Hearts' Desires I: Bad Juju and Zoraida

[Thechosenone]

(So I'll start doing some write ups for my Zoraida crew. This being the first one for it. It introduces Bad Juju and and Zoraida. Please remember to any that haven't read my stuff, its very divergent from most of Malifaux's canon. Thanks for the read and please do comment. It makes the writing even more worth it when you drop a line to the author)

“Sorry Collin.”

“Sorry about your loss”

“Stay strong for Lucy and William.”

Collin Lloyd nods to each and every mourner. The more familiar faces get a word or two of thanks and a handshake or a hug. Their words all start to blend together into one solemn tone that hums through his head. He watches as the casket is lowered into the ground by the drab gravehands of Morningside Cemetery, his mind only half here. The other half is sedate and distant.

Aubrey’s in there.

It’s a shocking thought. His wife and the mother of his children is in an expensive pine box being lowered into a cold hole in the earth while he and their children watch.

Collin looks back to the rows of seats and sees his two children, not twelve years of life between them. They look sad and force tears but they don’t really understand yet. They’re just miming the faces around them. But they’ll understand it soon. When Aubrey isn’t at home tonight and when she isn’t there to make their meals or dress them for school. They’ll understand it soon.

The rumbling gray sky over Morningside threatens an early afternoon storm. A light mist falls slowly and forces the well wishers and spectacle seekers from the gravesite early. Collin asks his sister-in-law Judith to take the kids with them. He opts to stay a while; sitting underneath the black canopy set up by the cemetery and see his wife off.

Aubrey’s in there.

The sky speaks louder, warning of a downpour. But he ignores it. His thoughts are filled with such mundane concerns. Who’ll watch the kids while on patrol for the Guildcorp? Who will get the groceries from the market? Banal things, simple petty trite concerns and he hates them all. He wants his mind to focus on tender memories like the first time they met, like the tender moments they spent alone together and the days their children were born. But right now all he can think about is the cupboard. Aubrey is the only one that can find anything in there without tearing the thing apart. She knows where everything in their home is.

Aubrey's in there

The gravehands start shoveling topsoil into the hole. They occasionally glance back at him with their thick brows and tiny eyes. He’s not sure why? Maybe they’re waiting for him to break down just like everyone else is. But he’ll disappoint them too. There’s too much to be done and too many people are depending on him to be strong.

He’s shaken from his mundane thoughts by a loud shriek. It comes from the tall headstone over his wife’s plot. A raven is perched at the cross; its glassy eyes locked right with his. It calls a second time and he can’t help but think of the bird as rude for interrupting this quiet moment.

Collin breaks with the bird’s glare and gasps. Another mourner sits beneath the canopy and he can’t say exactly when she got here or who she is. Her outfit is black and conservatively cut though it fits her a little too well. A few lengths of her tree bark hair hang out from beneath the black bonnet she’s wearing. Her face is hidden behind a mourner’s veil but her skin, clear to see, is pale and almost entirely without a blemish or mark on it. Almost as flawless as Aubrey’s was.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you there. I hope you don’t think I’m rude.” Collin apologizes with a sincere diplomatic tone but inside he’s agitated. This is his and Aubrey’s moment. No one else’s.

“No need to apologize to me Mr. Lloyd. I’m the one who’s sorry for you.” She speaks very softly and with such succor. He can’t help but warm to the voice. It’s the only truly sympathetic one he’s heard all day.

“Everyone’s been saying that today. But I don’t even know what that really means? Sorry for what? It’s not their fault. They didn’t murder Aubrey and dump her body along Wax Road? What are they sorry for?” He’s surprised by the anger in him. He didn’t know it was there or how poorly he was handling all of this and now he worries that he’s made a fool of himself in front of this woman. Maybe a friend of Aubrey, maybe a well wisher from Pinnacle? Either way he chastises himself for the outburst.

She uncrosses and crosses her legs. He notices them and he notices her small black handbag as well. He can’t help but notice a lot of things about her and it sours his mind with further distractions from the moment he’s dedicated himself to. “They’re pretending to be sorry for their loss Mr. Lloyd but their worlds go on as usual tomorrow. Today was an unwanted distraction for them. They had to change their little routines around to accommodate your wife’s murder. They all had things they’d rather be doing. They’re sorry they won’t be around much to help you after today. They’re apologizing for how worthless their company is to you now. You’d of rather gone through this day alone I’m sure rather than parade your sorrow in front of these strangers. None of them are apologizing for that though, for interrupting your grieving. They all feel entitled to a piece of that.”

Collin takes it all in and as much as he wants to disagree, to find faults and to redeem all the mourners he can’t. She’s right.

“I’ve been to a lot of funerals Mr. Lloyd. Forgive my frankness. I’m just here to pay my respects” She says, still never turning to look at him. Still hidden behind her veil despite all the hard truths she revealed about everyone else.

