Chapter 2
I sat like a reprehended schoolboy, all the while silently cursing my misfortune. For the past three years I had been chasing the trail of a Spanish warlock named Mincho Moreno. Mincho Moreno, rapist, heretic, murderer… mass murderer. Even as I sat behind the bench, trying to listen intently to the typical witchcraft foolery, my blood cooled at the very thought of that monster’s deeds.
“Milord Cyrus,” one of the incompetent fools next to me whispered in my ear, “Are you not well?” I looked down at my hands. To my surprise, I found my knuckles white from gripping the banister of our seats in my anger.
“Quite,” I said, releasing my dead lock grip on the wooden railing, “just stretching out my hands.” He raised his eyebrows but said nothing more of the matter, gracefully leaving me to my sour thoughts.
Over the past three years, Mincho had left a bloody path for me to follow. His gory footprints first showed up in Turin, Italy, where he single handedly demolished a citadel, killing ten priests and forty civilians. I had just finished a trip to Milan to check on my masters when I was called by Inquisitor Arbisher to see to “an errand of utmost importance.” A sudden physical jolt in my sinus cavity brought my thoughts back to the trial before me. Mincho would have to wait. I stared at the woman in front of me with more interest.
“I am no witch,” she scoffed at the words of the Lord Interrogator. She said her words evenly, although she was shackled like a wild animal to the floor. Her drab dress had been torn in many places; a testament to her harsh treatment.
She reeked of witchcraft.
There is always a very distinct odor that follows the damned around. I suppose it tastes like vinegar mixed with lemon; not a pleasant smell or taste at all. It is not a smell you physically can acknowledge, and even then it takes years of training to sense. It is the feeling of taste that your mouth subconsciously digests, like spicy Persian food, except more repulsive and less filling. In my ten years of serving the Inquisition, I have yet to find a suitable way to describe the taste. I was sure none of the inquisitors present knew this. They probably had never executed a real servant of evil before in their lives; I must say that I was impressed they managed to catch a genuine one.
I am not conceited; I just speak the truth in this matter. For centuries the inquisition has been a ploy to find “witches” and instead has worked hard to destroy those who they find to be guilty of being the oddities of society. I am a devote follower of the Church mind you, but I cannot stand to see the innocent bled to death under the banner of uniform. That is why I am a member of the Sacred Mark. I fight real witches and daemons that those outside our order would be horrified to even know of their existence.
The lord interrogator opened his mouth to speak but I jumped to my feet before he could say anything. “With your permission Interrogator Judice, may I have the distinct honor of speaking before the court?”
Flustered, Judice nodded before plopping into his seat. The witch turned her eyes on me in interest. I noticed that she was young, and very beautiful. She had orange hair, a good indication that she was part Irish, with light grey silver eyes that glittered mysteriously in the dark courtroom. I stepped into the middle of the darkness; my powdered wig jiggling up and down with every step. There were only a dozen or so witnesses inside the courtroom; all of them simple village citizens by my estimates. I scanned the small cluster of villagers before proceeding with my interrogation. If she truly was a witch, she might have a friend to come and aid her if things turned sour. I turned back to her, and gently removed my wig. “I am sorry my dear, this damn wig is awfully bothersome.” I lay it gently on the table that she sat at. She stared at me in surprise; I had thrown her off balance. “Your name again, miss?”
“Eadoin Gilmour,” she replied crisply. Her eyes flashed menacingly at me. However, her gaze did not sway me; I was not one to be easily intimidated.
“Inquisitor Judice is accusing you of murder, ma’am. In order to make this go faster, I will get to the point. Did you or did you not murder Miss Anne Colbor after you saw her and your fiancé together in your chambers?” I was surprised at how well I remembered the details of the case even though my mind had wandered.
“No!” she cried out, eager to prove her innocence.
“Did Miss Colbor have any enemies that you can think of besides yourself?”
