She and Hers

12 - The Tomb

Holden

"Three, six, nine, or twelve. A quarter coven. Four sisters and one can't belong. An Original, or an outcast, perhaps both. A spell Twisted into an abomination. Blood and bone; a sacrifice. A husband. Two victims. One human. One wolf."

My wife stops whispering under her breath and stands utterly still. The city lights cast her skin in blue and white, and her mint green eyes glitter darkly.

"A soul corrupted and immortal. Gods," she says quietly. "Death and the Morrigan."

It's a bizarre scene. Despite Cort's best efforts, downtown Hartford can't just be blocked off. Should anyone wander by, there's little we can do except hope we look like some hipster-slash-business people out socializing at nine at night with some candles and salt. Normal, everyday stuff. There's nothing to look at over here.

We could pull the look off, except for Devel Grim, who looks like a serial killer recently sprung from Rikers Island and is indelibly pissed off at the world.

"There's nothing," Chiara says with defeat. "I've asked and just... nothing."

"Do you need a sacrifice?" Devel asks Chiara when she's paused for longer than a minute.

"No," she says quietly, shooting him an unreadable look. Sam and Devel share a surprised glance. Chiara doesn't explain, locked in her thoughts, so I decide to play teacher.

"Death doesn't ask for a sacrifice for this ritual. Death gives the sacrifice," I rasp hoarsely. Devel and Sam side-eye me quizzically, but I don't bother to explain. I can't. Asking Death for favors never turns out the way you want it to.

"Presumably, if you ask a favor from a god from the Death Pantheon, there has already been a sacrifice. Otherwise, the sacrifice would be... rejected," Cort explains.

"What was the sacrifice?" Devel asks.

"All those females," I grunt, feeling nauseous and dizzy. "All that pain. Death already collected his due."

"So much pain needs a balance. That's why Chiara thinks maybe all of this is connected," Cort continues, his gaze full of concern as it darts between Chiara and me.

I offer a weak smile. Death is absolute, final, and yet... not really? How do we explain it to men who deal with death, not Death?

"She died here but wasn't claimed by Death. She wasn't resurrected here, either" my wife sighs suddenly, looking defeated. "How will we find that location? Where was her body taken?"

"Not the cemetery. No church would bury a witch on their holy ground," Cort replies in a quiet, steady voice.

"They would entomb her, though," Chiara states firmly. "There must be a cemetery for the condemned."

"Or," Sam adds, "the family claimed the body? Her sisters or her husband?"

Chiara pauses, staring at the ground in silent contemplation. The candle at her feet flickers, the sand glimmering in the light as if the flame was dancing across the circle. "To kill a Risen witch," she announces suddenly, her voice a little too loud, as if she was reciting from a book. "First, chop off the head and left arm at the elbow with an axe of purest iron. Carve out heart. Be careful; the mouth may bite even after severing. Place the heart in the witch's left hand, then the left hand, with the heart, into the witch's mouth. Place the head, hand and heart, upside down, into an oak barrel with iron fastenings, the purer the better, but of course... rust. Fill the barrel with 100% white vinegar. Seal the barrel with red wax. Burn the body, then mix the ashes into a slurry with oil; castor oil is best, and coat the barrel. Place the barrel somewhere secure; a stone cairn is preferable, but if that isn't possible, bury the barrel in the darkest soil, seven feet down."