The Calamity of a Reborn Witch

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Prologue {Part Three}: A Den of Perversion

It didn’t take long after entering the slum district of Lafeara’s capital for Tarlay to pull her scarf over her mouth and nose. Her sensitivity to smell was heightened due to her partial air-witch blood. The odors which assaulted her even through the meager cover could well be described as the rot of humanity.

The road of jagged, chipped stones she followed was layered in unwashed filth with a small stream trickling through it that was not the result of any recent rainfall. Broken glass bottles, rotten food, rats, cats, and other strays lurked beneath the dilapidated porches of several boarded-up homes.

‘The perfect breeding ground for a plague.’

The miscreants who passed her in the streets smelled unwashed. Their gaze lingered, ladened with the weight of poverty, desperation, resentment, and what passed for curiosity but might just be simple greed. When three drunken men moved to block her path forward, Tarlay raised her gaze and smiled.

“Step aside.”

Her command, laced with power drawn from the enchantment tattooed against her throat, hummed through the space between them. The men stiffened. Their hostile gaze faltered as they turned to each other and then simultaneously moved around Tarlay to continue on their way, resuming their drunken song with broken harmony.

After they moved on, the witch hunter continued to the end of the street and then consulted the crudely drawn map Felix had sent her with directions to his current lodgings.

‘The bastard could have picked a less repulsive meeting point.’ Tarlay rolled her neck slowly with a resigned sigh. She was well aware of the business that kept Felix at the heart of the slums.

The witch hunter ignored the pandering tall-hats, the streetwalkers and their customers, the beggars with their empty bowls and crudely hidden knives, and the enforcers who walked among these vagrants with blatant confidence only someone with authority and an appetite for killing could possess.

The enforcers took note of her presence but did no more than observe her progress silently.

Tarlay smiled beneath her scarf and pressed forward. Soon enough, the brightly lit windows of a heavily guarded drinking establishment came into view.

Her arrival appeared to come as no surprise to the men standing guard at the bar’s entrance. The pair of rough-looking thugs eyed her skeptically but kept still as she continued towards them.

Tarlay had seen her share of similar vermin nests before. Old Zarus had been plagued by the ever-encroaching number of poor, whose begging hands, hungry eyes, and weeping mouths thronged to the gates of the Holy Palace.

‘The one blessing to be taken from the fall of old Zarus was the extermination of those lice-riddled wastrels.’

Still, given the current state of the Church’s finances after the long war with Emperor Arius, similar nests had already taken root around the Holy Land of Zarus.

‘Any people reliant upon their government and monarchy for bread are doomed to starvation when that monarchy must prioritize the strength of the kingdom’s army over the welfare of its common citizens.’

Tarlay smiled at Ripper’s callous outlook on the matter. Her Mentor taught his apprentices early on to unburden themselves of any guilt or obligation to mortals. Why should they feel responsible for those possessed of weaker minds and bodies? Mortals were as fickle in their devotion to the Saints as they were to uphold promises made to the Pope.

How readily commoners, nobles, and even kings yielded their wealth and even their firstborn when faced with the harrowing certainty of oblivion. Yet in the hour of the Church’s greatest need, that reverence turned quickly into resentment, embittered by accusations of intimidation, usury, and even claims of false Divinity.

Tarlay shook her head. All who dared speak against the Divine Heir were destined to meet a brutal end at the hands of his Witch Hunters. If there was one thing such traitors could be grateful for, it was that Pope Jericho did not believe in punishing children for the sins of their parents.

‘It’s much easier to rule a kingdom when its next monarch is well aware of the dangers of betraying the Pope.’

The thugs at the door finally rose from the barrels they used for seats and nodded in her direction. The bearded man on the left lazily shifted his crossbow towards her torso while his shiny-headed comrade addressed her in a low growl. “Bit late for a woman to be wandering these parts, much less a foreigner. Are you lost?”

“If this is the Fox Den, then I’ve come to the right place,” Tarlay replied as she extended her arms and pushed back her cape to reveal only an ivory flute decorating her belt. “I’m looking for a friend who goes by the name Felix.”

“Felix?” the man with the crossbow growled. “Ahh, your accent does sound like his. You’re from Zarus then?”

“Indeed. I’ve just arrived and would like to—”

“No one gets inside without Troy’s approval. Not even a skinny wench like you,” the bald man snorted as he crossed his arms. Tarlay eyed the man’s thick fingers, wrapped in dirty cloth with pointed metal studs across his knuckles.

