Traitor to the Crown (4 page)

He put logs on the grate and started a fire—using flint and steel this time. Wind whistled across the chimney top, but the shaft did not seem to be drawing smoke very well. He let the sparks burn down instead of feeding them.

He went through the back door into the old house. He saw Deborah in the bedroom, or at least he saw her knees poking up in the air. Abigail sat on the bed beside her, holding her hand.

Magdalena stepped in front of him to block the view. “Done already?”

“I checked all our boundaries. We’re shut up tight for the night.”

“Then go make sure we have fresh water and kindling for the fire.”

“But—” He looked at the pitchers of water already full and ready, and the stack of firewood by the hearth, and then he realized it was just more make-work to keep him out of their way. He decided not to be irritated by it. “How’s Deborah?”

“She’s fine,” Magdalena said. “Why do you think she’s not fine?”

“I didn’t think she wasn’t fine.”

Deborah’s voice came from the other room, high-pitched, breathless, and short. “I’m fine.”

“Is she supposed to sound like that?” he asked Magdalena.

“Sound like what?” the old Dutch woman snapped angrily.

“I’ll go get water and firewood,” Proctor said.

“That would help a great deal, yes.”

The pitchers were all full, so he carried the kettle outside and filled that at the well. Then, since there was plenty of firewood inside already, he started moving one of the piles over to the porch where they could get at it easier.

He’d seen plenty of births—his mother had a sure hand with the lambs and calves, especially during difficult deliveries. But as an only child, he had never attended a baby’s birth before. Deborah’s pregnancy had been hard enough, but this—the hours of pain, sweat, and blood, the uncertain outcome …

Actually, it reminded him a lot of being in battle.

Best not to mention that.

He tossed the split logs onto the new pile and went
back for two more. All that mattered was keeping Deborah safe, keeping their baby safe. He wondered if they were going to have a boy or a girl. If it was a boy, he wanted to name him after his father, Lemuel. Now, that was a good strong name. Lemuel Brown.

Lydia stepped outside. “She’s asking for you.”

He dropped the wood. It clattered on the ground, banging off his shins, but he hardly noticed because his heart was pounding so hard. “Is everything—”

“Everything’s fine,” she said.

Proctor ran inside and stopped at the door to Deborah’s bedroom. Magdalena sat between Deborah’s feet, and Abigail frowned at him, rising immediately to block his view. “Deborah?” he said.

“Proctor, is that you?” she answered, panting between words.

“Yes, Lydia said you wanted me.”

“Yes, I did,” she said, gritting her teeth through a painful contraction. “Now go away.”

Abigail reached out and squeezed his arm, not as a gesture of reassurance, but as a means of turning him around and pushing him out the doorway and across the room. “She just wanted to know where you were. Now she knows. Don’t you have water to fetch or wood to split?”

The hearth had burned down to coals. “I could tend the fire,” he suggested. It would keep him near Deborah, and no one could argue that he wasn’t doing something.

“Good,” Abigail said, and she shoved him out of the way.

He moved a chair over in front of the hearth and added a log from the basket. He prodded it into flame, then added more logs on top. This chimney was drawing just fine.

Lydia pulled up another chair beside him and took out her knitting. “It’s not that cold outside,” she said.

“It felt chilly enough when I tried to see how my wife was doing,” he muttered.

The wind rattled the shutters, which banged against the house like someone knocking to come in. The wood in the fire crackled and spit, shooting sparks out into the room. The draft from the chimney drew the flames into wild and unusual shapes. Proctor stared at them, the way he might stare into someone’s face, while Deborah shouted and panted her way through ever more frequent contractions.

Abigail popped her head out of the bedroom door. “I think it’s time,” she said eagerly.

Proctor jumped out of his seat.

“Not you,” she said. “Lydia—she’ll want to see the baby being born.”

Lydia sighed, then put her work aside and joined the women. With all of them crowded into the tiny room, they couldn’t close the door.

Deborah cried out.

Proctor plopped down in his chair and stabbed the iron into the fire. He flipped over a log, sending up a spray of sparks.

“This time, you push,” Magdalena said. “Just like you’re doing your business.”

Deborah cried out again.

