Chapter Thirteen

"Homestead"

* * * * * * * * * * *

My eyes darted back and forth—from the demon swinging her blood-born blade against the invisible barrier to the butcher's hooks hanging from the ceiling to the Pale Man wearing a look of concern.

I put it all together. The Pale Man wasn't targeting the butcher. He was protecting him. The mark on the door must have been some sort of protective seal—it created a barrier that demons couldn't penetrate. 

I watched Mary just outside the doorway, slicing vigorously with her blood-born sword, only for it to strike harmlessly against the invisible barrier around the shop.

She clicked her tongue in annoyance and glowered at us.

"I suppose that's enough playtime for one night. I'm sure I'll see you two again though." Her lips curled into her chill-inducing grin as she stepped backwards, vanishing into the mist-filled darkness.

The Pale Man and I exchanged glances. We let out a collective sigh. The feeling of relief washed over us, like sailors that had been battered by waves for weeks and had finally reached port.

Both of us knew there were hundreds of questions to ask one another—Who are you? What's your trait? What do you know so far? But without saying a word, we both understood that we needed a moment of rest. 

We sat there in silence. The adrenaline began to wean and our hearts settled. Then I noticed a heat spreading through my body, followed by a sharp, intense pain.

"Just give it a second." The Pale Man said. 

I looked down and my eyes widened as I realized the wound I had sustained from Mary—the cut through my chest and the gaping hole in my shoulder—they were healing. Scar tissue grew into the gaps. Skin stretched and pulled over the exposed areas. Weeks of recuperation and regrowth, condensed into mere minutes.

I clenched my teeth in pain until every wound developed into scar tissue, then I let out a relieved sigh.

The Pale Man stared at me, studying my reactions, then said, "I'm guessing you're a player too?"

I nodded. "I'm Dante."

"Ulrich Licht," he replied.

"Your trait... It can heal?"

Ulrich didn't respond. He seemed wary of giving away too much information. In response, I swiped my hand and showed him one of my log entries.

[Log Entry: I showed Ulrich a demonstration of my trait.]

"It's called Scribe," I explained. "It lets me track events that I've encountered."

I won't tell him about the partnerships for now. I don't want to give too much away.

Ulrich lifted an eyebrow, confused. "It shows you future events?"

I shook my head, "No, just events in real time."

"Oh, so like everything that's happening within a certain area?"

"Nope, just my own perspective."

Ulrich nodded his head, squinting, trying to see any benefit to my trait. Then my displays appeared before me:

[Log Entry: I'm pretty sure he thinks my trait is useless.]

"Hold on, I don't think it's useless..." he said, suddenly embarrassed.

I simply shrugged, "I'm making do with what I've got. And yours? I'm guessing it's got something to do with that mark on the door?"

Ulrich looked confused, then it dawned upon, "It was you that night. I thought I heard someone."

I nodded. "So what, it creates protective barriers?"

"It's called Homestead. Any building I mark with my seal will protect it against demonic activity for a single night." He gestured to my new scars. "It also heals wounds made by demonic powers."

That's a damn good trait... I suddenly wished I had gotten a better one during my time in the Barren Fields. I quickly shook off the regrets. Better to focus on the here-and-now, rather than dwell on past mistakes. 

I thought back to the mark he had made on the door. "Any particular reason for the shape? It looks like a "3" you crossed a line through."

Ulrich frowned. "It's the staff of Asclepius... You know, symbol of healing?"

That "3" was a snake?

I didn't want to offend him so I didn't comment on it. Instead I asked, "The butcher... Why were you protecting him?"

Ulrich went quiet at first, then said, "Just a hunch." He didn't look me in the eyes when he said this. It seemed both of us were hiding something. 

I brought up the butcher's log entries, but kept the display hidden so Ulrich couldn't see.

[Walter's Log: bloodwhydeaddemonwhydeadkilled]

[Walter's Log: demonmarciakilledmewhydeadcleaverblood]

[Walter's Log: bloodscaredwitchdemonbloodmarciadead]

His log was completely filled with entries like this. He was still alive, but his mind was shattered. It wasn't surprising. To him, it must have seemed like his wife was killed by his own hands.

The red haze of morning light started to peer through the window. Based off the silence, the public had yet to discover the gruesome scene left behind by Mary. Ulrich and I agreed it would be best for us to be as far away as possible when it happened. We would split up and reconvene later.

"There's a tavern near the market. The Acorn. Noon. We'll share what we know there."

We began to depart. As I left, a part of me willed myself to check on the butcher. Ulrich hissed at me, "What are you doing?"

I gestured for him to go. He needed no more convincing and high-tailed it out of there. 

The butcher sat in the middle of the street with his wife's corpse in his arms. He rocked back and forth, traumatized and muttering to himself. 

There was nothing I could do for him in this moment except acknowledge his loss.

Marcia Kemp... She was like me once. An aberrant clinging to hope. 

