Vengeance Moon Read online

  When they had asked me where to put the tattoo, I’d said, “Kiss my ass.” It had required three of them to hold me down while they decorated my butt. Their idea of entertainment. Ha. Ha.

  I had fought each time Van Gogh arrived, but I’d always lost the battle. I had three blades on my right butt cheek. Apparently I was to have a fourth, although it made me one step below something I did not want to be. Since my declaration of faith in the Sisters in the Judgment Room, it seemed useless to fight. Van Gogh left me hours later rubbing what every traveler doesn’t need—a sore butt.

  I stopped at the door of my austere room and looked back on the narrow cot, bare wood floor, and single window overlooking the sweetly scented garden. I had suffered and fought hopeless battles, but for six years I’d been safe. This place had given me back something I’d lost: the security of a family. Bad things might happen, but a family can maintain you and the integrity of your soul. A damned dysfunctional bunch of violent siblings lived at Justice, but they were family nonetheless. Perhaps that was the source of my impromptu vow, a show of faith in my only family. More likely it was just stupidity, my juvenile reaction to their goading.

  A finger of fear, perhaps dread, traced a fine line down my spine. They’d prepared me for that, too. I’d recited the mantra so many times, I’d come to believe it. Fear is a gift, a precious thing that keeps me alive. Fear is a weapon to manipulate and control. Fear is the enemy. I will not be conquered by fear.

  I had to return to the administration building before I left. Mother Evelyn stood alone in the silent entry hall, waiting for me.

  “Madeline.” She sounded uncertain, as if she didn’t know what to say.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Most of the other young women who leave here are not like you. I think you know that. A tiny fraction will become Sisters; the rest will go on to live safe, benign lives. Not aggressors, but no longer victims. It was evil of your mother to curse you and make you a killer. I am no less evil in sending you to fulfill that curse.”

  I wanted to object to the epithet applied to my mother, but as I was this close to even limited freedom, I kept my mouth shut.

  She’d surprised the Sisters back in the Judgment Hall when she’d given me permission to fulfill my desire to kill. Did she now regret it?

  I thought I knew what Mother Evelyn wanted from me. “You are sending me to retrieve an object. If I kill a man, it will be my decision. There is no guilt for you in that.”

  Mother Evelyn bowed her head. Tears leaked from the blind eyes of the powerful matriarch of the Sisters of Justice. The spectacle of a conscience-stricken Mother Superior of fierce warrior women unnerved me. “Mother Evelyn, you’re carving my tombstone before I get out the door.”

  She straightened. “We’re sending you to a person in Duivel. She will be your guide. I strongly urge you to listen to her.” She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her robe before she spoke again. “Before you go, you must know the true calling of the Sisters of Justice.”

  Something in the tone, the power of her voice, shimmered over me and demanded my absolute attention.

  “The Sisters of Justice are trained to fight Drows, those who slip through places where the walls between worlds are thin. You know that. What you do not know is that we have a greater calling.” She bit her lower lip. Was this the powerful Mother Evelyn? Where was her iron resolve? “Madeline, we are the enforcers of the Earth Mother’s greatest law. At maturity, an earth witch takes a powerful life-binding vow to do no harm. Malicious magic, black magic, magic that injures, is forbidden. Since the power to use magic is a birthright of the witch, the only thing that stops malicious magic is the death of the witch. At the Earth Mother’s decree, the Sisters of Justice are called upon as executioners. We kill those witches.”

  Silence stretched through the hall, silence as dead and unfeeling as the stone walls around us. It held me tight. I could do nothing but wait for her next words.

  “Madeline, your mother was an earth witch, one of great power. That she was able to curse you from beyond the veil of death is proof of her strength.” She paused. She stared straight at me with those blind white eyes.

  “The Mother could forgive a witch’s foolish vanity and the loss of the Portal. It is your mother’s curse, her demand that her innocent young daughter wreak vengeance on her behalf . . .” Tears leaked from her eyes again. “It’s evil. Appalling evil. Had she done this in life, the Mother would’ve sent the Sisters to execute her.”

