Qebhet (coolwaters) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2020-09-03 08:41:00 |
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Entry tags: | hecate, qebhet |
WHO Qebhet and Hecate
WHERE Harlem
WHEN Wednesday, September 2, close to midnight
WHAT Seeking answers, finding trouble
WARNINGS Non-graphic violence, mild body horror, an exorcism of sorts
The weeks of uncertainty had been wearing on Qebhet. The heart that had been left at the door had given them frustratingly little, its essence so soaked in violence and trauma that it seemed to blot out everything else. Every effort at divination had come up confused, portents tugging in multiple opposing directions, leaving them no closer to finding or identifying the soul eater than they had been before. They had found another body, though – or rather, Hecate had, through her network of contacts. Randall Bowers’ remains had been discovered under the 145th Street Bridge some three weeks ago, disembowelled, his face slashed beyond all recognition. He had been sleeping rough at the time, and police had been all too quick to conclude that the killing was gang-related. Getting access to the body had taken some doing, and it had confirmed only what they had already suspected and nothing more: Randall’s soul had been ripped asunder. At least she had been able to purify and bless what was left of him, for what little good that might do. Oscar, Laurel, and now Randall. Qebhet could scarcely think of a more horrific way to die, in terror, in torment, devoured body and soul, denied even their rightful rest. And even now, the monster might be on the move, stalking its next victim. Perhaps it had already found them. The lack of answers left Qebhet itchy and anxious, and she found herself worrying ever more that it was bleeding into her work. Embalming was a sacred task; it deserved to be approached with a clear mind and an unburdened heart, and those were harder to achieve than ever with the memories of Oscar’s shredded ba and Laurel’s despoiled ab gnawing at the edges of her thoughts. She could hide her disquiet from the living clients; not so well from the dead. They sensed the unease in her, and it made her fret the worse, knowing she was failing them. Ironically, it was this that gave her the idea. The dead who inhabited the funeral home missed scarcely a thing that went on inside its walls; they saw things and knew things that the living did not. And the dead of New York City were many. Surely there must be souls out there who had seen or heard tell of this monster haunting the streets? She did not tell her father or Hecate, something she would later come to regret, but which at the time had seemed perfectly reasonable. Both of them were busy making their own inquiries, reaching out feelers through contacts more extensive and spellwork more powerful than Qebhet could ever command, and she didn’t want to bother them with such a shot in the dark. And, though she worried, she also didn’t consider herself to be taking a great risk: Qebhet was friend to the dead, and she had nothing to fear from ghosts. So for the last fortnight she had walked the streets of Harlem every evening, block by block, carrying a clay pitcher of cool, blessed water. She offered refreshment to each of the dead in turn and she asked her questions and she listened intently. For two weeks, she had learned little. A scattered few claimed to have seen an evil-looking black dog on the prowl; others had even wilder stories of the devil walking the streets at night and of demons that lay in wait at crossroads, and it was hard to separate true sightings from rumour or superstition or simply other immortals. Several claimed to know someone who knew someone who’d actually witnessed one of the attacks, and Qebhet had implored these ones to ask their friends to get in touch, but she'd heard nothing more out of any of them. This evening saw her tracing another second-hand thread, and it had seemed, at first, like another dead end. The address she’d been given was a local Baptist church, the story one of an ominous shadow that circled the building with a swishing tail, snapping its teeth at any spirits that dared come near. But Qebhet had found the place quiet, no sign that any creature of chaos has sought to disturb the worshippers or their dead. Still, she continued on in her methodical way, one block at a time, radiating outward from the church. It was always possible somebody could tell her more. Yet the streets were oddly vacant tonight. There were mortals around, passing by on foot or clustered together on stoops, a couple of men who leered at her out of car windows in a manner that sent her shoulders up around her ears— but they were the living. Where were the dead? New York was a city built on bodies. It teemed with ghosts. And though not all of them lingered, and not all of them made themselves known… well, it was strange not to see at least a couple of spectral forms out and about. Qebhet was about a block away from the church when she glimpsed the first sign of activity, through the chain link fence of an auto wreckers yard. A brief flicker of ectoplasm, there and then gone. She frowned. Following the fence along, she found a spot where the metal mesh had rusted and peeled away, creating a gap just large enough for her to squeeze through. It occurred to her as she did so that this might possibly be a bad idea. She was trespassing. What could she possibly say if somebody caught her here? What if they didn’t wait to ask her? But something was unsettling the dead in this neighbourhood. Something must have made them go to ground. And this ghost, if she could coax them out, might be able to tell her something about it. And she might be able to help. Qebhet so desperately wanted to be able to help. The towering stacks of beat-up cars cast weird shadows under the light of the full moon. Qebhet moved cautious as a snake in the grass, eyes wide, tensed for a sudden movement or an angry shout. But the shadows were dark, and the beast was fast, and she noticed the blur of black fur only a fraction of an instant before the force ploughed into her. The pitcher of water slipped from her fingers, shattering on the packed ground. She went down beside it, landing hard on her back, and a heavy weight landed on top of her. Something bit deep into her shoulder – claws, she realised frantically, claws larger and far sharper than any dog’s – and hot, putrid breath filled her mouth and nostrils, sending her reeling backward into a sea of second-hand memories. Claws like knives and rank breath on his cheek, oh stars, she was such a fool— It didn’t look like a dog. Not up close. It was more of a wolf if it was anything, though even that fell woefully