The witch hunter lowered her arms and offered a warning smile they could not see beneath the shadow of her hood. “Troy?”

“Didn’t Felix tell you?” The bald man snorted. “Troy’s the boss around here now.”

“Temporary boss,” corrected the bearded thug.

Tarlay arched a brow at their apparent disagreement. “I assumed that Felix would have taken over—given he was Alex’s brother and helped establish your little—community.”

“That was a long time ago,” the bearded thug muttered. “But—Felix is in the running to take over as leader once all the officers have returned to cast their vote.”

The bald man scowled and spat on the step just above Tarlay’s boots before muttering, “Meddling foreigners.”

Tarlay ignored the comment and gestured towards the door behind them. “If you won’t let me in, then would you mind letting Felix know that I’ve arrived. I have come a very long way and was told to report to him as soon as possible.”

As much as it pained her to play the part of a mortal’s subordinate, Tarlay knew that Felix wouldn’t appreciate her forcing her way inside. Whatever politics were at work in this backwoods establishment, having a woman barge in and crack open a few heads would not endear him to the men he hoped to lead.

The thugs glanced at each other for a moment before the bald man got to his feet. “I’ll go. I need to take a piss anyway. What’s your name and business, wench?”

“Tarlay. And you can tell Felix that I’m here—about a down payment.”

The bald man arched a brow as he looked her up and down in confusion, then grunted, turned, and shoved open the tavern door.

“A down payment?” the bearded man muttered with narrowed eyes. “What sort of business would a wench from Zarus have with the Fox Den anyway?”

The wooden planks of the tavern steps creaked as he moved down to her eye level, his crossbow still aimed at her chest. Tarlay maintained a neutral expression as he leaned in towards the nape of her neck and sniffed.

“You don’t smell like a harlot,” he observed casually and circled her. The witch hunter rolled her eyes silently as his gaze moved from the back of her hood, down her muscled shoulders, arms, and leather-clad legs beneath the cloak. “Before you go in, I’ll need to check you for weapons. Those are the boss’s rules.”

“It would appear the reputation of the Fox Den has fallen considerably since the death of your last Fox Master,” Tarlay remarked with discernable amusement. “If a roomful of armed men is so intimidated by the presence of a single unarmed woman?”

The man chuckled and returned to stand in front of her, utterly oblivious to the ghostly mirage and blade that circled behind him before fading from view. “You’re a bold one. I’ll give you that. Let me guess—” he leaned towards her with a bemused smirk, “—Your Felix’s woman, aren’t you?”

Tarlay folded her arms and offered a smirk of her own as she shook her head. “I can see why Troy chose a man as intelligent as yourself to guard the door.”

The thug frowned at her tone, weighing whether her words were genuine or mockery. His befuddlement was short-lived as the bald man returned and gestured to Tarlay.

“You can go in. The boss would like a word.”

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Tarlay was almost blinded the moment she entered the bar. What might have once been a tavern of clandestine dealings was now completely transformed into a lavish pirate’s den. Chests of coins, gems, precious jewelry, rich furs, and expensive cloth glittered before an open hearth in the corner of the bar. Before them, crates of firearms and barrels of gunpowder rested against a row of tables set up in a defensive position that split the bar down the middle.

Every rafter supporting post inside the bar was bound with chains. The beam closest to the door restrained a wild spotted dog with a massive head far too large for its size. The beast slammed its weight against the collar that held it fast as it lunged towards the open door and Tarlay. Foam leaked through rows of barred teeth as savage, high-pitched barks shot in her direction.

Tarlay stared down the wild dog’s golden eyes until it turned and slunk back towards an overturned barrel that served as the beast's bed.

Beyond the barrier of tables, women in revealing dresses, powdered makeup, and painted smiles flirted with a group of thugs who had clearly been drinking for hours. More than one of the prostitutes was at work on her back upon a table beneath half-clothed men happily satisfying themselves between pairs of torn stockings.

‘Somehow, this place is not at all as Felix described it to me.’

Tarlay spared the debauchery no further thought as a familiar scent snapped her gaze back towards the vulgar display of wealth. A boy of perhaps ten years crouched inside a barred cage and watched the witch hunter from behind long locks of dirty brown hair. Tarlay pulled down her scarf and offered the dirty child a slight smile. The boy stared back at her blankly with an expression of wary curiosity as if not at all surprised by her appearance.