  I knew magic. I knew the Sisters of Justice and their skill. I knew my mother and her power. I also knew she loved me and would not have hurt me intentionally. Unintentional injury is hurtful, but not evil. Pride, probably misguided pride, filled me. I drew a deep breath and fought rising anger. “Mother Evelyn, I think it would have required more than one.”

  “Indeed.”

  The impact of the last hour’s events had not yet settled in my mind. The pronouncement of the Sisters as law enforcement for earth witches would probably stun me when I had time to think about it. For now, it was only words.

  “I have to warn you,” Mother Evelyn said. “You now look and act like a Sister of Justice. For obvious reasons, there is no friendship between the Sisters and witches. I know you loved your mother and will not think ill of her. If you meet a witch outside, she will not likely harm you. But neither will she provide you with aid, should you need it. You must depend only upon yourself.”

  “I’ve done that for a long time, Mother Evelyn.”

  I had one question that had deeply concerned me. Maybe she, in her sudden openness and emotional distress, would answer it. “Mother Evelyn, why didn’t my mother defend herself when the killers came? She had the power and magic, and self-defense is allowed. Why didn’t she use it?”

  “I don’t know, Madeline. I don’t know.” She grabbed me in a sudden, ferocious embrace. Just as quickly, she released me and hurried away.

  Over the years I had hated her and the Sisters with a passion that burned my soul. They had offered few acts of kindness. Now I was deeply curious about why the Sisters were upset that Evelyn was sending me out into the world.

  There would be nothing for me that a woman my age might expect: courtship, love, marriage or family. The scar and my hair set me apart. And even after these last few years, I still felt no guilt for my actions. As each murderer died, a bit of my burden was lifted. I had no doubt, though, that eventually I would bear other, less visible scars from those deeds.

  Chapter 4

  June 20—Duivel, Missouri

  The man who drove me west from New York had the personality of a fifteen-year-old basset hound with arthritis. His depressed nature didn’t stop him from powering the SUV straight through, eyes on the road, stopping only for gas. Since I’d learned the value of silence at Justice, his inability or possible unwillingness to communicate with more than a few single-syllable words did not trouble me—sitting for long hours on a fresh tattoo did. I finally disregarded my dignity, filled a plastic bag with ice at one of the fuel stops, and wedged it under my new artwork.

  We arrived in Missouri at six a.m. and rolled into Duivel at eight. The morning sun, barely above the horizon, promised a lovely day. The compact downtown area raised a few tall buildings to the sky, twenty to thirty stories, but no major skyscrapers. I let the window down to check for significant odors. I excelled at the Stink, the blindfolded smell test given by Sister Lois. Nothing here spoke of anything but the usual hydrocarbons and vegetation.

  We went by a mall, a school, and some churches. The SUV crossed a river with the unusual name of the Sullen. The water spread slow and calm, indicating a deep channel. Patches of ghostly morning fog skimmed and swirled low on the surface between the tree-lined shores.

  My driver slowed the vehicle and stared at the road signs. He pulled over to the curb, stopped, and continued to stare. Unlike the persona he’d been projecting earlier, he made no effort to hide his emotions now. The man was afraid of something ahe
ad of us. The sign said River Street. He visibly swallowed, gripped the wheel tight, and drove on.

  Traffic was light on River Street. Small businesses lined the four-lane roadway. An occasional shopping center, restaurant, or gas station appeared, but all were placid as we rolled by—until we hit a wall. Not a literal wall, but one built of powerful magic. While I can work no magic, my mother’s blood makes me sensitive to it. For a brief moment, it covered me like thickened air, then faded away. We had passed through a ward, a ban, a prison wall of psychic energy—incredible, powerful energy. Was it designed to keep someone or something in—or out? Curious about this new situation, I leaned forward, studying my new home.

  The ward we passed through was, in itself, benign. I did not feel threatened, though it was clear my driver did. I realized what the ward guarded, or kept out, might not be neutral. I expected I’d discover the truth of that eventually.

  The image of prosperous commerce faded to a struggle against blight. A valiant struggle, though. We passed one brick building, possibly a warehouse, with a sign that proclaimed it to be the Archangel. No other description, but the parking lot held Porsches, Mercedeses, and other high-end cars, even in the early morning.

