Death on the Wind

Her foot fell into one puddle after another, mud sloshing out and around her ankles as she tread the old road. The creek running alongside the path trickled quietly, a pitiful imitation of the rushing waters it held in days past. She cursed the old bones she had picked for the journey, grateful that the route she had chosen lacked hills as she crossed the moss-covered rocks leading over it. Her hand reached to one of the many pouches that decorated her hip, searching for bits of yew bark. She placed some on her tongue, chewing as she continued the trek.

She must play the character true, she reminded herself, putting some of the bark back in the sack. A medicine bag that was too light would draw questions. Ideas of changing shape to better suit the journey tempted her. There was too much risk. Even though the path was less traveled, there may be one faster than her who would relay to the waiting village the story of a younger woman on the path. And when an old wise woman arrived instead, how would she hide herself? No, she must stay dedicated to her disguise.

Death had carried on the wind for days now. It called to her like carrion to a vulture. Unlike a vulture, she would need to find her food before it expired. Consuming a soul as it left the body was equivalent to the finest wine. And if she were lucky, she’d find more to feast on than a lone almost-corpse.

Long had she stalked this land, but only recently had she begun to thrive in it again. She knew the way to trick them, these pests who clung to a dead world, a dead society. Certainly, the separation of nations and cities into smaller units had made hunting an easier thing. There was no longer any fear of groups walking these roads. The lone traveler, the rare duo, the beast of burden; these were no threat to her. She had to present herself as she was now—frail, old, slow. This patience would guarantee her prey. And as she limped slowly along this road that was no longer a road, her patience invited night’s fall.

Through the trees, some few hundred yards away, small globes of light, one by one, began to accentuate the deadwood, punctuating the darkness. A glinting reflection in her path exposed a rusted train track that hadn’t seen use in years. Repulsive iron. She stepped over the aged metal carefully, avoiding any contact with its frame. Disgust had temporarily overwhelmed her appetite.

Renewing her hunger, she focused on scents now. Yes, she could still smell that lingering scent which had alerted her to prey, but she also sensed cooking, fire, and warmth. Disgusting tastes of the human hearth. More than she expected. The village was more populated than other recent targets. Any concern passed quickly; she knew she was clever enough. More herbs to the mouth, now tasting of lemongrass. Appearances must not falter.

Now the shadow of the path she walked grew steep, dissecting the village that grew around it. Wooden homes, each two or three stories, climbed the peripherals of her vision. The different elevations of the higher floors sat lopsided and irregular with the lower levels, warm light emanating from their windows. Their age was impressive to her. Few things still stood from the era these were created in, fewer still in such good condition. Old fear bubbled to the service as she was reminded of a time where these parasites crowded her world. Many of her own kind from that age had fallen away, most from violence. She felt a cold nostalgia pass through her as she passed the houses, overshadowing their odd pristine quality.

Despite the lights from within the houses, no sound could be heard within their walls. Old superstitions died slowly; she knew. News of the elder who was passing away, whose scent had called her here, would have been spread among the village. One could not so much as whisper when death was near, lest they invite it upon themselves. She had to stifle a laugh, for death had come to all here tonight. But she had to begin with surgical precision.

She felt eyes on her as she wound through the empty twists and turns of the village. She was drawing both awe and unease from those looking on. They knew only a wise woman or a witch would dare venture out in the night. She was neither.

Following the aroma, she passed under a broad canopy to the end of an alley that served as the porch for another of the gangly, odd homes. This was her mark. Warm light from behind the door’s creases and cracks exposed green shoots of new growth that stretched up around the edge of the entryway and down the alleyway, odd life in an otherwise bland darkness. For the second time tonight, she was impressed. How had these insects cultivated life in dead soil? She caught herself wasting time. Before she could lose her fleeting opportunity dwelling on curiosities, her old hand rapped gently on the waiting wood. She slipped on her best caricature of kindness in preparation.

The door quietly opened, flooding the alley with light from inside. A matronly shape stood in the doorway. Light from within the house beamed around her, darkening her features. She paused for a moment, gauging the visitor. Without words, she moved aside, waving the old woman in.

Any words would be a curse in this moment. Besides, no introduction was needed. She knew why the old woman had come. What else could it be for? She would see exactly what she wanted to: a bruja, equipped with packs, medicine, wisdom, and magic. Come to save her ailing loved one, or to guide them to the afterlife in grace.

Carrion predator posing as a wise woman stepped into the warm atmosphere of the house, taking in her surroundings. Golden light from hanging lamps reflected amber colors off wooden interior. The long, irregular rectangle of the foyer lengthened into a cramped den, crowded with lounge furniture and shelves. Two small boys sat on a couch here, one cradling an infant. While one bounced her on his knee, the other tried to entertain the babe with one of many homemade dolls pulled from the shelves.

