There’s a Sour Taste in the Sugar the Spider Offers
Griff’s grip on Archeus did not waver, even as the spirit behind the two great doors roared and shook the very house itself. Another push, and the Patriarch would come crashing through. In those few moments, her heart thumped, thumped, thumped. Adrenaline pushed the blood in her veins, readying her. It was in her fourth heartbeat that the wood and metal of the twin doors cr-racked!and came crashing down. The creature, a mass of shadows and a flash of white teeth and a skull rushed forward, faster than Griff anticipated. But its speed worked against it. As The Patriarch surged forward, it became caught on the sharp spears of ice. With a sharp breath, Griff leapt back onto one foot and then leapt forward with a diagonal swipe, ice from the blade crashing into the beast. It flinched back, as if irate and roared in reply. Swifter than she could dodge the creature swept its skeletal claws across the parlour, catching her in its attack and slamming her against the marble staircase. With the air knocked from Griff’s lungs and her heart racing so she knew the adrenaline would leave her body soon, it would leave her weak and crumpled on the parlour floor. With a grimace and a growl Griff slammed the tip of the blade into the floor beside her, pushing the last of that adrenaline through her finger-tips, into the hilt, the metal, the twisting cold and fragment of her soul until it rushed over the floor, a layer forming.
The Patriarch’s claws scrambled against the ice, struggling to find a grip and launch another attack at his fallen prey. With a huff Griff leapt into a roll back into the centre of the parlour. What now. The creature only grew fiercer, frustrated as it slipped and clawed. The spirits would not help her, they had retreated from physicality. With legs tensed she stood once more. Clumsily, she took a timid step backward. There was little she could do against a creature of this size, of this ferocity – ‘Griff!’From the sidelines, Beau tried to warn her of the oncoming attack. A touch too late. The Patriarch of shadows and bones used the momentum of the ice, spinning to throw its spiked tail and connect with her side the force of the spiked bones smashing her to the ground like a club to the back. The knight felt her own split lip and warm blood against the ice. But nothing broken. Not yet. But against the Patriarch, Griff had little to no defence. Too fast, too strong. The only chance she had against such creatures lay in a united front of the three knights working together. But right now, it was only her and she had a job – From what felt like nowhere, a wave of heat rushed forth and washed over her. But it wasn’t like any normal heat. No fire, no steam, no, nothing natural had this…electricity, this spark. Is this…the Patriarch…? Griff pushed herself up, not bothering to wipe the blood on her chin and neck away. But this heat, this power, did not belong to the dead.
It seemed it came from…Beau. Faster than she thought possible and with a grace she did not anticipate, Beau slid and rolled into a crouch before her. This heat pulsed from him. Giving her an energy she couldn’t quite understand, Griff ripped the orange scarf from her neck, a plan she couldn’t quite see forming at her fingertips. “Beau?” She managed to gasp, unsure if this man that seemed to be in a world of his own could even hear her. And yet, he did. But the man that looked down at her had a look of anger, a fierceness Griff had never seen press its mark on his face. And yet there is was. He didn’t bother with a word of explanation. Instead, the Knight felt her stomach drop as his eyes changed. The white, the brown, the black of his iris, all faded away and in its place and orange flame like colour burst forth. And with it, a wave of electric heat rolled across the entire room. You’re a fucking witch – The Patriarch, untroubled by the shifting of odds brushed off Beau’s hurried attack and sprung itself and its full weight at them both. But Beau did not waver. Around his two clenched fists, flames began spiral, moving faster and faster until they became a complete circle of flame and ferocity. As if he was throwing a punch, Beau drew back and thrust an open palm forward in such a practiced manner Griff felt more ice grow at the blade-tip. The flames obeyed their master and soared forward to knock back the creature. Lines of flame drew themselves, floating at his back as he stepped forward. He threw another volley of flames, backing the Patriarch up into the broken door frame. With a hiss, Griff scrambled to her feet, glancing Archeus across the slippery ice.