Proctor stirred the coals. Sparks shot up again, but this time a ball of fire rose with the sparks. It was just like the strange flame that had formed when he tried to light the lantern. In a split second air spiraled around it, drawing fire from the logs, making the flame larger and stronger.

And more man-like.

The flame had limbs and a head. Proctor watched, frozen, as fiery fingers formed at the ends of its arms. Eyes as black as charcoal popped open in its head. The arms and legs, rooted in the burning logs, stretched and pulled like a creature escaping a trap.

It reminded him of the imp Dickon that had kept the evil Bootzamon’s pipe lit.

Only it was the size of a man, and it was crawling out of a hearth that had once been used as a black altar.

Proctor’s tongue came unfrozen. “Demon!”

Deborah cried out in reply from the other room.

He tipped over the kettle on the fire. Steam rolled out of the hearth, but the demon twisted and dodged, avoiding most of the water. It was a creature of spirit—it needed the flames to manifest. If Proctor drowned the fire, he could kill it.

Proctor grabbed the nearest pitcher and doused the flames again. The creature roared and spit, but it yanked one leg free of the burning logs. If it escaped and became a free creature of fire—

“Demon—we’re under attack from a demon,” Proctor yelled.

He looked for more water, wishing that he’d brought in more water—why hadn’t he brought in more water? He ran for the washbowl, but it was empty. He grabbed the half-empty pitcher from the stand and turned back to the fire. The demon was almost free.

“There, you’re almost there, one more push,” Magdalena said.

Proctor flung the pitcher. The ceramic shattered into a thousand shards, and the water washed over the rest of the logs.

Which set free the demon’s other leg.

Deborah cried out, louder than before.

The demon floated above the hearth, staring at Proctor eye-to-eye. Horns rose from its head and its mouth gaped in a snarl of white flame and orange tongue. Red fire rippled from its shoulder to its waist like a coat, and it moved on legs of smoke. It glanced away from Proctor, at the bedroom, and licked its lips.

Proctor drew all the power into himself that he could
summon. Sweat poured from his body. He would smother the demon with every stone in the house. He would call rain out of the sky. The demon took a step toward the bedroom and Proctor blocked its way.

“No. You will not have my wife or my child.”

The demon hesitated and fell back.

Abigail’s voice sound behind him. “Proctor, it’s wonderful, come see your baby—”

Her sentence ended with a scream.

The baby—his baby—cried out in the other room, its first sound, so small and vulnerable. Proctor’s heart jumped, and he turned his head. Magdalena had emerged from the room, smiling, oblivious. She held a knife out handle-first for Proctor, inviting him to cut the baby’s cord.

The demon lunged past him.

Proctor clutched for it, his right hand sliding down the flames until they closed on the creature’s ankle. Heat knifed up his arm, and the scar of his missing finger felt like a hot coal had been hammered into it. The demon twisted and lashed at him like a frightened snake. Proctor tried to drag it toward the front door, but the pain was blinding. His knees buckled beneath him and his vision blackened like the night. Everything in the room went dark except for the flames.

Abigail screamed and screamed. Deborah shouted his name. His baby cried out, tiny and helpless.

The demon’s ankle slipped through Proctor’s hand. He was holding on to no more than a heel. He tried to grab at it with his other hand, but he needed it to hold on to the floor lest he spin away into the dark and the shadow. The demon twisted around and slashed at his face with red talons. Proctor rolled away from the blow, but he couldn’t hold on much longer.

A cool white light, smooth and round as a pearl, emerged from the darkness.

The light came from the knob of Magdalena’s cane. She blocked the way to the child. She spoke out in German, words Proctor couldn’t understand, though the tone was clear enough:
Clear out
.

The demon shrank back and roared, a sound like the wind building up to a tempest. The demon pulled free of Proctor’s hand, and Proctor collapsed to the ground.

Magdalena threatened the creature with her cane. The light brightened, a full moon, filling the room. The demon bounced from corner to corner, like an anxious cat, desperate to escape and equally ready to strike.

“Grab it,” Magdalena shouted, and Proctor realized she was shouting at him. “I told you to grab it und hold it!”

