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  Demon Eye

  Book I of the Blood Witch Saga

  B.B. Reed

  Demon Eye

  The Blood Witch Saga (Book 1)

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2020 B.B. Reed

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, small mammals, spectral phenomena, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and used for the purpose of entertainment. Any resemblance to any actual persons living or dead, organizations, locales or events on Earth are entirely coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be interpreted as the author’s views.

  Book Cover and Art Inserts by Anthony P. Weatherson

  For more information, visit https://bbreedart.squarespace.com/

  For Inka, without which this adventure would never have bloomed into a dream come true.

  I

  Unrest in Brighthall

  An ominous air hung thick in the room, chilling as if vultures circled overhead to pick at a fresh kill. Icy eyes watched over a pale girl, appearing to be well into her adolescence, their critical gaze capturing every move as she stood before a wooden table. Dark bottles, squat jars, and handmade bowls sat before her, full of all kinds of natural herbs and ingredients.

  “Must I hold your hand, child?” The feathered shadow looming behind her asked, tone colored with impatience.

  Without a word in response, the girl gathered her reagents. Her nerves twang on needle points and the young pupil began her preparations while fighting off the ticks of hesitation and nervous dread.

  Gingerly taking a dried red hibiscus from the bowl, she added it to a warming pot of water. Next were the valerian roots from one of the jars and she promptly ground it up with a mortar and pestle until the earthy aroma of its oils dance up to her nose. She added the root oils into the steaming pot, the flowery vapors mixing and wafting about the room with its mystical scent. While the small pot steeps, the student scanned over the mess of the table for her next ingredient. There was a creak from teacher’s chair and she paused to reconsider her options.

  She muttered to herself in anxiousness, her violet eyes resting on a bowl of jasmine, then added two pinches of the delicate dried flowers to the pot. Finally, she dropped a small hip of nightshade into the murky, steaming waters. As the girl stirred the brew, the lanky shadow of her mentor rose from her seat, her carved bone jewelry making dull jingles. The student stepped back and folded her hands in front of her waist, allowing the thin woman to slink over and inspect her stewing project.

  The presence of her teacher unnerved her, the woman’s nose slightly hooked and high bridged, cheeks gaunt, and wisps of straight white hair framing the ghostly woman’s face. Dark cloth robes wrapped tightly about her torso and a mantle of raven feathers rested on her shoulders, giving her the guise of a haunting specter. Those icy blue eyes, still bored and uninterested, lower to the pot. She wafted the aromatic fumes to her nose and inhales, savoring its scent in her evaluation. The hair on the nape of the girl’s neck bristled as her teacher’s verdict is delivered.

  “It is… Satisfactory.”

  ◆◆◆

  “Nobody should fear the night.”

  You will be feared, frail flesh.

  “It’s a meager price to pay.”

  You waste my gifts on charity for cattle.

  “Lamia is in its fullest phase tonight, so these sigils will be enough. The watchmen will know I’m not swindling them with parlor tricks.”

  Violet eyes branded with wicked crimson marks glanced over the yellowing pages of a book, curling like tongues of flame and her pupils resembling the sharp slits of catseyes. A woman sat alone in a cramped inn room, squinting in the dying light of her lamp as she read dog-eared pages filled with strange symbols. Straight lines arranged in snowflake patterns and branching curves, holding meaning that made average eyes cross and warp, stretched across the paper in old ink. She brushed near-black cinnamon red bangs from her eyes and turned the lamp key to brighten her workspace. Before she could resume study, her face creased with discomfort, a voice ringing in her ears.

  You are much too forgiving—No, too stubborn to realize they will just turn on you.

  She winced at the voice’s buzzing in her head, “Have patience. You will get your part of the deal soon enough.”