“Beau, get its head down!” Griff called out, rushing forward with light footfalls, her sword poised to strike. Beau roused both of his flame spirals, urging them to roar forth and fall upon the creature’s skull, thrashing it down onto the ground if but for a moment. With a shout, Griff bore down on the Patriarch, skidding down to her knees and sliding forward until she could very well touch the spirit. Without a second of hesitation she brought Archeus above her head and down onto the ice. With a reserve of strength within her, Griff summoned spears of ice higher, wider and more powerful than she ever had before, spearing up and through the skull of the spirit. The Patriarch let out a screech at that, rearing back and curling into a mass of smoky twisting shadows. Only the ice remained, the spears nearly touching the roof of the manor.
She let herself breathe. The creature was reduced to a single writhing shadow, no longer blocking the way to the garden. “Griff, get rid of the ice,” Beau commanded, the flames at his wrists fading until they disappeared entirely. Did he just…give me an order? An irrational anger flooded her mind, kicking her into snarling at his command with a sharp, “What?” He didn’t flinch. His eyes had returned, the soft humanity of his brown pupils looking down at her. And the irrational fear didn’t just fade, but it sizzled, bubbling in a fit until it evaporated entirely. Gentleness, in the place of ferocity. Understanding, in the place of the raw, electric anger that had been.
The ice within the entrance had all but melted. They walked about in the shallows, their footfalls echoing every little splash they made. Slowly, the spirits of the house melted back. They gathered around Rain, some becoming solid to hold her and pet her hair. Together Beau and Griff had drawn the poor girl off the ground floor and carefully lifted her up the stairs into one of the many empty rooms. They stood off to the side, watching over the spirits as they cooed and tried to soothe her. A thousand incoherent questions boiled inside of an exhausted, sore Griff, but Beau beat her to it.
“Why did you knock her out?” He asked, not looking her in the eye. His voice was quiet again. Despite his soft tone, a memory that soured the back of her throat rose. “She showed the signs of…um, well we call it Hexing. It’s a powerful witches curse, complicated, but powerful. It can leave them very weak, though,” Griff replied. He looked to her now. “But you would know that, right?” She hissed between her teeth, flashing a yellow glare. Beau didn’t have anything to say to that. He simply tucked his hands in his pockets and left the room. A thin needle of guilt pricked at her. It was that irrational anger again – no. That anger hadn’t been directed at him because he was…a witch.No. Inside Griff knew she had snapped at him because suddenly it hadn’t been her in command. Suddenly her charge had been the one to take control of the situation and win a battle she knew she couldn’t have won alone. And that was it. All this time in the city, Griff had thought herself alone. And…he had saved her, true, but with a power he’d been hiding all this time. Even after rescuing him from the Red Witch, accepting him into the Church and the moment shared between them on the bridge, Beau seemed to be a stranger. Not caring where Beau had stalked off too, Griff headed downstairs and ignored the freezing shallows. The piano playing ghost had returned, playing a soft melody meant to be welcoming. She found her satchel floating about, the bag itself probably ruined but the contents inside were safe enough. With her scribble notebook and pen, Griff dragged her feet to the garden entrance. She’d promised to talk to the Patriarch, after all.
He sat where they had left him. A small, human-looking shadow now, hunched over and quiet. He’s the elder of this family…? Griff crouched beside the shadow. Her first concern should have been the Patriarch, but she couldn’t help but glance up in awe at how beautiful the grove was. Unlike the house, there was life here. Trying her best to imitate Rook, Griff cleared her throat and spoke directly as she could. “Rain asked for us to talk. She said you had shifted into an agitated state of being and were blocking the way into the garden…doesn’t explain why you attacked us.” A sigh, echoing and human and not-quite human came from the shadow. “We are but old memories in this house. You can hear it, can’t you? Magritte plays the same song on a piano that has outlived generations of my family. Many have moved away, leaving this place in the hands of children. And now only Rain remains. Because they stole our Ava away. Her flesh and now her spirit,” The Patriarch mourned, head buried in his hands. I’ve seen cases like this before. Old, old families with blood all the way back to the colonial days. Families don’t always stay so strong. Sole surviving heir wanted to sell the old property, but the spirit of his grandfather solidified into a vulture and refused to move and let their property be sold off. But Elaine managed to talk him out of his protest with a sweetly-worded compromise. Griff sat herself on a rock beside him. “Who is them?” She asked, clicking her pen. “The Mountain spirits!” The Patriarch spat with a growl. The words that tumbled from his mouth with the utmost hatred and disgust took her aback. “You think...the mountain spirits stole Ava’s spirit?” Griff said, hesitantly noting it all down. He seemed to know where to direct his anger, now. “They’re a different breed, the mountain spirits. In the city we know who and what we are. We – we work in harmony with humans, it’s only ever been witches who truly wish to harm others. But in the mountains, they’re all the same. They think humans and spirits must live separately, that it’s unnatural and against the ways of the Old Nation. They think…that those who die in the mountains, must remain,” The Patriarch said, curling and tightening his hands that flickered in and out. In all honesty, Griff didn’t truly know if what he was saying was true. But she knew that’s what he believed without question. And…he was much, much older than her right? No matter how temperamental, how creature or shadow-like he was, this spirit was The Patriarch, old enough that perhaps he had watched the very foundations of this house laid down.
