Chapter 113: Puppet

Chapter 113: Puppet

The old man stabbed Leland in the gut a second time before Leland fully processed the attack. His grimoire, already out and open, floated silently in his periphery as the old man emotionlessly yanked back on the knife. He felt the pain after a moment but it quickly disappeared in a heap of frozen terror.

Leland’s body moved without his command, hunching away like an injured deer while simultaneously pushing out with his dominant hand. He caught the old man’s wrinkled cold hand, blocking the third stab.

The old man’s face twisted at the failed attack. His jaw went wide, opening like a snake feeding on a large prize, while his eyes spun into a dark whirlwind. Pain extended across the old man’s cheeks and nose, his pale skin scrunching in a horrid scream.

The sound made Leland stumble back, but he never let the old man out of his sight. Something deep in the old man’s façade pulled at him, laughed at him. There was darkness in the man’s mouth, a spiraling hatred of power and fault.

Leland had seen a similar appearance many times over at this point. The old man was a monster. A monster in human skin.

Warmth in his hand pulled Leland’s attention. His hand, the one keeping pressure on his mangled gut, looked like a nightmarish waterfall. Something clicked in his head, fear and necessity battling for domination, and suddenly he had the means and reasoning to act. His non-occupied hand rushed to his grimoire, slapping the open page like it somehow would end his suffering.

The book did nothing.

Coughing, Leland repeated the movement. Again, nothing. Internally, fear capitalized and banished necessity. He trembled, tripping over his own feet and falling to the hard wooden floor. A single glance at his assailant standing with his mouth wide open only redoubled his fear.

The darkness was palpable, visible, even. It bridged the gap between Leland’s room and the hallway, spilling forth from the old man’s hollow eyes and false internals.

Leland’s boots were hard pressed to find traction, his blood making the floor slick. Still, he somehow found the back wall of the room, below a snow-filled windowsill and the light of the moon.

A pain shot through his tattooed hand.

Necessity took its chance.

His grimoire flipped, cycling pages with the speed of a master librarian. It arrived on a page with a single entry, one Leland was hard pressed to find uses for. The contract with the Moonless Lord. His palm slammed into the page, instantly augmenting his eyes to better see art. Art, in general, was subjective, and in Leland’s case, magic was art.

In Shoutwell, Leland had used the contract to spot sigil traps in the sewers of the cult-held town. They appeared to him as red masses, vibrant and vivid.

Here, in a random nameless inn in the middle of nowhere, the contract worked the same way. Although Leland wasn’t looking at sigils, but instead his attacker.

The old man was highlighted a bright red. Contour lines went up and down his elderly body, flexing around his clothes and profile. The lines focused on his mouth, eyes, nose, and ears, showing Leland the art inside such a monster.

Leland traced the lines, following the bellowing darkness from the old man down the hallway. His mind instantly thought of a doll - a marionette. And if he was right, then his true attacker was—

Fear edged in as the old man took a step into Leland’s room. He held the knife up, reversing the grip in a smooth motion and ending with the blade firmly in his boney fingers.

Leland instantly recognized the impending attack, having seen Glenny do the same thing many times over. His grimoire flipped and he smacked the page again. Before he knew it, magic came into existence around his hand, forming a transparent shield of rapid water.

The old man threw the knife, it subsequently rebounding off the Shield of Water to a corner of the room. The old man then screeched, loud enough to crack the windows Leland sat under.

Necessity and fear forced Leland’s next actions. If his marionette theory was correct, he needed to get away from the puppet and find the master. Or Jude and Glenny, something the constant warmth expelling from his gut reminded him.

His grimoire flipped unprompted, the stress of the situation harming his concentration. He tried to summon forth his crows, but the curse fizzled. He cursed, trying again as the man stepped closer.

“Maul,” he commanded.

“Maul,” he repeated.

“Maul!” Leland screamed.

The powerword, mana, and lifeforce took, turning the small inn room into a bird sanctuary for the ethereal crow.

They attacked the old man without reservation, the darkness spilling from his opened maw inconsequential for the spectral summons. They aimed for the eyes and legs, doing any and everything they could to slow or stop the attacker’s movement. Anything to buy Leland time.

“That’s true. He always has a good eye for these sorts of things.” Jude then sat up, replacing his elbows on the table. Glenny did the same. “But then again... he’s dealing with his own thing.”

“That’s true.”

They deflated.

An idea fluttered to life in the back of Glenny’s mind. He hated to say it, but he said it anyway. “What do you think the Huntress would suggest I do?”

Jude snorted at that. “She’d probably call you an idiot for even thinking of corruption yourself. But then she’d force the liquid down your throat when you were asleep.”

Nodding along, Glenny paused. “You think I should drink it?”

“Yeah? What else would you do?”

“I was thinking like a lotion.”

“Oh...”

Jude actually thought about that. Poison was always less potent when absorbed through the skin. Maybe that was a good idea. “Yeah,” he eventually said, “you should do it then.”

“Yeah?” Glenny asked, skepticism in his voice.

“Like dad always said, ‘Nothing beats a proper lotion.’”

Squinting, Glenny said, “What?”

Jude shrugged. “He says his hands smell like roses and his elbows look like a newborn’s.”

“Right...”

The boys once again leaned back, but their food arrived not a few seconds later. Both looked to the single empty chair at the table.

“Do we eat without him?” Jude asked.

“Uhh... no?”

They both deflated again. But, like a curious cat, both eventually refocused on the vial of corrupting liquid. Glenny grunted, Jude did the same. Then, like a trap spider, Glenny’s hand shot out and snatched the vial.

It was open and the contents were washing over his hands a heartbeat later.

“There,” he spat. “It’s done.”

Jude frowned, but not at his friend's choice. “You should have waited until after dinner. How are you supposed to eat—”

He froze. Glenny froze. The whole restaurant froze. From across the street, a familiar power unleashed. Like a dog that slipped its muzzle, an unearthly howl rippled from the town’s inn. Thick with fear, the power focused a moment later, silencing itself from speaking to the entire town and instead homing in on its nearby target. Then the restaurant went cold, each patron feeling a resonating chord in their souls.

Jude and Glenny instantly recognized the effect. Soul magic, specifically curse magic. The boys were out of their splintered seats before anyone processed the horrid event.

Except for the Huntress. Nearby in the moonlit forest, she rushed toward the town the moment she recognized the power.

The nephew had finally made his move.