  Do not keep me waiting…

  The ominous presence lifted and she returned to her studying, savoring the brief peace from her unseen passenger. She looked out the window at the flickering specks of lamplight in the neighboring homes. The hum and soft lull of voices had since faded away downstairs, the telltale signs of late evening settling upon the town. Banging at the door tore her attention away from her work, the shrill tone of the proprietor’s wife bleeding through.

  “Maris! The watch sent for you!”

  A groan huffed through her lips and she called back, “I’ll be on my way!”

  The traveler closed her book and tucked it away, finding her knife in her bag. She slipped the blade from its leather sheath and examined the silver luster of the curved blade against the lamplight, fingering the small charms tied to its handle before fastening the scabbard to her hip.

  She threw her dark musty cloak over her shoulders, fastening it together and pulling the hood up. A quick adjustment hid her branded eyes from view. The lamp light was snuffed out and she grabbed the room key to lock up. She clapped down the stairs and found the proprietress finishing cleaning the last of the tables for the evening. The aged woman sneered, pointing a thick finger at her, “Don’t be comin’ back here with boggarts, spook. You’re lucky the magistrate gave you a pass at findin’ this murderer. What a yellow-bellied sop, lettin’ some drifter come fix our problems for us. What did you do, hm? Slip him honeyed words and show some skin to old Charles?”

  She scoffed at the grumbling woman, “You’re lucky I caught wind of your crisis on the highways. Magistrate Alden said trade has all but frozen for Brighthall with this terror in the woods, so what does he have left to lose by hiring me?”

  “He’s not the one handing what’s left of our food rations to some soothsayer about to bring disaster down upon our heads.” The tender glared, giving the table a frustrated swipe with her washcloth.

  The hooded traveler nodded, weaving through the empty chairs, “The risk is well worth it instead of throwing know-nothing militiamen at the problem. Good or bad, I’ll be gone and it will be as if I was never here.”

  She wiped her brow with the back of her hand, turning her back to finish cleaning, “First the walkin’ dead and now deals with carnies. The whole of Arram’s goin’ to hell.”

  A sympathetic smile, then the mysterious woman left the proprietor to her work. She kept a brisk pace down the moist cobblestones, reaching with her sixth sense for the hollow aura of the deceased through the fabric of the air. As she passed under the yellow streetlamps, she honed in on the familiar coldness of the hereafter, goosebumps rising on her arms as she neared a dilapidated townhouse and searched down the lane. The path to the cemetery was a climb up a small hill, steps eroded and cobbles missing.

  The silvery bath of moonlight washed over the graveyard path, the drifter leaving the town houses behind as she made her ascent. Groaning movements in her shadow sapped her strength and she shook her head to keep hold of her focus. Her head throbbed and the shadowed nooks unlit by the moon shimmered with crimson ripples. As she neared the crest of the hill, an iron scent wafted to her nose, causing her ears to pound with her heartbeat. Flickers of bright red shine in her vision, a speckled path
of bloody droplets leading to the musky source. A breeze kicked up, the pungent and enticing smell of lifeblood filling her nostrils. It was a drawing aroma and she meandered through the headstones to the irresistible collection. Muffled voices barely penetrated her trance, dominated by the animalistic hunger clawing at her stomach.

  Her teeth ground together and she clenched her eyes shut to force the intruding presence from her mind. Its suffocating grip loosened with hollow laughter as she faced her cohorts. A breath hissed through her lips and she stepped into the dim lantern light. There was a mound of dirt next to the shallow pit of the watchman’s grave, a cross heading its length. A name was roughly carved upon it, Ross Lewin, and the dirt-caked wood coffin that lay inside. One of the watchmen waved his hand by his nose, grimacing at the full bucket resting by his feet, “Heavens almighty, captain, did the damn pig have shit in its veins?”

  His superior rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, “It’ll be done with soon, just bear it, Ramsey. Our ‘expert’ has arrived at last. Halena Maris, I presume?”

  She inclined her head in greeting, “You must be Laurence. I trust Magistrate Alden told you about my contract?”