A narrow walkway divided the den from the kitchen, where an older girl prepared dinner. She paused and turned as the visitor inched inside, exposing alert eyes and tense posture. The intruder took note of her—the most untrusting of the family. Scents of boiling chicken, garlic, and stew wafted out from her position, filling the space of the low-ceilinged rooms.

Having locked the front door, the matron slid past her guest in the narrow entryway, turning at once to gesture the formal Sign of welcome with her hands. This signaled that the wise woman was allowed to move freely about the home. These old ways of communication were used in times that necessitated silence. Eager as she was to meet her first meal of the night, the old woman returned the gesture with her own Sign of thanks. The ruse of her kind character could not be allowed to fail.

She stifled a predatory grin; knowing she could play off the superstitious nature of this family. She turned and presented a Sign of blessing to each of the matron’s children—and when it seemed that one of the young twins would speak in response, the wise woman put her finger to her lips, sternly reminding the boy of the need for non-verbal communication. He blushed, looking to his mother shyly, who echoed the gesture. She seemed to remind him of chores, which he quickly ran away to accomplish.

The shape-changer now went about inspecting the structure as a bruja might, matron close behind her. Though instead of looking for signs of nithings and curses, she searched for hidden wards, protective magic, blessings. She had experienced the burn of sudden wards in her skin before, and it was not a feeling she wished repeated. Such a superstitious family as this surely had protective measures in place. The cold, aware eyes of the eldest daughter made her especially wary. She had even cast her eyes up in disrespect when offered a blessing! Too often these girls had it in their minds to be wise women before their time, and wards were dangerous even in inexperienced hands. The heat of the girl’s suspicion radiated heavy from the kitchen.

Snaking through an almost maze-like layout of furniture in the den, her eyes locked with the knick-knacks dotting the shelves. Made of wicker and horsehair, these toys were more than that. They hinted at the old ways, they whispered to the crone of old hands creating them. Wards could easily have been placed at the center of any of these. She methodically began weighing each of them, waiting to feel the vague burn that would begin in the palm that cradled the charms. No feeling came to her. She felt the mother’s eyes on her back.

Maintaining her guise, she chose one of the more doll-like charms. She turned, dropping slowly to her knees in front of the boy holding his infant sister. She played with the doll for the baby, drawing coos and giggles out of it while her brother looked on with a nervous smile, unsure of this strange woman. Making eye contact with him, the old woman let the toy go on its own, enchanting it to hang in the air and dance for the children.

The creature felt her appetite growing as their eyes fixed on the bewitched toy. These young ones tasted best as seasoning over the old! Yes, following the smell here had been the right choice. And how lucky she was that such a witch-charm could be found in this place. She was already beginning to plan its use in her attack.

As she reveled in her prize, light yet loud feet on the wooden floor alerted her to the return of the other boy. His body carried the scent of death, while his hand carried a small hammer. What chores had his mother sent him on? Lingering smells suggested he’d been in the room with the dying. After she had intercepted the speeding child, his mother took the hammer, ruffled his golden hair, then let him go. Nervous eyes on a tired face were cast back to the old woman.

The crone stood up, throwing the mother a questioning look as she made her way to the kitchen. Contemptuous blue glare met her approach. Face flushed from hovering over the cooktop, the girl inched over for the old woman. Disdain was obvious in every movement. The predator held back the desire to kill her on the spot, and instead made a show of inspecting the dinner that had been prepared.

Nodding as if it met her standard, the old woman reached for a bowl and began preparing a serving. Feigning clumsiness, she elbowed the adolescent as much as seemed natural within their lack of space. The ploy worked; their closeness allowed the pretend-bruja to reach out psychically, feeling for the girl’s thoughts. What fueled the girl’s scorn? Had she seen through the disguise? But as the tendrils of her unseen magic searched, insight eluded her. The girl’s mind was hidden, obscured by something. Had she been trained in the wise ways? An unease spread through the old woman. What was she missing?

Pain in her hands brought her back to herself. The predictable ache of old flesh. If she had been exposed, neither the daughter on her left, nor the mother on her right made show of it. Calming herself, she made motion to draw their attention to the bowl. Candid action would reinforce trust. Making a show of mixing her own herbs into the dish. She didn’t hide her smile. In their ignorance, they would believe that she prepared medicine with the food; in reality, these ingredients would instead serve to sweeten the carrion-meal waiting for her.