  Five blocks farther, my driver pulled to the curb and handed me a piece of paper. His heartwarming farewell consisted of two words. “Get out.”

  As soon as I stepped onto the sidewalk and closed the door behind me, the basset hound punched the gas, made a tight U-turn, and roared away. “Thanks for the ride, sunshine!” I shouted after him.

  I drew a deep breath of morning air. I was free. Not free of duty, of responsibility, but free of the walls of Justice.

  Some tangible but faint power in this place nagged me, suggesting but not demanding that I recognize it. I closed my eyes and let my mind search. I did not usually sense magic this way, but I often found other things of interest. Immediately, I found a shadow. It hung heavy over the streets and buildings. It was low-key magic, inactive, but there nevertheless. I went no further. Though it seemed benign, I would not prod a sleeping tiger with a stick to see if it jumped.

  I unfolded the piece of paper that had been included with my few things. Armory Pawn, scribbled in a barely legible script. The address was the same as the one on my new driver’s license. As I searched for a street sign, I realized it was right behind me. The wide storefront had generous but grimy windows filled with battered furniture and appliances. A decrepit couch, minus cushions, was tipped on its end and looked like it might crash through the glass at any moment, crushing some unlucky passerby on the sidewalk.

  A sign on the door, tilted at an odd angle, read OPEN, but the hinges squealed in a high-pitched complaint when I entered. Air thick with stale cigarette smoke as gray as if it were from a bonfire of green wood greeted me. I forced myself to take shallow breaths.

  Pawn? More like extreme junk: shabby furniture, bicycles, tools, dusty glass cases with old film, cameras, and watches. I stepped around a vacuum cleaner lying on its side like an obstacle course for the rare and brave customer. The window decorations appeared more pitiful from the inside, and they blocked most of the natural light.

  A woman with bushy brown hair and a horribly crumpled brown shirt stood behind the counter. I’d caught her in the act of lighting up. She stopped the lighter in midair. She was tall and rawboned, and her gaunt face was lined with a road map of wrinkles. She had a strong jaw and shrewd, intelligent eyes.

  “Who are you?” She stabbed the lighter at me.

  “Madeline Corso.”

  She grunted and muttered something about Evelyn, and I caught the word bitch. “So, you’re on some noble mission for them and I get to play fucking fairy godmother.” Her voice was as rough as the stone walls of Justice.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  She lit and puffed on her cigarette and blew a stream of smoke out of the side of her mouth. She cocked her head and studied me with eyes neither friendly nor unfriendly.

  “You got any money?”

  “Not much.”

  “Figures.”

  “Who are you?” I asked. The whole scenario was becoming bizarre.

  “I’m Hildy. You gonna listen to me?”

  “I’ve been strongly urged to take your advice.”

  “Huh. Strongly urged. That was Evelyn, I bet.” Hildy gave a deep, liquid cough. “Okay, honey. Here’s your advice. The Barrows is a place where you can—and will—die tonight if you don’t pay attention. You think you’re a warrior, but you don’t know shit. You’ll learn. If you survive.”

  Hildy grunted, and then wheezed a few breaths before she continued. “Most people talk about the Barrows, they talk about those disgusting businesses here along River Street. Porn shops, titty bars.”

  I refrained from staring at the disgusting junk around me. At this point, anyone providing me with information was not to be insulted.

  She tapped the lighter against the glass counter. Clink, clink, clink—any harder and she’d break through. She laid the lighter down. “There’s a spell over the Barrows. A spell and a ward. You know what that is? You know what the difference is?”

  I did. “A spell is magic that affects something. A ward is a barrier. I felt a ward as we drove here.” Hildy studied me now, as if my words caught her attention.

  “You . . . felt?”

  “I’m sensitive to magic. And no, I’m not a witch.”

  She stared, the wheels of her mind obviously in motion. What did it mean to her, that I was sensitive to magic? The Sisters had ignored it. Finally, she spoke.