short as a comparison. The beast was lean and scarred and as big as a man, a black mane bristling along its ridged spine. Its eyes were pale and spectral and they glimmered with an evil intelligence that frightened her more even than the claws. The soul eater loomed over her, muzzle almost brushing her face, and the stench of rotting flesh was overpowering. It curled back its lip, revealing more teeth than any creature had any right to have. “You’ve been following me, little god.” Qebhet couldn’t speak. She could scarcely bring herself to breathe. The cruel claws sank in deeper and she choked on a whimper, tears of pain blurring her vision. “What does your master want with me? These are fertile hunting grounds, there is room for us both.” She felt hideously light-headed, off her balance. Rot filled her lungs and seeped into her bloodied shoulder. If the beast consumed her soul, would she die, truly and eternally, as Oscar had? Or would she be trapped within its belly forever, kept alive in the way of gods, unable ever to escape? Oh, stupid, stupid, stupid girl! Why had she come in so defenceless? Why had it not occurred to her that, even as they were seeking it, the soul eater might be circling them in its turn? Her scales would be nothing to those claws; her usual complement of protective amulets hadn’t even slowed it down. The beast sneered. “Have you a tongue? Do you speak?” Her throat worked, but the words wouldn’t come. No words would save her now. If it were her father in this position, or Hecate— if it were any other one of her family, they would fight back. They would be prepared. Sword and spell and tooth and claw, they would fight this abomination, and all she could do was cower. Perhaps sensing her terror, the soul eater leered closer, and she thought she might pass out from the stench of decomposing flesh alone. “Or shall I rip out your entrails and let those speak for you?” Qebhet wasn’t sure where it came from. The anger flooded her body in a sudden rush, hot and red and furious, and before she knew what she was doing, she hissed in the soul eater’s face, baring two long, curved fangs, ordinarily tucked politely away from view. Her scrabbling hand found the sharp edge of a pottery shard and she slashed wildly with it, catching the creature’s neck and drawing blood. It recoiled from her, making a noise in its throat that was somewhere between a yelp and a furious shriek. “Heathen bitch,” it spat. “I will kill you for that.” “And I will ssscour you from exissstence, defiler.” The words seemed to tear themselves straight from that red, roiling place, all the horror and dread of these past violent weeks erupting into something spitting and molten and utterly foreign. She scarcely recognised her own voice, low and harsh and sibilant, the fork of her tongue flickering against her lips. “I am the blood of the jackal and I will deliver you to the jawsss of Ammit myssself.” The soul eater bared its own teeth, larger and sharper and more numerous than hers, in a bone-chilling snarl. In that instant the red haze lifted, and Qebhet knew with a dreadful certainty that she was dead. The creature took one deliberate step towards her, and she shrank. It came no closer. Only stared intently at her with its horrible, milky eyes – then it barked a sudden amused laugh, looking for a moment unnervingly human. “Go back to your master, little god. Tell him not to fuck with me. He doesn’t want me as an enemy.” Before she could say another word, the beast melted away in the shadows, leaving her alone, with nothing for company but the lancing pain in her shoulder and the rapid drumbeat of her heart thudding in her ears. Qebhet dragged herself painfully into sitting. She ran her tongue uncertainly across her the edges of teeth – an ordinary human tongue now, over ordinary human teeth – and tasted the sharp burn of venom. Her venom, never used for aught in her life but embalming and healing preparations. She didn’t even remember unsheathing her fangs. Great River, had she meant to bite it? The gorge rose in her throat, bringing with it the taste of rot, and finally a terrible understanding. It was worse, so much worse than the bloody heart on the doorstep or the frenzied assault of Oscar’s ruined psyche, because this time it was inside her. Seeping into her blood through the throbbing puncture wounds in her shoulder, through the polluted air in her lungs. The beast had poisoned her with its isfet, and already the chaos was winding its tendrils around her. She didn’t know how she got home. The next she was aware, she was doubled over in the shower, sobbing and vomiting at the same time, and her shoulder was aflame. She staggered out just as filthy as she’d been when she’d climbed in, because the foulness had never been on her skin, it was underneath, and she had not the claws to pry it out. Purification. She needed purification, had to rid herself of this taint. That was her purpose, her being, and the words and ritual should have come easily, but her tongue was small and ribbon-like, not made for human language, and she tasted only curses on its forked tip. She blundered into the bedroom, sending the cats darting with ears and whiskers flattened. Get it out get it out got to get it out. She fumbled across the dresser, carefully arranged charms and amulets going in every direction, not a one of them a lick of goddamn use. She had more tools than this, surely. Where was her water, her pitcher? Why couldn’t she remember? Phone fuck phone she had a phone. Get to it, get help, and she maybe got through this. Just had to find it fuckfuckfuck find it. Her world was swimming by the time she made it out to the living room. A trail of bloodied clothing picked out her path from the door. Jeans, she thought, with a heady rush of relief. Jeans. In the pocket. In the same instant hot bands of pain gripped her stomach, driving her to all fours, and then she was heaving over the floorboards, spewing up masses and masses of clumped greasy feathers, and she wasn’t sure where they had come from but she had a feeling they were hers, and had she known before that it was possible to moult from the inside? And what did it signify when one did? She made it to the jeans at a crawl and gave a hoarse cry as she found the familiar hard outline of her phone through the denim. Her fingers felt thick and unwieldy, skidding over the glass screen, and the facial recognition took a while to work because she couldn’t remember what her face was supposed to look like. Once she was in, she flicked to her messages, stabbed at the first likely name – Hecate’s – and texted a single urgent word: HELP. Then she curled her arms around herself and was dragged into a black, oily pit of unconsciousness. |