For a moment, it all became too much. Even in cases that separated all three of them, Griff had held at least a certain measure of control over it the situation. But in this moment, she now understood that there was no controlling this. There was no helping everyone by the end of this. A witch, powerful enough to commence with a Hexing curse was at play – for whatever reason – and the life of this heiress had become another stake in this game. And now…Beau. He had erupted fire from his hands at will, the tongues of red and orange obeying his command. But they had come from…nothing. No matter how powerful a witch was, their power was bound to their source. The Candlewax Witch had bruised Griff’s ribcage with a simple motion, but that room had been filled with red candles, ready to bend and strike at her will. Dante could open a channel between him and the stars with questions of the future, but required ink and soul to write upon – wait. That was just it, wasn’t it? How could Beau be a witch, if Dante had been able to give him an ink reading…? A soul and skin was required. Always. But witches were empty – a soulless vessel able to conduct powers, belonging to some class of which. The Ink Coven, mostly harmless and able to live among others, The Paint usually resided in communes far away from cities as they could get, save for the beautiful Illiya who had managed to marry a Lord and fill his halls with water-colour beauties. She had to find him. There were a million questions on her tongue but there was only one that mattered right now. Griff left the shadow to his mourning, retreated back through the shallows and to the first landing where the lonely piano murmured a song she hadn’t heard before. Beau glided his fingertips across the keys, quick and gentle and soothing and yet so confident in every press that ushered forth a song so sweet and yet melancholy Griff slowed her stride. She tugged at the sleeves of her blazer. He didn’t glance up. As it happened, Griff didn’t have to speak her question aloud. The anger that had been their last conversation and the scrunch of her eyes, the wounded look in her yellow eyes asked it for her.
Softly, as he always did, Beau said, “I am, a witch.”
Griff tugged on the other sleeve. “How – just how is that possible?”
He played another few notes. “I’m a little different. A rare, rare breed. I have a soul – but not my own. Not like you or anyone else. I’ve got a soul that’s inhabited others before me – the soul of a Phoenix. The power I have, is something already inside me. Just a…walking flamethrower I can’t fucking turn off.”
Paint, Ink, Candlewax, Phoenix. Ink, Paint, Phoenix, Candlewax. Paint, Candlewax, Blood, Ink and now, Phoenix. Dante, a witch but a good guy. Candlewax, a leech on the city, a bad guy. No, no, no. Everything was muddied now, so muddied that for a moment Griff couldn’t tell whether it delivered a sharp jab of pain or pleasure.
“The thing is, I know myself, I know witches. My power comes from me and the only spells I know were spells the Candlewax Witch used to bind me into servitude. But Hexing…well you recognised it right away,” Beau said, stepping away from the piano. There was a note of simply needing to know, in his voice. He’s a witch that never wanted to know the first thing about being a witch, wasn’t he? But the way he wielded those flames, it’s certainly not the first time he’s had to use them. She hadn’t realised it at first, but she’d been leaning heavily against the piano. Griff, despite the sudden weakness of her limbs and fatigue behind her eyes, she asked if he had anything big for her to draw on, something somewhat bigger than her notepad. “There’s a small chalkboard in the kitchen. I uh, I was looking for tea,” he admitted with a small smile.