  “Aye,” The captain nodded, “Father said you wanted to examine a fresh body for clues and evidence. So here you are, one of our own taken by the murderer.”

  Halena’s lips formed a thin line, “I made it clear to Alden that I am to be uninterrupted in my work. Were you told the same?”

  He grunted in acknowledgement, “He said you may be doing more than simple chirurgery work.”

  “Indeed, much more. If you would remove the coffin lid, I can begin my investigation.” The hooded woman kept her hands folded in front of her waist.

  A crooked elderly man with bristling, salt-colored whiskers grimaced, leaning on his spade. He muttered to himself, “Five forgive our transgressions.” The mortician gripped a rosary hanging from his neck and pressed the cross-shaped talisman to his lips before beckoning the wary watchman to help him inside the pit to break the coffin’s seal.

  “How long has it been since he passed?” She asked while the men worked.

  Laurence shifted his weight from one leg to the other, “He and Ramsey worked together on a run at the beginning of the week to sweep the hollows for traces of our killer, following the murders of a merchant’s wagon the week before. Ramsey called for help and by the time we had Ross back to the chirurgeon, he had already lost too much blood.”

  He shook his head in dismay, “Was damn bad luck. After word got to the town about his passing, people grew frightened.”

  Halena pursed her lips and chewed on the tale while watching the man she presumed to be Ramsey work with the mortician. The nails creaked and snapped as they were jerked free from the wood and she brought the fold of her cloak up to her nose in preparation for the putrid billow of odorous decay. Ramsey hacked and coughed from the depths of the pit, and Laurence let out a disgusted groan, “Augh… That stench is awful. Try to make it quick, Maris.”

  The putrid smell from the coffin slowly leaked through her sleeve, but the worst of it was avoided. While the pair exhumed the grave and dusted themselves off, Halena approached the open casket to behold the freshly decaying remains, crouching by its side for inspection. Cuts cross the corpse’s face, red splotches and greenish hues already spread over the young man’s skin; the sight was tragic. She unsheathed her knife to cut the buttons of his shirt and opened the garment to examine his chest, expecting to find clawing marks or signs of disemboweling. Purple bruises stretched across the abdomen and only four deep scratch marks marred his pale chest. Ripped flesh in his side was too clean for rending claws, though the wound was plenty to bleed out from. She looked over her shoulder at the deputy, motioning for the bucket, “Bring that here, please.”

  He cursed and picked the bucket of swine blood up to place at her side, “The things we’ve let a spook do… Fine, here you are.”

  Ramsey quickly backed away, his anxious eyes watching her every move.

  Halena drew the knife over Ross’ sternum until the muscle gave away. At the bottom of the arch of the ribcage, she turned her knife point horizontal across the body and sunk the tip into his flesh, sawing a cut across the width of the man’s ribs. The putrefied odor grew in strength and her nose wrinkled. Halena dug under the cut to separate the muscle dividing the upper and lower portions of the body cavities and allowed access up into the heart. Blackened blood stained her fingers and the putrid fumes made her eyes water as she took controlled breaths to avoid the full effect of the decayed smell. She wiped the blade on the grass for a quick improvised clean-up.

  With the bucket of fresh blood at her side, the hooded woman dipped her index finger into the warm mixture to coat it thick with her ink. In soft rhythm, she uttered an unearthly tongue while painting a carefully calculated sigil upon the man’s chest, making straight lines, practiced arcs, and sharp angles. Her chant continued as she reapplied fresh blood to her finger, drawing a second wicked sigil upon his head.

  “Animate the heart, begin its rhythms anew. Wake the mind, beckon the soul of the departed so that it may share its tragedy. As I command, you will answer me.” Halena whispered in those maddening syllables as the final curve was inscribed upon the man’s pale forehead, closing the circle of power.