Eadoin hesitated. “Not that I know of…”
“If she had no other enemies, then who do you suspect killed her?” I asked candidly, my voice rising a little.
“I… I don’t know,” her haughty attitude faltered as I looked her in the eyes.
“And what about the fiancé?” I continued briskly as I paced around the floor. “He was found two days later, dead. Not so much as a scratch. Poison is most probable but I doubt that. You didn’t poison him did you?”
“I didn’t kill anyone!” she shouted, her face contorted into a horrible grimace. I felt a shiver down my spine. Her voice echoed in the wooden hall, sharp and crisp against the ageless pews. The bitter taste in my mouth had gotten stronger; I had to act soon or else Miss Eadoin might decide to demonstrate her powers on me.
“My lords,” I indicated to the surprised bench of powdered wigs, “may I have a moment with the accused… alone.” To my lack of surprise, they gawked at me as if I was the Savior reincarnated. “Now.” I motioned to villagers to get out. One elderly man seemed to not hear me, or not care about my request. I shot him one of my famous looks and he got the message. After the shuffling of feet had subsided, I turned my attention back to the woman in front of me and let out a long sigh. She was wild eyed, like a caged animal. I suppose she thought I was going to do some very evil things to her. “Alright Eadoin,” I said softly as I took a seat across from her chained body, “now tell me what really happened.”
“Go to hell,” she spat wildly. I smiled warmly, taking some pleasure in her curse. She was brave; I at least had to give her that.
“The woman you killed bled to death after her hands were severed off,” I said mildly, my eyes bearing into hers.
“I didn’t,” She started.
“No, you did,” I interrupted, “You used her hands to perform a ritual. I have seen it been done in Paris four years ago. You killed Richard, your fiancé, with Cupid’s curse, didn’t you?”
If she was terrified earlier, she was absolutely hysterical now. She tried to pull free of her chains. Her orange hair clung onto her neck like a mane, making her appear more beast than woman. “Repent!” I shouted over her cries. She shrieked a demonic incantation, snarling at me in fury. A whirlwind of flames screamed over my exposed head as I dove out of the way. The fireball slammed into the wall behind me, utterly obliterating the stain glass window.
I tore off my robe, revealing a red buckled tunic with my brown leather vest. I drew the brace of mahogany flintlock pistols I always kept at my side and trained them on the witch. “Not another word,” I said coldly, edging closer to her. Eadoin’s temper had subsided, replaced by a terrible fit of sobbing. Her sobbing seemed odd for a woman who had been hell bent on killing me a moment ago.
The main door to the chapel opened revealing, a terrified Judice followed by his entourage of imbeciles. “Out!” I shouted louder than I had intended to, but it worked. They ran out, much quicker than I had anticipated, with their wigs wobbling pathetically as they went. I turned around to face Eadoin again, pistols trained on her head. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she tried to shrivel up into a ball but the chains attached to her legs and hands refused to grant her the opportunity.
I pitied her. I can’t say why I did, but in that very moment my heart found compassion for an abomination. I bent down, still keeping my pistols near enough to her face just in case she was acting. In all my experience as an agent of the Inquisition, I have never seen a witch so generally disturbed at his or her crimes. Slowly, I holstered one of my pistols and lifted her chin with one of my hands. Her bleary, grey eyes met mine, and for a moment I felt a pang of longing. She was beautiful; tears, heresy, and all.
Leaning forward, Eadoin tried to say something between her sobs, but I couldn’t decipher what she was mumbling. “Easy now,” I said, gently brushing her hair out of her face. The bitter taste of dark magic filled my mouth and nostrils, but it emanated from a source outside of Eadoin’s body. Someone other than the witch was here, and from the feelings that I got inside of me, they were much more powerful. I felt the familiar shiver down my spine that warned me when trouble was around, and I leapt to the side before a streak of blackness blew the pulpit into oblivion. Twisting sidewise, I quickly drew my pistol’s partner, the other cracking spitefully in my right hand at a gaunt man who had emerged from behind a column.