Tarlay’s eyes moved to the pair of boots propped on top of the boy’s cage. The man wearing them was dressed in rich black velvet garments, with a golden chain of rubies at his neck and a cloak of foxtails draped around his shoulders. The way the man—Troy, she presumed—positioned himself in his throne-like chair, with a glass of liquor in one hand and a pistol in another, made his position and identity all too clear.

Troy eyed Tarlay curiously, then dropped one boot to the floor and kicked the boy’s cage. “Well, Brat?”

The child flinched and lowered his gaze before answering in a muffled whisper, “She’s—not a witch.”

‘Ahh, so that’s why you have a half-witch child caged up like a dog.’ Tarlay’s hand slipped down to the flute at her belt as her gaze hardened.

“Well then,” Troy grunted as his left boot returned to its original perch. “What do you want?”

Tarlay raised a brow and surreptitiously took in the thugs positioned around the bar. They were all heavily armed with crossbows, swords, spears, and even a few pistols as if anticipating some sort of attack. Those that weren’t drinking or waiting in line for prostitutes sat quietly in groups along the barrier or near the bar.

A man at the table closest to the bar held Tarlay’s gaze for a moment. Like the others seated around him shrouded in dark hoods and heavy cloaks, his face was hidden from view, but the hands polishing a silver pistol that Tarlay instantly recognized were darker than his comrades.

The witch hunter’s lips twitched in amusement before she returned her attention to Troy, who scowled at her delayed response.

“Did you check her for weapons?” the thug leader snapped with a pointed glare at the thug behind her.

“Er—I only saw an instrument—”

“A what?”

“A flute, boss.” Eddy wiggled his fingers in the air as if playing music.

Troy sighed in exasperation and then ran his gaze over Tarlay with an expression of distrust and unease. “Remove your hood and cloak so Eddy can pat you down. And do it slowly. I would hate to have to shoot a pretty face.”

Tarlay smiled beneath his pointed threat and unclasped the simple pin of her traveling cloak. The garment fell to the floor with a scattering of sand, earth, and stray grains of wheat. Troy’s gaze snapped to her purple hair and its glittering sapphires with an expression of surprise that quickly turned to one of calculation.

The Witch Hunter raised her arms leisurely and glanced back at Eddy with a nod of approval. The body armor she wore left little room for hidden weapons—traditional ones at least. The belt at her waist contained only the ivory flute and a small pouch of coin. Thankfully, Tarlay had left the priceless divine dagger entrusted to her by the Pope with Vanya.

“As you can see, I’m unarmed,” Tarlay commented neutrally as Eddy stepped forward and ran his hands roughly down her body. Her splayed fingers tightened together with annoyance as the thug groped certain areas with far more enthusiasm than was necessary. He opened the pouch of coin, thumbed the contents but left crescents and Tarlay’s flute where they were.

“Nothing else on her, boss,” Eddy said with a shrug as he stepped back.

Troy appeared mildly annoyed at this but finally lowered his gun. “Eddy mentioned something about a down payment?”

Tarlay shook her head as she lowered her arms. “My business is with Felix.”

“And Felix works for me,” Troy retorted sharply.

A cough came from the table by the bar as a few dry sniggers filtered through the bar ominously.

Troy’s face darkened. His grip on the pistol tightened as he straightened in his chair and cleared his throat. “As temporary Leader of the Fox Den, all business must go through me—”

“My business has nothing to do with the Fox Den,” Tarlay cut in with pointed impatience. “It is with Felix and Felix alone.” She glanced over her shoulder towards the bar. “He can vouch for my identity.”

Troy raised the pistol and pointed it at Tarlay’s face with a cold sneer. “You don’t listen very well, do you?”

“I would say that’s your problem,” Tarlay replied with a dangerous smile.

The boy in the cage below Troy’s boots whimpered as her invisible mirage slid past him to stand behind the self-proclaimed leader. The boy quickly curled his skinny frame into a ball with his arms wrapped over his head as if sensing what was to come.

Troy’s olive-brown eyes narrowed over his pistol as they darted from the boy quivering beneath his feet to Tarlay. A dry laugh escaped his lips even as a glimmer of uncertainty flickered behind his eyes. “Eddy,” he commanded coldly. “Chain this bitch up until she learns to show proper respe—”

The ringing spark of a pistol shot jolted the thugs around the bar to their feet as Troy’s gun arm twisted savagely behind his head. The mirage’s second invisible hand grasped the thug leader by the throat in a choking grip.

