Elva Rackthorn and the Tears of Azrael

Demons at Teatime, Part 1

Elva Rackthorn headed back from the market with a bouquet of marigolds, some new hair ribbons, and a bucket full of blood and guts.

The fastest way back to the manor was down a sun-dappled road called the Wishing Way. At this time of summer, with the world over-green and overgrown, the live oaks that lined the lane would drench the road in leaf-filtered light and cool the air with the whispers of wind-ruffled leaves. More than just an ancient lane, the Wishing Way was also a favored gathering place, and on a market day there would be children playing tag, parents drinking bottles of wine, and teenagers sitting in clumps talking about... well, Elva hadn't quite figured out yet what it was other teenagers whispered and laughed about. But with all the people about there would be no pretending Elva's bucket of gore was an innocuous purchase of milk or birdseed.

So she was instead trudging through a thorn-thick path in the forest, dodging sludgy puddles of mud and stepping over ankle-twisting roots. Her calves, bared by the more modern cut of her frock and the lazy slump of her socks, were bramble-licked, and her white hair was sweat-stuck in clumps to her face. Mosquitoes, gossiping around her ears, kept diving at her cheeks for a kiss.

Still, Elva thought, shifting her grip on the bucket, the route had other benefits. Sure, it was buggy and thorny and muddy and gross, and she couldn't even stop to pick the mugwort growing by the path because she needed to race home, but the route had character. It had layers. It had—

A misstep and a short shriek as blood sloshed out of the bucket and soaked into Elva's sock.

— it had nothing but her undying scorn.

Hardly soon enough, a bedraggled Elva reached the edge of the woods near the stream that ran through the Rackthorn property. Her sock came off with an ominous squelch, and as she twisted it under the cool water, tendrils of red bloomed into pink clouds in the stream.

In the mud of the riverbed opened two yellow-orange eyes.

Elva tilted her head, then tilted the bucket to pour some excess blood and viscera bits into the stream. A small swarm of frog piksies floated out of the mud to lap at the blood. Elva grinned, but not kindly. The fatter the piksies got, the easier they were to catch come harvesting time, and piksies of all breeds had valuable parts for necromancy.

A few careful hops over the the stepping stones, a measured sprint to the back of the hedge maze—the motions were familiar to Elva. On a market day, nobody would be working in the garden, but there still might be someone about in the back of the manor doing some sort of minor task. Peering around the corner of the hedge, though, with the prickle of saw-toothed leaves against her face, Elva didn't see any movement in the backrooms of the manor. And the lights were off in the back hall by the sun parlor, so she took her chance, sprinting across the lawn with the bucket held even at her side.

Then through the old back servants' door, down a narrow hall, peering around a corner, through the open area in front of mother's locked-off study—Elva let her fingers drag against the door as she hurried past—then up the stairs two at a time. A few steps down the dusty hall, into the first door on the right, pulling the door snug behind her, and—

A deep breath, as Elva leaned against the heavy wood of her door and smiled.

It was time to summon a demon.