Frail hands cradled the bowl as she motioned to the hostess, showing she was ready. Wooden floors creaked as she was lead down the hallway which wrapped behind the central stair. The smell surrounded her, bringing a thirst with it that drowned out her other senses. Time slowed for her and all she knew was the need to feast upon the source of this overwhelming aroma. Predatory ecstasies were interrupted by the feeling of eyes scrutinizing her. At the end of the winding hallway, the mother stood waiting for her bruja to catch up. As the old woman caught up to her, she jostled her head to signal that her hostess should wait out in the den. A questioning look suggested resistance and was quickly shot down by the bruja exerting her seniority over the younger woman. Obediently, she left, nervously looking over her shoulder before rounding the corner.

Her hands occupied with the bowl; the bruxsa willed the door open, invisible force pulling it with a groaning creak. Through the threshold, the room splayed wide before her. An end table against the wall in front of her displayed the family altar, bathed in moonlight pouring through the window above it. Rats scratching within the walls came from the right, wheezing from the left. The old man came into view as she began crossing the threshold, his eyes shut, beard covered mouth open with shallow breaths. Death-heavy fragrance intoxicated her, removing all sense of motion as she quickened her pace.

And then, pain! The searing flashfire of iron dug deep into her heel, spreading through her, driving every nerve in the shapeshifted body to scream in pain! Immediately sober, she pulled her foot away from the source of her affliction, gasping deeply as it ripped at her from the inside. Black blood pooled on the floor, almost hiding the long iron nail that stood erect on top of it.

Strength drained from her—she felt magically crippled. Earth-bone, iron! The weapon of choice for dealing with bruxsa, for killing her kind. Long had it been since she felt such pain. Anger flared through her body, demanding reprisal from the family waiting down the hall. How could she take the whole village for herself now? But she needed to calm herself. The meal she chased all this way was still here, and with infant to season it. Yes, she would use what magic was left, destroy this family, and then return another day, this time without disguise. She would return in flight, cloaked in savagery, death on the wind; the whole village would be bloodied. Gentle death would no longer be theirs.

Focus! She must focus. Hunger needed satiation before she could rage against these people. Somehow, she had swallowed pain and fury, and drifted over to inspect the family altar. Emblems of a woodsman decorated it—bone-bladed shiv, an old hunting rifle. Pelts and furs. Rough tokens crafted by the children in memory of their lost father. The son of this elder? In healthier days, she could imagine the old man caring for his son’s memory here. No sign of warding charms. Shifting her attention, she pulled the chair from the altar and placed it aside the bed of her victim.

Weathered protective charms decorated an iron chain necklace which draped over his chest. The sight filled her with the need to flee. She considered it for a moment. Meals were pleasure items—not frequent necessities. One meal would last her a century if she needed. But such instinctual repulsion made clear to her that the iron had truly pierced the boundary of her magic. The piercing iron had left her in a precarious situation. She was taking a risk—if the charms were charged, it could disable her further. Only predatory instinct fueled by the sounds of ragged breaths kept her from smashing through the nearby window and taking flight into the woods. Giving the drugged bowl of stew a final stir, the bruxsa began gently lowered a stew-filled spoon into the man’s mouth.

Fevered dreams of dread omens would flood his mind, breaking it with fear, seasoning it with horror, preparing it for consumption. Soul would leak slowly from the body as he passed, renewing her vigor and allowing her to finish off the family. At least, she hoped that would be the way of it. Time crawled as she waited to see if his charms would shelter him from the poison. Psychic signs signaled too much activity for the poison to have worked yet, but a deceleration of the cells could be felt that showed slow progress.

Now she meditated, using some of her remaining magic to possess the doll she had enchanted for the children, forcing a silent, occultic scream through its wicker body. It echoed around the family waiting in the den, pushing its way into the mother’s psyche. Without understanding why, she grabbed the infant out of its brother’s arms, and started down the hallway. Confused stares from the children followed her.

Moments later, the door creaked open, and the babe was mindlessly placed in the shape-changer’s arms. The mother left. The bruxsa planted a seed in her mind: the matron would tell her family that it was the elder’s last moment to spend with the child. She hoped it would be enough to keep the cold-eyed daughter away from the room until the meal was ready.

Laying the babe on its grandfather’s chest, she leaned over the duo, inhaling, waiting to feel the draw of the soul from the elder’s breath. Siphoning the gust-blow of the grandfather’s spirit would draw the breeze of his granddaughter’s small essence with it. Anticipation held her quivering body captive in this long moment as she waited for the elder’s final sigh—the call to finally taste her feast.

Low breath escaped old lips. The wicked shapeshifter lowered her head to begin carrion consumption. Unexpected words shattered the silence.

“I will die in honor.”

Charms lit like smelted iron on the man’s chest, repelling her magic. Movement too fast for the iron-wounded creature to follow. The babe was pulled under his left arm, away from her, as his right hand gripped her throat, pulling her in. Bowl and spoon clattered on the floor. The infant cried. Feet ran down the hallway.