  “The spell over this area keeps things from being seen. Unless you know it’s there. But we’re just on the outskirts. Behind the businesses that line River Street to the east”—she nodded again toward the street—“past the first block, that’s the heart of the Barrows. Massive ruins, square miles of ruins. Don’t go there.”

  Hildy picked up and fiddled with the lighter, turning it over and over. She seemed desperate to finish her story and fire up—regardless of the still-burning stick of tobacco she held in her other hand. “The Earth Mother cast the spell over this area to protect outsiders. It’s a world of its own now. People might see things here, but as soon as they look away, they forget everything. Doesn’t mean they don’t got a sense about the place, though. They know enough to avoid it. The decent ones, anyway. The spell works real good on strangers, people who come here once in a while,” Hildy said. “They don’t see nothing. People living in uptown Duivel don’t know it’s here. Us living on River Street can’t ignore it, but we don’t talk about it. We don’t go into those damned ruins, either.”

  She pointed toward the window. “Go across the street and rent a room from Harry. Harry’s a nasty old bastard. If he touches you, tell him you’ll cut his balls off. If he touches you again, do it.”

  “No. Then I’d have to touch him.”

  Hildy laughed, choked, and stubbed out her smoke. “Smart-ass. But I suppose you got muscle to back up your mouth, coming from Justice. Violence first works for the bitches there.” She looked up and stared hard at me. “You’re gonna need a job. I bet they gave you hardly anything to live on. Damn cheap bitches. You could die, but that’s okay. As long as you live in poverty and . . . Fuck it.” She picked up the phone on the counter and dialed. She listened a moment before she spoke. “Hell yes, I know what fucking time it is.”

  The person she spoke to was obviously not a morning person. She snarled a string of vicious words into the phone, then ruined their venomous effect with a massive coughing spasm. Her voice wheezed when she finally finished. “You still need a bartender?”

  The person on the line apparently thought her important enough to wait out her cough.

  Hildy growled—literally. “I don’t care what the fuck you want. I’m sending her over. Hire her.” She hung up the phone. The fact that she’d just pissed off my possible future employer didn’t seem to bother her.

  She snagged another cigarette from a pack on the co
unter. “After you get your room, go down the street.” She flipped a hand in a general southerly direction. “Ten blocks. Bar called the Goblin Den. Man named Riggs will hire you. Place still got that nasty name, but it’s a little higher class than it used to be.”

  I nodded. This wasn’t bad. If, as they said, my man was in Duivel or this place she called the Barrows, I’d be more likely to find him in a bar than anywhere else. I’d lured one of my killers out of a dirty tavern near the shipyards and the other out of a cocktail lounge.

  Hildy lit up and sucked in the poison, and a look of ecstasy passed over her worn face. She sighed and savored the moment, then went on. “You look out for the Bastinados. Gangs. Nasty, mean-looking bastards. Always run in packs. Avoid them. Don’t walk around at night. Period. If you have to be out, stay in the light. There’s a bus runs up and down River Street every hour, twenty-four seven. It’s cheap. Use it.”

  Some fleeting emotion passed over her face but too quickly for me to read it. She stubbed out her cigarette. “Two more things. The ward around the Barrows. It keeps something in. The Barrows is a prison. Down in the heart of the ruins, in a place called the Zombie Zone, there’s a demon. A big, badass demon. He’s not just a Drow—he’s king of the Drows. He’s intelligent, and he’s deadly. Do not mess with him.

  “Second thing. The Mother . . . she don’t come into the Barrows. If she crosses her own ward, she’ll break its effectiveness and let that demon out. That don’t mean she can’t see, though. And . . .” She hesitated as if deciding what to say. “The demon. They say the Mother is . . . fond of him. She won’t let him out, but she treats him like a pet of some sort. If that makes any fucking sense. Now get out of here.”

  She abruptly walked away and through a door, out of the room.

  Hildy was a tough bird. Nothing warm and fuzzy about her. A former Sister? Maybe. I did like her. I liked her strength and the fact that she didn’t seem to worship the Mother like so many others I’d met in my life. But she raised an unusual question. If I were a true Sister and they sent me out to kill a witch, not just retrieve an object, would I have to do it on a budget?