They were so lifelike, so close to what true shades looked like when they manifested—vaguely human silhouettes, with only trailing impressions of hair and limbs and roiling vortices for eyes—that I had to remind myself that these weren't the real thing. Just clever shadow puppetry that posed no danger to the mundane spectators. As Adriana brought them darting down toward the lake like a colony of bats, the music shifted into something even more ominous, an eldritch drone like a wordless Gregorian chant. The creeping thrill of it seeped through the crowd, parents clutching their children a little closer, lovers cuddling each other tight, tucking their faces into their partners' necks.

That pride bubbled up in me again, at having orchestrated this celebration of the essence of the Avramov spirit—our passionate devotion to the dark, the way the veil between worlds sheered around us naturally—with such authenticity. Because I felt it in my bones, the way my spectacle made the audience squirm with both delight and the slippery slither of fear. As if they could sense the truth that hovered behind the facsimile of our magic, how all this hinted at something very real.

Focused as I was on the ambience, I was probably the first to feel it when the energy turned, curdling like spoiled milk. My spine went rigid, insides shivering with dread. Amrita stiffened beside me, too, brow furrowing above her mask as she picked up on the shift.

Then a wall of pure, massive malevolence struck us like a sudden storm.

Every Avramov in the crowd sucked in their breath at once, the hiss of air over teeth loud enough to hear even above the orchestral score.

The normie spectators flicked curious glances at us over their shoulders, unsettled by the mass intake of breath but clearly oblivious to what had incited it. We ignored them, our eyes pinned to the canvas of fog—where the ectoplasm had begun to coalesce and somehow multiply , like petri dish bacteria blooming in fast-forward. Growing larger and denser until the whirling shadow mass of it hovered at least ten feet across, spinning slowly like some lightless nebula.

I flung a frantic what the fuck?! look at Adriana, but she was staring at the ectoplasmic mass with the same shock-tinged confusion as every other Avramov, those formerly busy little hands limp by her sides.

That malevolent taint surged again, like a red-bloom tide. Once, twice, three times, in ripples like silent sonic booms that made all the witches in the crowd stumble as one, even the non-Avramovs.

"Shit, is this what you meant?" Amrita demanded, poking an elbow into my side. She'd shoved her domino mask up onto her forehead, and the glossy mass of her hair bumped up behind it like a beehive. "When you said something weird happened at the orchards? Because I'd say you severely undersold the situation."

Before I could answer, I heard Ivy's familiar low register through the sudden shifting of the crowd, witches weaving through the throng to find knots of their own to huddle with. "Dasha? Dash, where are you?"

"Ivy!" My heart lodged in my throat with sudden terror, the knowledge that she was here, exposed to whatever evil this was. "Over here!"

Moments later, she slid into place next to me. My heartbeat slowed incrementally as soon as I knew where she was, close enough that whatever happened next, I'd be able to keep her safe. "What is this?" she murmured, eyes wide. "Is it like the birds?"

"I think so," I whispered back, licking my lips. My throat had gone the terrible sawdust dry that I usually associated with exorcism aftermath. "But this…whatever it is this time, I think it's much worse."

"What do we…"

The nebulous dark floating above us began to spin itself into shape, and whatever else she'd been about to say withered away.

Legs came first, shadowy yet well-defined. Bulky and powerful, corded with ligaments and tendons and veined bulges of muscle, ending in high-arched feet with curling, clawed toes. A tapered torso slabbed with shadow muscle emerged next, followed by a pair of equally colossal arms, shoulders broad and mighty enough that they looked like they could balance some monstrous orb of a world between them.

It was a male silhouette, I realized with dawning horror. Carving itself out of the ectoplasm as if some invisible sculptor were chiseling it out of black smoke.

Next came a bull-thick neck, topped with a shadow-hewn face all the more terrifying for its unearthly precision, beautiful and brutal features sculpted much too fine. Full lips drawn back in a vicious snarl over even black teeth and a pair of fangs, a square jaw and cheekbones as blunt and broad as steppes. Above the jutting forehead was an upswept riot of shadow curls, topped with an ectoplasmic crown of spires and spikes.

Finally, just as I thought the hammering of my heart might pulverize my ribs, a pair of tremendous wings exploded from the colossus's back—shaped like a bat's with barbed claws at the tips, but lined densely with glistening feathers of ectoplasm. They flared wide around him, flapping in languid flicks, as if he didn't even need them to keep himself aloft.

"Oh shit," Amrita whispered beside me, aghast. "Just what in the actual, utter fuck ."

When Ivy's cold hand slipped into mine—afraid enough that she was reaching for me again—I knew we were in an entire sideways universe of trouble.