It reminded me that I was still in hell.

* * * * * * * * * * *

[Log Entry: It's 11:30am!]

[Log Entry: It's 11:30am!]

[Log Entry: It's 11:30am!]

I stirred awake, groggy and annoyed.

When I arrived back at the inn, I had immediately holed up in my room and shut the curtains so I could catch some sleep. 

But it was time to meet Ulrich. 

The one good thing about my trait was that I could use it like an alarm clock. I just had to control the calibration and sensitivity of the entries depending on what I needed, and set it so the system would log an entry only at the time I needed to wake up.

The bad thing was now I had an alarm clock. 

I slowly stirred, about to change the log's calibration settings back to normal, when I noticed that there were several new entries in the butcher's log.

[Walter's Log: blooddeaddeathkilleddemonbloodwitch]

[Walter's Log: crowdscareddeathbloodwatchingmewhy]

[Walter's Log: killedmarciadeadwitchinquisitormanwheretakejaileddarkprison]

[Walter's Log: questionsanswerswhyinquisitorreasonpleasereason]

[Walter's Log: witchwhoinquisitorchainsanswerswhyblood]

The stream of conscious thoughts continued, but they were slowly changing. I look closely at each entry, trying to decipher what he was experiencing. Several words popped out at me: "inquisitor", "jailed", "questions", "answers".

The Inquisitor's trying to interrogate him...

I continued to scroll through and decipher the butcher's entries.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The cell was cold and damp. The scent of vomit lingered in the air, most likely from the previous occupant. There were no windows so it was dark, lit only by a small gap at the bottom of a door located just outside the cell bars. 

Walter sat on a splintered wooden bench, his wrists shackled to a chain along the floor. The steel shackles were cold and pinched his skin when he moved, but he barely paid them any mind. In fact, he could hardly process where he was at all. His mind was fixated on a dream he had of Marcia, lying in his arms. For some reason, her skin felt cold and she was covered in blood. 

"That's odd," Walter thought. Why was he thinking of her like that? She must be worried, wondering where he was. He would have to leave here as soon as possible. He would tell her all about it, maybe even about the dream he had. It was a frightening one, but she liked to hear about those. She found them funny. 

We'll have a laugh about it later, Walter thought, chuckling to himself.

The door outside the cell opened and the lamp light stretched across the stone walls. In walked the inquisitors. They unlocked the cell door and the hinges let out a loud moan as the doors swung open. Hawkthorne's nose scrunched in disgust as the room's smell wafted over him. 

Walter gazed up at him. Ever since he rode into town, Walter thought the Inquisitor looked quite frightening. His hat draped his face in shadows and the long black cloak that flowed behind him gave a ghostly appearance.

Hawkthorne gazed down upon Walter with a look of disgust.

"You will be hanged tonight," he said matter-of-factly. "We shall not bother the town with a trial. Do you understand?"

Walter stared blankly at him, "Tonight. A hanging."

"Good. Then you don't deny it?"

After a long pause, Walter said, "Deny what?"

Hawkthorne seemed annoyed. "You don't deny your consorting with demonic forces, your practicing of witchcraft?"

Walter stared at him, confused. The words washed over him and the only ones he really noticed were "demonic" and "witchcraft". That reminded him of his dream. The frightening woman in the mist.

"Yes," he said. "Very demonic. Perhaps a witch."

Hawkthorne and Stowton exchanged glances. This was going easier than they had expected.

"Then in advance of your execution, would you like to atone for your sins? Are there any others we should be looking for?"

Walter tilted his head, confused.

"Any there any other witches in Honeywell?" Hawkthorne clarified. "Any others that have laid with satan? Or any suspicions you might have?"

Stowton jumped in, "If you help this investigation, your soul might be granted mercy. Keep that in mind."

Walter's eyes narrowed, trying to understand what they were saying to him. He grew frustrated, wondering why they wouldn't simply let him leave and return to his shop and Marcia.

"Suspicions?" he asked.

Hawkthorne nodded eagerly.

Walter thought deeply, trying to focus his memories. Glimpses of that terrible dream kept flashing in his mind. He put them aside, reminding himself it was only his imagination. Then he remembered, "Well... There is someone."

The inquisitors leaned in.

"He's always hanging around my shop, bothering me, bothering Marcia. Something about him's not right. He's not from around here. Makes my skin crawl."

"Do you know this man's name? What does he look like?" Stowton demanded, growing excited.

Walter's mind felt clouded, but he could picture this stranger quite clearly. He had been part of the dream after all. "He's got white hair. Narrow eyes, almost like a snake. Pale face."

Stowton jotted this down on a piece of parchment. He and Hawkthorne exchanged nods, and Stowton was off in search of their next witch.

Walter was pleased. He was finally going home. 

* * * * * * * * * * *

My heart sank. The log entries were clear.

"White hair" "snake eyes" "pale" "Inquisitor" "witch"

I ran off to warn Ulrich.