She cursed and spat at him through his choking grip. The protective charms would last too long for her to consume his spirit; the feast would have to wait.

Banshee shriek began to batter the old man’s face, carving shallow grooved cuts that grew wider with blood as the scream dragged on. The grip on her throat lessened as her attacker focused his effort into shielding his grandchild from the lacerations of the vocal onslaught. Life faded from him as his other granddaughter broke into the room.

Bone-shiv taken from the family altar plunged into the soul-sucker’s back. Turning quickly, the bruxsa’s shape twisted into a gargantuan mockery of her human disguise as she grappled the cold-eyed girl’s arms, using her overwhelming weight to force her down, crashing to the floor. How she would enjoy eating this one! Sharp teeth exposed themselves in her open mouth as she went for the killing bite. Iron pain seared through her thigh, spoiling her strength and loosening her grip. Reeling back in agony from the rail spike the girl had concealed, the monster no longer towered over her foe, and instead looked for escape. She tossed herself onto the floor now, changing into the miniscule shape of a mouse as she scurried around the girl and fled down the hallway. Superstitious silence was broken again. “Mama, the thing is coming!” Had they known all along?

Matron came into the view of the rodent as it scampered around the corner of the hall. Instinct drove her now; iron-wounded madness demanded blood. She leapt from the floor, changing herself as she charged forward. She crashed into the woman in the shape of a hellhound, throwing her back to the kitchen.

Kitchenware crashed on the floor as they slammed into the counters and cupboards of the cramped room. The mother clawed at the beast’s eyes as it gnashed its teeth, falling onto her back and kicking at the floor as the monster forced its weight on her. The hellhound saw the opportunity and bit into the exposed throat, shaking its head back and forth to break the neck. The woman became still. Iron-poison caught up to the bruxsa’s adrenaline, dimming its vision as it heard children yelling. Iron stabbed into its haunches, the familiar sting of the rail spike. Hellhound form faded along with her strength. Strong arms dragged her away from her kill. Her vision grew dark as she became vaguely aware of others crowding into the house.

In her blindness, she was aware of skin scraping over concrete. Elevation changed. Air grew still and damp. No matter how much she willed it, she was stuck in this old woman’s skin. Shapeshifting was beyond her thanks to her iron-poisoned wounds. No psychic screams of suggestion would influence the men dragging her down into the earth.

Gradually, her vision returned. The stairs ended in a circular chamber, lit solely by dim electric glow. Tall, grey-metal cylinders wrapped in vertical iron blades had been placed around the center of the room. One whirred quietly, powered by some unseen mechanism. As her eyes focused on the source of the electric hum, she recognized the favored disguise of an old friend, one she had thought long dead. Something was wrong, though. Instead of maintaining a proper veil, the skin of the shape-changer draped like hanging curtains. Its condition suggested that her kin had been frozen in this shape for years. No awareness was visible in its eyes, and its body slumped, held aloft only by the iron which chained it to the machine. The sharp edges of the machine rotated quickly against the captive, tearing its flesh, blending it into amber-gold particles. The particles produced were siphoned into a conduit that stretched to a channel in the ceiling. Lush green vegetation grew around the channel.

The trapped shape-changer was close to death.

Rusted black stains on the still machines implied that this wasn’t a new method. It dawned on her—the healthy plants in dead soil, the condition of the structures! Lured here by carrion bait, trapped and culled to be used as fertilizer for this parasitic colony, how many of her kind had been killed so?

She struggled against her captors as she was taken to an unused machine. Arms pulled back and chained around it, she felt herself go still as the iron pressed into her back. Her eyes fell onto her fellow prisoner as a guard approached it. She sensed the last bit of life leave the sunken husk as the man pierced its core with an iron stake. The guard gave a signal to someone behind her. Footsteps approached, bringing a familiar face into view.

The cold-eyed girl was there, standing some yards away and cradling her infant sister in one arm. She nodded at the guard, who gave a command, “Turn it on!”

Awful whirring started as the iron bladed machine rotated against the bruxsa’s back. Flesh was sliced, then regenerated, then sliced again as she struggled at her bindings. She let out a horrid scream, but it failed to penetrate the minds of those that observed her struggle.

Torture came now not only by the machine at her back, but also from the cold-eyed girl’s disdainful approach. Sobs and shouts burst from her mouth as her eyes locked onto the girl’s, pleading mercy.

The girl crouched down, coming face-to-face with the now-humbled monster. Sobs turned into begging as the machine’s pace increased. A response came in the form a hand placed against the bruxsa’s mouth, along with the girl’s voice sternly reminding her: “Hush.”