The fingers of Tarlay’s left hand danced over the flute still firmly attached to her belt. The witch hunter’s chartreuse-green eyes narrowed in on the sluggishly moving lump of lead headed just above her heart. She reached out and nudged the tip of the projectile, altering its direction slightly, then stepped aside as it resumed full momentum. Eddy flinched and blinked in surprise as a trickle of blood ran down from the small hole above his left eyebrow. The thug's legs quickly gave out as he collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud.

“I’m curious,” Tarlay murmured as her demon eyes glowed with unmasked disgust. “Of all the men seated in this room, why was a little prick like you chosen to be its leader?”

The men around the room appeared to recover from their initial surprise and moved to confront her.

“Hold,” the quiet but edged command from Felix, still seated at his table by the bar, pulled the men up short as they glanced between Felix’s table and Tarlay uncertainly.

Troy clawed at his throat as he struggled to breathe and glared at the caged boy huddled inches away from him.

“Oh, he didn’t lie,” Tarlay commented with a pitying smile. “I’m only half a witch.” She stepped forward, flicked aside the golden necklaces of rubies, and ripped free a simple copper chain and key from around Troy’s neck. “Now, why don’t you wait here like a good dog while I go have a chat with the Fox Den’s rightful leader.”

Tarlay ignored Troy’s murderous glare as she turned around to face the half-brother of the previous Fox Master, who rose to his feet and gestured towards the bar.

“Shall we have a drink?”

“It seems the least you could do to apologize,” Tarlay replied dryly as she moved towards the empty bar stools.

“I appreciate you holding back.” Felix pushed back his hood with an apologetic smile. Oiled black hair meticulously braided in the hereditary style of Zarus’s military, framed a handsome but weathered face and two coal-black eyes trimmed with amber. “I’d like to keep my older brother’s legacy in one piece.”

“You know I never take a life without cause,” Tarlay replied as she watched him move behind the bar to select a bottle and two glasses. “Just how long were you planning to let that little vermin humiliate me?”

Felix narrowed his eyes at someone behind Tarlay and jerked his head towards the bar door. “My guest and I need some privacy. And take the women outside. Send them home with pay when you’re done.”

A few grumbles and muttered curses accompanied the scuffle of feet as the bar emptied behind her.

“What about him?” Tarlay asked with a nod in Troy’s direction.

“He’ll only hear what you allow him to hear,” Felix replied with a confident smirk as he filled the two small glasses with a rich brown liquid. “I’ll deal with him later.”

“How can you eat much less drink in a place like this?” Tarlay muttered as she eyed the glass Felix pushed towards her.

“Comes with the territory, sweetheart.”

Tarlay narrowed her gaze while Felix tossed back his drink with a satisfied grunt. “I’ll be taking the half-witch with me when I leave.”

“Suit yourself. I’ve no stomach for abusing children.”

“How very like your brother.”

Felix paused with a hand on the neck of the liquor bottle. “That boy will be better off with you than in a place like this anyway.”

Tarlay nodded in response and picked up her glass. “So, how long is it going to take for you to take proper charge of things here?”

“I’d say Troy’s time has run out after your little display.” Felix leaned against the bar with a roguish grin. “Although, I could have handled him on my own, Tay.”

“I don’t have time to wait around for you to charm thugs and prostitutes,” Tarlay snapped impatiently, ignoring the nickname he used. She took a quick sip of liquor, grimaced at the taste, but drank it down without complaint and slid the empty glass back to Felix. “You should know that Ripper left a seed of corruption here on his way out.”

Felix’s relaxed smile vanished as his gaze turned to the bottle in his hand. “Fucking Fanatic!”

“Felix,” Tarlay growled in warning.

“I don’t care if he was your Mentor. You know exactly what sort of damage that corruption will do to a place like this!”

The witch hunter snorted and gestured to the bar behind her. “Is this really a place worth saving? A den of immorality, greed, coercion, and violence?”

Felix’s expression hardened. Then he took her glass and tossed it into a bucket of soapy water below the bar. “What right does the dog of the Pope have to judge mere mortals after her master unleashed a Witch Plague?”

“Careful, Felix.” Tarlay laced her fingers together on top of the bar where the mortal assassin could see them clearly. “We did not make this plague. It would have come to Lafeara eventually one way or another.”

“The Pope could have destroyed it. He is the descendant of a Saint after all.”

