He turned, eyebrow raised. ‘A tarry prison. You haven’t seen a sealed demon before? Of course not, blessed thing that you are. Take a look. That was Asten’s will, after all, when They left us.’
Csilla flinched at the mention of the Severing. The world had gone dark for three days, and then no more angels or demons walked among them.
‘There’s a demon in there?’
The damaged surface of the road was glassy, but as she peered over, she couldn’t see her reflection. The black sucked in every hint of light and colour that touched it. It wasn’t so much looking into darkness as it was looking into a hollow nothing, and a deep, animal terror crawled up in her.
It was said that the birth of humanity was a crisis that became the world. That when the angels urged Asten to make just a little more, to make companions so they could be to this new creation as Asten was to them, that the selfish seed in that urge brought forth creatures of hungry Shadow along with humanity, equal parts dark and divine. That somewhere in the north was a burning garden that was never extinguished, that was the childbed of evil. Here was proof. Not burning, but dark enough to take her breath away.
‘It’s perfectly safe. The Servants of the Road take care of them, and if one popped out right now, I’d banish it for you.’ He tapped it with his foot, and she cringed, imagining Shadow-born flesh reaching through, inhuman hands grasping his ankle.
There were hundreds of years between her and the creature trapped in there, and it suddenly didn’t seem enough.
‘You could do that? Banish a demon?’ The notes she carried and what she’d seen Ilan researching burned hot in her mind.
He tilted his head and looked thoughtful, scratching at his beard.
‘Maybe? I’ve never tried, but I suppose I’m holy enough.’
That was an endorsement she had no desire to test. Csilla stepped carefully around the edge of the tainted ground, but as they made their way further down the road, she kept glancing back over her shoulder. No matter how far they walked, the black spot lingered on the horizon.
‘Here we are,’ he said as they approached an old logger’s stead, the trees around it stunted and young compared to the greater forest.
There was a solid-looking, if small, house with broken windows covered in faded and drooping cloth, a wide and sagging porch and a thick-planked barn much larger than the living space. The well was covered, but freshly split logs in the woodshed showed the lot hadn’t been abandoned. Everything else was dire. The roof had a recent patch that was just a board laid across at an awkward angle. A gust would send it careening.
‘Who lived here before?’
The porch boards looked so worn Csilla was sure her foot would plunge through. Winter damp had left them spongy in places, and it was a wonder Mihály hadn’t broken the whole thing with his weight.
‘The family here had plague, I think,’ Mihály said without the slightest hint of concern. ‘I found it on my way to the city last year, thought it might be useful. Space is quite the commodity in Silgard.’
Csilla shuddered, remembering the last outbreak. Mothers with aprons dotted with bloody phlegm begging sanctuary for fevered children, delirious victims claiming to see angels with hundreds of eyes or demons with the foaming-mouthed heads ofrabid animals. The cracks left in the Faith made the city ripe for a preacher like Mihály who could offer hope. With the Incarnate away for longer and longer stretches, people were starved for a connection to the divine.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he continued. ‘I’m here all the time, and I’ve never gotten sick.’
Mihály’s nonchalant tone made her skin tighten. He hadn’t been through the worst of it. The miasma of illness could be stirred with the dust at their feet, or soaked into the wood like mould spores, or carried in her clothes to people who might not be blessed with her health. He should know that.
He led her to the barn. Inside was dim, even with the doors open. A few lamps hung from rafters – clearly salvaged, no two matching – carefully positioned away from anything that could catch fire. Mihály lit the oil with a long starter stick.
As the fire flicked, doves flew from their roost, and Csilla startled at the grey storm of wings and the dust they cast down.
The light revealed a long table covered in tarp cloth that looked like it had once served as part of the barn floor. Brown could have been the original colour of the cloth or just as easily manure residue. He paused, hand light and hesitant on the wood.
‘I’m sorry, this isn’t the kind of thing a delicate girl should see.’
Csilla gave a little huff. He didn’t know the work the mercy crews did if he thought her delicate. And she was still the girl who’d at leastconsideredkilling him.
But when he pulled back the cloth, her hands flew to her mouth to prevent a scream.
The table was covered in animal corpses.
There were squirrels, their bushy tails frozen in unmoving question marks, a few with open stomachs revealing lines of dried intestines, looking like draped paper cutouts. Little chipmunks lined up in a row, black eyes shrivelled in theirbalding heads and sinking into the sockets. Tufts of brown fur were scattered around their paws, some of it with skin still attached.
A fox with one mangled leg stood with the limb drawn up as if his black-tipped paw still caused him pain, and the white bone and tendon poked through black congealed clots around the wound of whatever trap had felled him. At least a dozen doves with wrung necks were laid out like game in a butcher shop. No wonder the roosting birds had panicked.
His grotesque collection wasn’t limited to warm-blooded creatures. There was a blacksnake, a dried-out toad, and even a handful of small river fish with brown and flaking scales. Perhaps the flies lying around were part of the design and not eager opportunists drawn by the gore.
‘You...’ She had to pause for a breath. ‘You killed all these?’