  Her chest grew hot as she evoked the unseen vapor in the air, the wild fiery marks about her eyes simmering. The bloody ink of the sigils thickened and steam rose from its rusty smears. Halena waved her hand over the bucket, an unseen force rippling across the surface until it lied still as glass. She repeated the incantation as she lowered her palm to touch the surface of the liquid and lifted up, the sticky blood rising

  in a gooey coagulated sheet. Gripping tightly to her will over the blood, she forced the mass up from the bucket, congealing into a sizeable dripping red orb. It throbbed like a heart while every drop of blood in the bucket sucked into its mass, leaving it clean. Invisible needles

  twisted in Halena’s neck while holding her ethereal grip on the bloody sphere, her shadow writhing and groaning as its terrible power fed into her magick.

  “This body lives once more, as in life, so will in death.” She chanted and a tendril of blood streamed down from the sphere to snake into the body, forcing itself into the cold arteries and filling the heart. The corpse twitched ever so slightly while the dry passages stretched back to life. The last of the blood vanished up into his chest cavity and Halena shuddered, a small gasp filling her lungs. The horrified gazes of the captain, his deputy, and the mortician watched the grim ritual with raised hackles. Her ears rang with the slow beats of the still heart thrumming back to life and Halena’s eyes widened as a dry groan choked out from the casket. Ragged fingernails clawed at the side of the wooden coffin and hands shakily reached out to rest on the edges. There was a wet creaking as stiff joints broke rigor mortis, and the deathly man pulled himself into a sitting position, a sickening ichor leaking from the corner of his rotting lip. The corpse fought his stiff body to look up at the gathering with lifeless white eyes.

  “Why… am I here?” He hissed dryly, examining the grotesque state of his hands and skin.

  Laurence stammered in disbelief, taking a step forward, “R-Ross… Is that really you?”

  The corpse licked his dry lips, looking apologetically to Laurence, “Captain, I’m… sorry for buggering the patrol. It was all bad luck…”

  The captain and Ramsey pale at the intelligent response and he covered his mouth, words failing him. Halena leaned forward to address the deceased watchman, “You can still make up for it, Ross. We need to know what happened when you were hurt in the hollows. If you can tell us what happened, we’ll put you…back to sleep.”

  She swallowed her apprehension, the phrase strange as it rolled off her tongue. He ran his hands through what was left of his moldy thin hair, humming in rattled thought.

  “Mmm… It all happened so quickly. I could barely make out anything a yard in front of the
light of my lantern.” He let his hands drop down into his lap as he dug into his memory.

  Laurence finally gathered his nerve and pressed further, “Did you find anything related to those strange charms we found back in Brighthall? Was there anything at the farms?”

  Ross shook his head, “No, no… The farms were barren, reeked of blood. No bodies, no… Wait…” He narrowed his milky gaze, sneering, “Footprints. I followed footprints and caught up to someone. I swore they wore the colors of the night watch, but it was so dark. I thought I had found Frederick’s team that took to the eastern side.”

  His eyes widened, “That’s when one of those… things ambushed me.”

  Ross ran his rotten fingers over the claw wounds on his shoulder, “Savage, smelled of rot, but not so swift. I think it was a corpse, but walking upright… It got some lucky swipes at me before I cut it down. If it had been rotting since it crawled out of its grave… That would explain why my sword carved it so easily.”

  Halena ground her teeth together at the revelation, her catseyes flicking over to the others, “Were there more that attacked you?”

  “Nuh...” He shook his head, “When I checked the corpse, I was thrown off my feet, my knee broke from the blow.” Ross added, running his brittle fingers over his leg and he grit his yellowed teeth together, “The pain was unbearable. My lantern went out, but when I saw someone stand over me, I thought it was one of our own, and I begged for help. Things got blurry… intense pain…”

  A graveled groan rumbled in the watchman and his hands clenched into weak fists, “Their face… If only I could remember…” Ross looked to Laurence and his deputy, his shriveled features going slack a moment when his blank, ghostly eyes flicked between them, “In the forest… Yeah, that’s where—”