There were seven possessions in the room, seven adult bodies positioned three feet away, at most, from any one child. He couldn’t see any weapons, but that hardly mattered; each possession could break scrawny necks with inhuman efficiency. The good news was that considering the malignant apparition earlier, and the physical state of the witch, this witch and her demon did not — could not — deal with other cognizants. She had to have been controlling all of them — and if he could get close enough to the witch to knock her out in one go, the fight would be over.

He raised his hands.

“Okay, sure. How about — you let all these noisy little shits go, and give me those shards — and I promise, I will do my best to fix him,” He took the tiniest step forward.

She snarled. The seven possessions quivered, tattered hair and clothes swaying in the candle-light.

“Need them for the ritual. Fix — my Lord — alone.”

Vincent lowered his hands, palms against the ground, in a gesture he hoped passed as soothing. The irregular speech pattern indicated that he needed a different approach.

“What’s your name?” He said, forcing his lips into a smile. She started at him, eyes narrowing in some semblance of thought.

“Mathilda.”

“Okay, listen — Mathilda. I’m not exactly in the business of helping witches,” she started to snarl again, and he raised his hand again to cut her off, “But I am willing to help you — just, you know. Consider it a barter of services rendered. Gotta give me something in return, you know? Just a little gesture of goodwill — can’t blame me here now, considering how you already skinned your previous… collaborators.”

“Got what they deserved,” she shrugged, then cocked her head, staring at him. The malignant apparition at the door roiled, then slithered a part of itself towards Vincent, rising up like a screen surrounding him and Mathilda the witch, then wrapping a tendril of itself around his ankles. Again, his shoes felt like a once-worn wetsuit, his ears filled with white noise and static.

“Okay, Mathilda — what are we doing here?” He said, trying to keep his voice calm.

“You says — give you a ‘little something’. A gesture of good will.”

He blinked. The candle flames inside their impromptu privacy screen wavered.

Oh. OH. Fucking fuck.

“Uh no no that’s - that’s not what I meant.” The laughter that bubbled up was certainly genuine... Genuine panic. He raised his foot, shook it, trying to get rid of the slimy feeling. The malignant apparition dropped to the tiled floor, shivering like a puddle beneath his feet. “I was thinking more of a — you know — trade. You send some kids out that door, I fix your patron, that kind of thing.”

She raised her head fully to look at him, and he realized to his horror that maybe his initial assessment of her appearing young was incorrect. She actually was young — maybe in her early 20's, like him, at the oldest. The apparition slithered back towards the door as she watched him, pouting.

“Mathilda, how old are you?” He couldn’t help himself.

“Old old old — old as time.” She rocked back and forth. “Stolen as a babe, ageless, old as time.” She cocked her head. “Stolen as a babe, like the exorcist. Both old as time.”

The shiver that went through Vincent’s spine felt like claws of ice.

There was no fucking way she could know anything… could she?

No, it had to be a lucky guess, like the charlatan “fortune tellers” stealing coin from the gullible. Just keep guessing, until you get lucky. And she didn’t even get lucky, because he wasn’t stolen.

He was abandoned. Yes, abandonned, by some irresponsible, regretful person — a person that was not, and never will be, anything like his mother and father.

His lip set into a snarl as he strode towards her, unbidden.

“Listen, here—”

She roared, eyes bulging wide. The candle flames erupted just as the seven possessions snatched at the children closest to them, bony, sagging fingers clasping at small necks and frail shoulders. The room filled with the horrified screeching of children, piercing his skull.

“Step not. Kneel.”

“Okay, okay.” The possession closest to him had full grip of a smaller boy’s throat tightly enough that the child couldn’t scream. Its slimy fingers worried the skinny neck, like a tick. Vincent dropped down onto his knees.

“Mathilda, I’m guessing — just guessing here — that your life up to now kinda sucked, yeah?” He had to keep talking, had to find some way under her guard. She stared at him again, saying nothing. He took a stock around the room. On his knees, he was four or five feet away from the witch. He was almost close enough to throw himself at her — but would he be fast enough to incapacitate her before she could get her decomposing puppets to snap a couple necks?

“Look,” he tried again. “I think — I think it sounds like your life was awful. You got kidnapped by this group as a child, didn’t you? They kept you locked up maybe, made you take that contract with your, er, lord?”

The possessions quivered again.

“Got what they deserved.” Mathilda repeated, staring at the floor. He looked between the dead faces. One of them was still wearing its glasses, tangle of hair wrapped around one lens.

Vincent nodded his head, carefully.

“Yeah, I’d say so. But — listen. These kids — they have nothing to do with that. They got kidnapped by this same group — just like you — and you, Mathilda, you have the power to change their lives. You can let them go, so they can have the kind of life that was stolen from you. That’s real powerful, Mathilda. You’re real powerful. You let them go, and I’ll help you work out this business with your uh, Lord. I’ve been, uh, awed by his magnificence and forgot his name, sorry.”

She looked back up at him.

“I will save them.” She said, her mouth twisting into a wide smile. “Lord Anathael — he will save us all.”

Anathael.

The demon’s name was Anathael. He had a name for his Third Chant. Assuming he found the chance to use it.

“Mathilda, there’s policemen waiting on the other side of that door. They’ll be happy to help the kids, so Lord Anathael doesn’t… doesn’t have to be burdened with such insignificant details.”

Actually, let’s hope he won’t be burdened with anything involving the mortal world for much longer, but…

Mathilda shook her flaming-red — definitely dyed — locks, then smiled serenely.

“Lord Anathael never burdened by helping.” She said. “He came to me. All alone, in the dark. Bad girl, they said. Punishment. Lord Anathael came to me, helped me. Welcomed into my heart.” She clasped her hands in front of her chest.

He’d initially guessed that her interrupted speech was a consequence of being around her patron long enough that her mind was starting to warp. Old witches — witches who spent centuries in close service to their demon master — would often speak in riddles or irregularities, or just spout plain nonsense. Something about their soul already being half-way down under, some corruption of the mind. But the timeline — and Mathilda’s age — just didn’t add up.

He couldn’t bring himself to ponder the obvious alternative explanation, or he might not be able to bring himself to hit her hard enough to incapacitate.

“The ritual.” Mathilda’s voice rose, suddenly agitated. “The ritual, will save us all. Lord Anathael, will save us - but exorcist, exorcist broke my Lord—” Her face warped into a snarl. Her fingers wrapped around one of the shards of the shattered mirror, blood dripping between her fingers. “Exorcist will fix my Lord, in blood.”