Careful where, or on who, you tread.
Justice is coming. In this life, the next, or somewhere in between.
Justice is coming. In this life, the next, or somewhere in between.
Bog Annis by S.R. Manev
They found Annis Nyel’s body hidden among the thick, mossy
roots of the hunched fairy tree which grew on the edge of the Bog of Allen.
There were marks on her neck and bruises on her thighs. Her face was peaceful.
The eyes closed as if she were enchanted.
The killer left no DNA. She had no defense marks on her
hands or nails. No one remembered seeing her on the night of her disappearance.
No one had seen her since the afternoon the Englishman arrived on the train.
The police questioned him but he said he didn’t know anything. They didn’t
press him too hard—he was a Collegium man, a bogeyman. They didn’t want any
trouble.
The tempo of the investigation slowed to a crawl.
“Bog Annis,” as a newspaper had dubbed her, was buried
without justice or vengeance.
#
He knew the moment he laid eyes on her in the big, dimly lit
foyer of the Crossroads Inn that she’d follow him to the back door without an
invitation. They always did.
Ronny Cormorant, senior occult officer to Her Majesty’s
Collegium Arcanum, staggered through the door into the walled backyard to
relieve himself, feeling her gaze boring between his shoulder. He was dressed
inconspicuously in a plain but well-tailored navy-blue jacket, faded jeans, and
black ankle boots. His shaved head glistened in the stark moonlight. As he
unbuckled his belt, he pretended not to notice the yard was weedy and
overgrown. There were large, dark moths fluttering around the mounted lights.
Humming quietly, Cormorant answered nature’s call without
bothering to look over his shoulder. He knew he didn’t need to rush. The fat,
balding, middle-aged inn’s proprietor, called Neal or something, was only too
happy to let him indulge himself in whatever way he wished. Cormorant usually
preferred to get his pleasure in the privacy of the inn’s special suites – the
Screaming Rooms, as most of the regulars called them – but tonight he was
feeling strangely adventurous. He wanted to try something else, something new,
something different.
As he spoke, he started stroking himself with one hand,
pulling his belt out of the loops of his jeans with the other. He heard the
rustling of her puce satin skirt as she swayed towards him. His tongue darted
out to wet his lips.
Breathing harder and faster, he imagined looping the belt
around her throat. Tighter. Her eyes bulging like a bogle’s, her long hair
gripped in his hand.
His erection pulsed and throbbed. The October night air felt
chill on his sensitive flesh. He breathed in the heady, exotic fragrance of her
perfume. She didn’t smell like anything he’d encountered before.
“On your knees,” he grunted. “I want your mouth on—”
“No.”
Just one word, but it was enough. He swung around, his
white-knuckled hand raised to strike her with the belt. Unsanctioned magic
flickered in his black eyes, making them glisten like a scarab’s shell. “What
did yo—”
His words died in his throat when he saw the apparition
standing in front of him, clad in a torn, muddy dress that hung on her frame.
She was covered in cobwebs. Only her plump, freckled face
was clean.
He recognized her instantly. She still bore the bruises of
his forceful love-making, but he knew it couldn’t be her.
“You’re dead,” he spluttered. For an instant, he was
dumbfounded and then his eyes widened in realization. “Shape-stealer.” Fear
flashed across his face. Too late did he see the sudden glimmer of the two
eight-inch fighting knives hidden in the folds of her skirt.
She moved so quickly he didn’t even have time to blink. Her
hands snaked out and she plunged the knives into his ribs.
Cormorant growled in pain and brought the belt down with a
whistling sound across her face.
A spew of blood burst
from her mouth.
The metal-buckled belt slipped from his numbing fingers as
he stared in disbelief at the two knives. Only the micarta handles were
visible, one protruding from each side of his body. He clutched at the
right-hand one as blood soaked through his clothes. Teeth gritted, he pulled it
out and gazed at the crimson blade. He presumed it was laced with wirry-cow venom. Any assassin worth her fee would have
taken that precaution. It was the only
sure-fire way to incapacitate a magic practitioner.
A sudden weakness swept over him. His legs buckled under him and he sank down upon the ground. Blinking slowly, he looked up at her,
disbelief twisting his face. “You’ve killed me,” he managed to utter.
Then nothingness rose up like a great gaping mouth and
swallowed him.
The assassin heard the door
behind her creak open. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was. “Is this a
good enough kill, Mr. Nyel?”
“Aye,” said the proprietor, “but it makes
little difference, does it? Me daughter is still dead.”
“Yes,”
she agreed. “But at least Annis is avenged now.”
“Aye, ’e
got what was commin’ to ’im. Just wish ’e could ’ave suffered more.”
She let the remark pass without comment. “What do you want
me to do with the body?”
He spat on the ground, then said firmly, “Leave the bastard
where ’e is for now. When the place is empty, me and me boys will bury ’im in
the bog.”
