Page 23 of As Many Souls as Stars
‘And you wish to make a deal with me.’
‘Yes.’
‘Because my soul is strong? Because my family made some sort of deal themselves?’
Richter reached out and drew a finger down the centre of Cybil’s chest. Cybil’s breath stuttered, and she felt her cheeks heat. ‘Yes.’
‘What will you do with it?’
‘Consume it,’ she said. ‘I have never wanted anything more. To have such a soul would be the greatest pleasure I have ever known. It would provide me with power for centuries.’
‘I would never agree to such a thing.’
‘Why not?’ Richter asked, with genuine confusion. ‘There is little need to rush. I can give you anything you want, Cybil. I find you fascinating enough to watch you for years; your anger, your sorrow, your beauty. I could break your curse, serve you, grant you your every desire, and eventually…’
‘Eventually you willeatme? You willkillme?’ she said, incredulously. ‘Just as you killed my father?’
‘You were always going to die regardless. This simply allows for more certainty. Tell me how much time you require, and I am certain we can negotiate.’ Richter offered Cybil her hand. ‘You need not be alone anymore.’
Cybil looked at her palm. It seemed, at first glance, an ordinary human hand. Its nails were a little too sharp, mayhap, the skin too smooth. She knew that Richter’s touch was cold, but not so cold as to be alarming. She knew that her mouth was soft, from when it had touched her forehead. Even now—even half breathless with fear and confusion—Cybil’s heart sped to think of that touch, to think of touching her once more. Miriam Richter could certainly pass for human, if she wished to, if no one knew any better.
But it was her eyes. It was always her eyes. When their gazes met, Cybil looked into that darkness, and she saw nothing human there. If Richter had pupils, they were the same colour as her irises, or else they were blown so wide that even belladonna could not have accomplished it. And Cybil wondered how she had never noticed it before: this woman did not have a woman’s face, but the expectation of one. She was an abyss that promised a person at its end.
Cybil shook her head. ‘I know better than to make deals with the devil,’ she said. ‘I want you to leave my property, Miriam Richter, and never return.’
Richter sighed. ‘If you reallywantedthat, my dear, your magic would have kept me away.’ Stepping backwards, she lifted the felled bough from the ground with one hand, and she held it in front of her. It was at least as thick as her torso, but she wielded it like a Myrmidon with a spear, raising it upright without effort. ‘It is a shame,’ she continued, ‘that you refuse to learn the wonders you could work.’
The gnarled bark of the bough shuddered and began to unfurl, stripping itself away from the pale heartwood. That wood paled and thinned and hardened until Richter held a long, thin bone, sharp-tipped and slightly curved. A whale’s rib, or else the talon of some indescribable leviathan. The bone was already beginning to yellowand crack with age the longer Richter gripped it between her hands. Cybil watched in horror and fascination as it darkened and went brittle, browned as if buried for fathomless years, and then—with hardly a whisper of sound—dissolved into dust.
Cybil felt something within her quail at this show of power. She wondered if Richter would reach her hand out once more, close it around her own wrist, and consign her to ashes, also. But Cybil allowed her fear presence for only a moment. Then she bound it up again, tied it in ropes too tight to unknot.
Lifting her chin, Cybil said, ‘I wish to never see you again.’
Richter’s eyes glittered. She did not respond.
Cybil turned and walked away. Behind her, a crow cawed; but when she turned instinctively towards the noise, she saw nothing but the waiting dark.
8
Miriam left the orchard furious, delighted,hungry.
She had exhausted herself. Her magic was always more difficult to call on beneath clouds—the darkness was weaker, more nebulous. Now she had spent so much of her strength, she would need to trade for more power, or else she would start to fade.
Miriam was growing sick of Ipswich, but it was the largest settlement in the area, and thus the greatest store of souls. Making her way toward the town, she flew into a murmuration of starlings to scatter them, taking vindictive pleasure in their shrieks of fear. She remembered Cybil trembling in her arms, recalled her scream as Miriam had appeared before her. The girl wore fear so prettily, but she was even more lovely when she was angry; it would almost be a shame to rob the world of something so beautiful.
Almost.
Miriam was immortal, but that did not mean she was patient. She was accustomed to getting what she wanted. Cybil would not come to her willingly; this was a novel problem to Miriam, in centuries of hunts, but not one that was insurmountable. Miriam would have to find a method of forcing her. It could never be as simple as taking control of her body and signing the contract in her stead: a soul had to be given willingly. It was one of the few limitations Miriam had discovered over the course of her existence. Besides, Cybil’s soul was too strong for such tricks. She would simply spit the shadows out.
Miriam would have to attempt something new. For now, she required a meal, especially after that display of power with the apple-tree branch. She alighted atop the town gates, scattering another group of crows who were picking at the corpses dangling there.
As she peered down at the path, she saw a man with a black hat—a man she recognised. The witchfinder, Henry Martingale. Curious, she took flight to follow him.
Although it was late, the streets remained crowded. And people clearly recognised Martingale; they were either staying well out of his way or swarming about him like flies on a dish of blood, begging for help or offering him tips. ‘My wife’s mother is a witch,’ said one man. ‘I swear it—she cursed me, and a blister formed—’ But Martingale ignored him entirely, walking further into the town.
Then a familiar voice came. ‘Master Martingale! Master Martingale!’
It was poor Peter Oswyn, elbowing his way through the crowd. His eyes were small, with dark bags beneath them, skin sallow with exhaustion. He was not yet recovered, clearly, from his ordeal.