“The Pope will decide if and when he will come to Lafeara’s aid—if the people here prove worthy.”

Felix sighed and refilled his glass with a cynical snort. “You mean if the crown prince falls in line.” He set the bottle down with more force than was necessary and raised his glass towards her in salute. “So, Tay, am I meant to die here with the rest of my brother’s men?”

Tarlay smiled, took his hand, and lowered his glass back to the bar. “That need not be your fate.” She held out her other hand and, after a drawn-out pause, Felix pulled a dagger from his belt and placed it on her open palm.

The assassin watched in silence as Tarlay pricked her middle finger and squeezed a few drops of blood into his drink. “Is that supposed to keep me safe?”

“For a few days at least,” Tarlay replied and then pressed a thumb against her bleeding finger. “Unlike Strugna, this plague only targets mortals without a drop of witch blood in them.” She handed back the knife and watched as Felix downed her drink without hesitation.

‘Still too trusting.’

“I appreciate the gesture, but what about the rest of my men?” Felix asked with a nod to the door behind them.

“A witch’s blood would be better,” Tarlay replied with a shrug. “I can track one down and subdue them for you. If bled properly once a week, you should have enough blood to keep yourself and another twenty men healthy.”

Felix grimaced and tossed his empty glass into the bucket. “And you’ll do this in exchange for—?”

“Your assistance, of course,” Tarlay answered with a cunning smile. “Now that your brother’s legacy is well in hand, I need your help digging up information about a certain Baroness Witch.”

“Ahh, yes. The Lady Maura,” Felix replied with a nod. “She’s had dealings with us before.”

Tarlay arched a brow curiously. “What can you tell me about her?”

“To start with, she’s no longer a Baroness.” Felix moved around the bar to take an empty seat beside the witch hunter. “Dowager Octavia adopted your rumored witch as her granddaughter and made the half-blood Duchess of Bastiallano. I’m surprised you haven’t heard any gossip on your way here.”

Both of Tarlay’s eyebrows rose as she turned to face him. “I didn’t take any public roads.”

“Duchess Kirsi Valda,” Felix recited with mocking reverence as he eyed the flute at her waist. “Seems the name is hereditary among the Duchesses of Bastiallano.”

“Kirsi?” Tarlay echoed with the faintest tremble in her voice. “Kirsi Valda?”

‘It couldn’t be. Is this the reason Ripper sent me to probe out her identity? Does he believe this half-blood could be the reborn Witch of Calamity?’

“It will be difficult for you to get close to the Duchess now that she has the Knights of Bastiallano to protect her,” Felix observed as he studied Tarlay’s expression.

Tarlay repressed a groan as she unclenched her hands and rubbed the back of her neck tiredly. Like the Duchy of Hargreve led by the current Duke Stryker, the Duchess of Bastiallano held command over a private army of knights on behalf of the kingdom’s defense.

‘Octavia must truly hold her in respect to give up that kind of power. Which makes Lady Maura taking on that name all the more suspicious.’

“Don’t look so defeated,” Felix murmured as he clasped her shoulder with familiar ease. “I found another way for you to get a look at the half-blood.”

Tarlay straightened and turned to him with a questioning frown. “How? Where?”

“As it happens, you’re Duchess has a hospital set up in our back yard,” Felix replied with a relaxed shrug.

“A hospital?”

“Staffed with physicians, beds, and plenty of unique medicine meant to treat serious illness and possibly the plague.”

Tarlay’s eyes narrowed. ‘A hospital in the slums of all places? Right where the plague is expected to originate? How could she have possibly predicted this?’

“It seems the Duchess is in league with a certain highly regarded clairvoyant who goes by the name of Frost,” Felix replied in response to the question written upon her face.

‘Ah yes, the phantom charlatan our spies have yet to track down.’ Tarlay wrapped her fingers around the ivory flute as she pondered the information that Felix had already provided. ‘I need to see the Duchess first, in person. Only then will I know if I’m dealing with the real Kirsi—or a pretender.’

“I can cause a bit of trouble with the hospital,” Felix murmured casually.

Tarlay frowned at his ability to read her thoughts so easily. ‘For a mortal, Felix is rather perceptive, but then that’s why Ripper recruited him to begin with.’

“Just enough trouble to draw the Duchess out of her fortress,” Felix continued with a confident smile. “In exchange for enough witch blood to keep my men and their families safe from the plague.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Tarlay muttered as she slid off the stool to face the exit. “Arrange a meeting.”