He lunged for it, and the demon dodged away. The baby hiccuped in the other room, and the demon seemed to cry in anguish, a whistling sound like the wind scraped over a roof’s edge. Proctor grabbed at it again with his left hand but it was hot to the touch and he flinched. It slipped through his fingers.

The demon, swollen with flame, charged at Magdalena.

Proctor yelled out “No!”

“You will not have this child!” she cried.

The demon tried to bull past her, but she stepped into its way and slammed the knob end of her cane into its face. The white light hit the shadowy fire of the creature like water hitting hot oil. The sizzling crackle was followed by a burst of power that knocked everyone to the floor.

When Proctor pushed himself upright again, the baby was wailing, the demon was gone … and Magdalena lay broken at odd angles on the floor, surrounded by the shattered pieces of her cane. Lydia knelt over her a moment, then shook her head.

Magdalena was dead.

“God, dear God in heaven, what was that?” whispered Abigail. She sat in the corner, knees pulled up to her chin.

The baby squalled.

Deborah! Proctor lurched up and lunged to the doorway. He flung it open. Deborah sat there in a pile of wet and blood-tinged sheets, holding the baby to her breast with the uncut cord snaked across the bed. Tears wet her cheeks.

“I wanted this to be a happy day,” she said. “I wanted this to be our happiest day.”

Her voice wasn’t sad or scared. It was angry.

The unblinking sun peeked through the windows as Proctor scraped the mortar off the face of the stone. He chose another one from the pile at his feet and fitted it into the gap.

“Do you really have to block up the hearth?” Abigail asked.

“I’m not going to risk another attack,” Proctor said as he troweled mortar onto the stone. “I think the demon tried the other hearth first but couldn’t come down it because of the protective spell.”

“Why can’t you put a protective spell on this one?” she said, wrapping her arms around her chest.

Because it had only been two days since the attack and none of them had gotten much sleep. Because Deborah was trying to learn how to nurse a newborn and didn’t have time to prepare the spell. Because he had spent yesterday digging yet another grave at the orchard’s edge, this one for Magdalena—their enemies were necromancers, and he wasn’t about to leave a dead body around to tempt them.

“Because,” he said, using the butt-end of the trowel to tap the stone a little tighter into place. One more and he’d be done. “Because I don’t trust this hearth. Because I will never trust this hearth. Because I want us to be safe.”

He met her eye as he chose another stone, challenging her to deny him.

“You doing all this work to make us safe doesn’t make
me feel very safe,” Abigail said. “I can bury a body or brick up a fireplace as well as anyone, but I can’t do the kind of magic that you and Deborah do. I can’t stop a demon. So if you want me to finish up this chore while you prepare a spell, I’d feel a lot more safe.”

He chipped a corner off the stone and forced it into the last hole. That was the problem. He didn’t know what kind of spell would keep them safe. Deborah and Magdalena had already placed spells on the hearth once before, after it was tainted, and those spells didn’t hold.

Abigail turned and stomped away.

He tossed the trowel into the mortar bucket and stared out the window at the orchard. The graves were all unmarked, Quaker fashion, because that’s what Deborah and her parents believed. But Proctor knew where they were, every one of them. Every one of the graves represented a failure. He had failed to protect Deborah’s father from the assassins. He had failed to include the house in the protective spell that saved his life from the reanimated corpses, and it had cost Deborah’s mother her life. He had failed to stop the demon and it had killed Magdalena.

But not Deborah. Not their daughter.

He had done that much. This time.

He went outside and scraped his bucket and tools clean, then washed his hands and found his hammer. He meant to nail the old house shut. He didn’t trust the hearth, and he didn’t trust the old house, and they weren’t going to use any part of it. When he had time, he would tear it down to the ground, no matter what Deborah thought.

The wood was old and hard, and he bent half a dozen nails boarding the front door shut, but soon he was done. The new addition had a kitchen door. He tucked another board under his arm and went in there.

The diapers drying on the rack by the fire left a faint
scent of soap in the air, and made him think of his daughter all over again.

He went to the back door that connected to the old house and slapped the board across it. He fished a nail out of his pocket and was tapping it into place when a voice spoke behind him.