“Chess, it took us an hour to get this shit done. There’s dirt and maggots all over mySo Kates!” I can only blink at her, and she throws her hands up in frustration. “Alright fine, but I want a reward. A Godwyn embargo. No talk of him for the rest of tonight, nor tomorrow. Consider it penance.”
“Deal.”
We both grunt as we flip the coffin shut, nearly catching my fingers in the process. A few painfully embarrassing grunts later, and we’ve shoved the box back into the hole. Percy kicks at the dirt with her red-bottomed shoes whilst I use the shovel to flick loam back onto wood. I’m comically bent over, whacking at the pile in an attempt to flatten it, when Percy’s lantern from the gala goes out.
Neither of us moves. Something in the trees above us creaks. I look up to see a blanket of black has covered the branches.
A murder of crows keeps watch.
“How many times,” I askvery quietly, “did we say his name?”
Her lips part, suddenly blue in what little light there is. “Three.”
From about six headstones away, a pale head peeks over stone. The shadow twists until given form and crawls, long jointed limbs reaching forward like blind hands. It comes out on all fours. Too tall. Too thin. Where its face should be is only a yawning black hole for a mouth, skin shining as though oiled. No eyes, no features except a jaw sagging to show rows of razor-sharp teeth. A huskin. Godwyn’s slaves, spirits of Sheffolk he’s cursed into obedience. I choke back bile as it creeps closer. Slowly but surely, five more appear in the distance.
“Fuck,” Percy hisses, realising her shoes are the least of our problems right now. “What happened to calling himG-spot? We had a system and everything?—”
“Iforgot, okay!”
My gloved hand creeps towards where our abandoned Mariposa backpack lay. The zipper’s half-broken, one strap is completely detached, but inside lay the only allies we’ve got. I wrench a fat vial from the bottom and thumb the cork free before tipping the salt and hearth-ash mixture into my palm. Percy’s breathing heavily as we wait for one to reach us.
I remain motionless until I can feel the coldness of its skin and how it sniffs without a nose, head tilted like a dog. Then I fling the ash-salt straight at its chest. As the grain sticks to leathery flesh, freezing the creature in place, I spit through the gap between my ring and middle fingers.
Once the saliva connects, blistering across its chest, I speak, “Per foculum qui hunc cinerem peperit, Domus Sheffolk te abnegat; per salem maris immensi et indomiti, caro nostra te abicit; per sigillum viventium, pereas.”?1
The mixture sizzles, burning through skin and bone, and the huskin arches. Hearth-ash chases the shadow as the salt tears it open. It lets out a shrill cry, scaring off the crows before the darkness of itself loses shape.
Percy watches the spot where it once stood, and I note she’s pulled a handful of maiden nails against her chest. “Honestly, fuck this night.”
I could almost laugh. “This’ll last us to the car at least, if we book it.”
We backtrack together, never taking our gaze away from the group that is gradually forming. Something clicks their teeth on stone; from behind another headstone pops an eyeless face. One slides parallel to me, and Percy tosses a nail without a second thought. Iron sings; the huskin recoils. Cillian’s mound growsblurry the further back we step. Four mouths still yawn towards us, but the second my heel hits the lane, we turn and sprint. Percy trips over her skirt, and a cackle rips from my chest as we run as though the devil himself is on our tail. My ankles are one wrong step away from becoming nonexistent whilst Percy hops over heavy material like a frightened gazelle.
The huskins give chase, but we’re already sliding into my cousin’s screaming tangerine Porsche. She hops right over the door and starts the engine before I’m even inside. Behind us, the graveyard exhales, and I blow what’s left of the ash-salt into the wind, cursing any spirit that dares follow. And the night lets us pass—right into the jaws of an even scarier creature. We’re only ten minutes into our drive home when both our eyes flick to the time. 12:45 blinks back mockingly.
We’re late for Gran’s Stitching.
“Fuck,” Percy hisses, nearly snapping a heel when she steps onto the gas pedal.
Late for the second goddamn week in a row, and I’m expecting Percy to blame me for the graveyard jaunt, but she’s too focused on getting us back to the castle. She’s driving faster than when there were literal cursed spirits chasing us. A twenty-minute drive turns into fifteen, and soon the grand gates are swinging open.
Our cloaks are the only ones still dangling from the wall when we reach the antechamber door of the old library.Shit. We grab them and assist each other with the small golden clasp stitched into the front of the fabric. Percy hides the blood stains on my dress, and I wipe any dirt that remains on her face. While she kicks off her heels, I search through my purse for the two ouroboros rings at the bottom. Once they’re slipped onto our left index fingers, Percy shoves through the doors. Inside, the air is dense with candle wax and whatever perfume Moira keeps drowning herself in.
Five chairs filled, two empty.
The table is already set, and the Stitching has started. Gran sits with a long black cloth, bone needle in hand, as she drags cotton through fabric. She doesn’t look up when we enter, just mumbles names beneath her breath, and we take that as an opportunity to slip into the two seats next to the fireplace.
“That fucking cult has a voice now,” Philip is saying, fidgeting with the serpent ring on his own hand. He’s a large, muscular man, and in situations like this, it’s difficult to associate him with the chauffeur persona he portrays in public. “And that voice is Victoria James. She’s got a podcast now, and she’s claiming this House is a dynasty of the damned. They’re quoting her on the demonic lineage bit, and they’ve mangled the crest on their flyers to look like a demon’s crown.”
Pascoe hums at that, wrinkled skin folding and deepening his frown. He sits to the right of Gran, as he always has, loyal steward to the very bone. “Her recent publication’s attempting to tie last week’s murders to us. Citizens scream ‘serial killer’, and the Sheffolk Renewal Society says it’s this family. I’ve been here long enough to admit that it’s difficult to explain the pattern of it. We’ve never caught him or her, never come close to it—so the public has taken to claiming it’s not a person at all but a family cleaning house.”
“But it’s not a person now, is it?” interjects Percy, and I pinch her side so hard she yelps. We’re already late; there’s no need for a bloody spotlight as well. “Just tell her it’s huskins doing the killing and see if she still wants Gran deposed. We wouldn’t survive without her.”
“And give her ammo to torch this family?” probes Susannah. “People can easily stomach murder. Witchcraft? They’ll stop their gossip and begin building pyres.”
Can’t disagree with her there, and the line of her mouth suggests she didn’t exactly catch the fact that Percy was joking.Beneath the candlelight, her pale skin is gaunt, and with those piercing eyes trained on us both, I wonder if we should’ve taken our chances at the graveyard.
There’s a lecture coming soon; I feel it.