Without saying much else, Beau held her elbow so she didn’t completely topple over and guided the way to the kitchen. It smelt of dust and old herbs, the wood wet and rotting. How was Rain even living here all by herself?Griff sat on the table she wasn’t sure would support her and dragged a chair over to the chalkboard which she supposed was once used to write down the shopping that needed to be done. As she drew, Griff couldn’t help but wonder, “You’re not tired…not at all? Do you know how much it takes from me just to make a – an ice-rink?”
Beau bit the tip of his finger with a slight tip of his head. “My power doesn’t come as an exchange. It’s mine, I can use it, it returns, there’s nothing taken,” He said, half to himself. Griff let herself slump against the wall. “There’s always a cost,” She murmured. A look passed between them. She finished her drawing, letting the chalk fall to the ground. It was simple, but it did what it needed to do. A web, drawn by the worlds’ most sleepiest artist.
“Why a web?” He asked. For a second she tried to point to a part of the web with a piece of chalk. It quickly dawned on her that it was on the ground and too far away for even the mightiest of heroes to reach. “If you could…” She motioned to the far away prize. With a smile, warmer than Griff cared to admit Beau rescued the piece of chalk and helped her point. “It’s how it works. It’s a powerful curse because it operates with multiple people, its strength is drawn from that. But that’s also its weakness,” Griff said, ignoring the odd feeling in her stomach when Beau’s hand laid over hers. “It’s all about…control. Those caught in the Hex web are under the control of the witch who wove it…they believe and feel whatever the witch wants them to. But if one part of the web is cut, then the rest are weakened. Something must have happened to one of the people caught in the web if Rain was able to make it so obvious something was wrong…she led us to the Patriarch knowing he would be hostile…but he can’t tell us anything either. All of the spirits can’t say anything or they risk hurting Rain,” She said, rubbing out one point of the web with her thumb. “What if Ava was trapped in this Hex…it makes sense doesn’t it? Her dying must have weakened the web,” Beau reasoned, running a finger over where the chalk had been rubbed out. There was nothing but a white smudge left.
It did make sense, didn’t it? But that meant this whole thing was just that more complicated, much more deadly. Without warning, the sourness flooded up through her tongue to spread through her mouth, involuntarily crawling down her throat. Griff grunted, trying to clear her throat. “We need to investigate this further. There’s more in this house, more questions, besides we need to make sure Rain is okay – I did kind of knock her out,” She decided. Beau gave her a look. A look that said he agreed but with his own reservations. She couldn’t quite stand up, but Beau couldn’t quite carry her either. It was mid-afternoon, but Griff was ready to pass into the next realm of consciousness.
“I could try – carrying you?” He offered. They staggered up the stairs. Both had a foot on the first stair. “We’re the same height. I sense that it won’t work,” Griff slurred, slumped with half of her weight on his shoulder. “No – no I think I could. How about, like a possum? Arms around my neck and legs around the stomach. I’ll lean forward and balance it out,” Beau offered. Tired as she was, Griff openly blushed. The black ash across her cheeks hid most of the rosy skin, thankfully. Surprisingly enough, it worked. Barely, and there were times of staggering and doubt but, it worked. They managed to find a guest bedroom with two windows, a fair layer of dust and stack of futons. Up the back, there was two glass doors and a balcony that looked out into the garden. The Patriarch was still out there, a shadow stalking about the grove. Fumbling as she went, Griff took off her blazer and scarf, planning to use it as a pillow. Without a complaint Beau yanked out two futons, shaking the one white sheet to rid it of the dust and dirt. Griff dragged her futon over to the doors. With some cooperation, Beau aligned his futon across from hers so they could manage to share the old, musty smelling sheet.
It felt so good to lie down, so good she knew she’d be asleep soon. The afternoon light wasn’t too harsh on her eyes. In fact, the yellow glow felt nice against her skin, caressing the soreness and the icy touch. As Griff began to drift off to sleep, she couldn’t help but notice the well at the heart of the grove. A grey stone, with vines of all kinds of flowers growing over it. But there was one flower in particular that caught her eyes as they began to close. Violet, white stripes…I know those. It’s a family artefact…a well of memories…we need to talk to Rain tomorrow…Maybe that was her last thought before she fell into the dark comfort of sleep. Maybe it was of the Patriarch and his grief that wailed so silently it deafened all within the house, the hunger that made her stomach grumble or the soft noise Beau made through his nose when he was falling asleep. Or maybe the few feet of space between their futons.
Griff couldn’t remember when she woke up, five hours later. She didn’t have time to try and remember her thoughts, her memories or the dreams of sourness, blood and being unable to move her legs and arms. All of it was washed away by the sound of Beau’s faint sobs. She didn’t roll over straight away. There was a soft cloth of moonlight over the both of them, her yellow eyes providing two little points of light. She had only heard him cry once. The night he had spent at the Church, Griff had shown him to the bathroom, insisting he take the time to clean himself. She wasn’t sure why, but she had waited outside and it had only taken moments for him to look into the cracked glass and begin to sob. She hadn’t done anything then, just waited outside. It was a little harder to ignore now. Besides, she cared now. Griff could tell he was trying to stifle the sobs, making a sound similar to when he was falling asleep. Hesitant, and oddly scared, Griff called out quietly.
“Beau?”
The sobs turned to a cough, desperate to stop his own tears. “I-I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Don’t apologise, I was already awake,” Griff replied, soft as she could. A small move reminded her of how sore every damn muscle in her body was, with a weird sweat that made her really want to take a shower. “I know you’re not okay but, are you okay?” She asked. A moment of silence first replied to her.
“You know, right on the street of the school apartments is this dead tree. These crows have been returning there every day. When they arrive, they’re like this…storm. The come but in those seconds before they land they’re just this fucking nightmare of flapping wings and scream and caw…that’s just what my brain is right now. It’s a storm of just, everything.There’s so much I feel – like – I’m going to choke. I’m not fully human, not really a witch. There’s no-one to love me but everything to hate – nothing comes after a witch,” Beau said, his voice threatening to break again.
Despite the sleepiness, despite the soreness in her bones, Griff rolled over and faced him. His black hair was out, the ends brushing his shoulders and splayed about. His face was soaked. His tears had wetted the sheet they shared. “Beau. I am – so, so sorry – just the way I treated you before. You saved me, and I just snapped at you. Even, even before that I treated you like a tag-along, like you hadn’t been through hell for those three years. And I know it’s hurt you – I know a lot has hurt you but I’m here now and I promise – I don’t fucking hate you,” Griff swore. She wasn’t sure what she was doing, but she ran on instinct and took his arm and curled him into a hug. For a second he didn’t do anything, and in the next he held her tighter than Griff thought he had the strength too. He held her differently than Casey did, he held her differently than anyone had. Beau curled his arms around her, one hand holding a shoulder, his head and dramatic mess of black hair buried into the crook of her neck, lips and nose rested on her collar bone. He cried a little more, and so did Griff. His hair smelled like the incense they kept in the library. She didn’t sob, but her jaw tensed and mouth held ajar as she cried, lips grazing his forehead.
“The thing is, no one knows about Hexes. Maybe some sick or poor fucks in this city do but I know about that fucking web because I got my family caught in it,” Griff admitted. Beau hugged her closer. “We were fifteen, still training. Just kids. And this guy, young and handsome and well-dressed and a – a Blood Witch. He showed up, with fancy words and a flirty smile and promised to – to take me on as an apprentice if we let him inside the Church. But he didn’t hurt me, or Elaine. He wanted our knowledge of the spirits – all he could take – from the library, from Rook. But it was my fault, because I convinced the others that it was – that we could trust him. But the thing is, I don’t know people. I didn’t know you, I didn’t get how to really understand and care but now I just…” Griff curled her hands into his hair. Beau had stopped crying, but he wasn’t asleep. He just wanted to hold her. She couldn’t blame him, because all she wanted was to hold him. And maybe they would fall asleep, or maybe the rest of the night would be spent simply holding each other, warm and strong and maybe there were tears but the man she held was no longer a stranger. There were questions she had for him and there were things Griff had to tell him but now, they simply held each other.
And maybe that was enough.
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