A long moment passes between the two of them. Just the rumble in the sky and the sound of dirt hitting Aubrey’s casket.

Finally “Were you a friend of Aubrey’s?”

“I never met her, no” The visitor answers back kindly.

“Are you here from Pinnacle then?”

She shakes her head “No hearts there with a drop of care Mr. Lloyd.”

“I work for the Guildcorp you know?”

She nods again. “I do.”

He turns now to face her completely and with more than a little bit of a demanding tone to his voice. “If you’re not here from employers or here as one of Audrey’s friends why are you here?”

“I’m your friend Mr. Lloyd.” She turns, only slightly now to face him. He can see some of the outline of her face beneath the veil. He can see more of her shape too. She’s a remarkable beauty. “Something you are in dire need of right now. Someone who understands your hurt and wants to help. I’m your friend.”

He’s about to ask more, to demand more, but she doesn’t give him time. She stands, opening her handbag and pulling out a small envelope with a black wax seal. She hands it to him and walks back into the rain. She deploys an umbrella that he doesn’t remember seeing her carry either but he dismisses the incongruent kernel of knowledge to instead focus on the envelope.

Collin watches her vanish into the rain as it renews its downpour and then looks back down at the seal. He breaks the small brittle wax piece off and opens the envelope. The first thing he notices is a smell, some kind of exotic tobacco aroma coupled with a sweetness of some kind. He plucks on a folded sheet of thick parchment and unfolds it.

Elegant pen strokes written with a ruddy red ink come together in a brief letter.

No amount of condolence will ever satisfy your heart Mr. Lloyd. I know what you want and I can give it to you. The men who took your wife from you go unpunished. Justice is callous and slow. What I offer is quick and born of the heart.

Come to Miller’s Break. I’ll tell you what it is you want and how to get it.

Z-

Collin wishes he could say none of that makes sense, that the words in the letter were untrue and easily ignored. But they aren’t. The men who took his wife are guilty as all sin and they walk the streets as free me. They’re young men, barely old enough to called adults and each one of them sons, cousins or friends of powerful men. Powerful men who serve the Guild as he does. But there’s no justice for Audrey. They kidnapped her as she walked home at night from the market. They assaulted her, defiled her and guttered her. They left his wife to bleed in the streets. After their arrest evidence went missing, witnesses went silent and the solicitors turned their interest from the case.

He watched them walk from the Pinnacle’s courthouse as free men. Collin sought out the Grand Solicitor Luthor Stannish and made demands to the lawyer that no man in his right mind would dare make. He remembers the look that Stannish’s bloodshot eys gave through their cracked little white mask. Apathy. Complete and utter apathy.

Their identities run through his head now as they do every day. Herman Andrew, the long faced nephew of Malifaux’s wealthiest banker Thorton Andrew. Giovani Sturzo the thuggish fourth son of the Anthony Sturzo the Merchant Baron of Silken Row. And Michael Creedy, the New Yorker and little brother to the Guild Corp’s captain Bennet Creedy. He sees them all over and over, their smiling faces and their smug excitement as the charges were dropped; the indignant way they walked across the street to one of the bars in Ram’s Rule to celebrate.

Collin knows these boys as he knows the evidence against them. Resserectionist body thieves, that’s what they were. Looking for a quick path to power and to money so they killed who they pleased and sold the bodies to the highest bidders for script and for seedlings of necromantic lore. Jackals, to the core. Each one of them a murderous scavenger preying on the weak.

He grabs his own umbrella from beneath the seat and leaves the canopy for the storm. He can hear the raven call into the winds before flying overhead but he doesn’t bother to look. He has a long journey ahead of him to Miller’s Break.

---------------

Dusk in Malifaux is a strange time of day. There are suns beyond the clouds. He’s never seen them personally but they’ve been recorded with heliographs. He’s seen the pictures of the tiny dead looking stars. Dull as they are the rays still illuminate the clouds and haze over Malifaux with strange a witchfire glow that creeps eerily through the sky.

Miller’s Break. The facts of the place run through Collin’s mind. In the most mundane sense Miller’s break is a dramatic curve in Ram’s River where the currents are deadly strong due to the severe directional shift of the waters. The break is found rather deep in the heart of the Bayou outside the city limits where few are willing to go and fewer still ever come back from.

But that’s just the cold facts. The rumors are worse. The Bayou is a place for monsters. Creatures of legend, three headed beasts, winged dragons and dangerous gamin are said to dwell there but worse still are the whispers of witches. The beast king Marcus is said to travel with an entourage of animals who serve as loyal soldiers. Some say the sorcerer is an ally of the Arcanist terrorists. Others say he’s a bastard half-breed of a Neverborn. Many have hunted him. None have returned alive to talk of it. But that’s just the obvious rumor, the one everyone talks about. There’s another one, one that focuses on Miller’s Break.

It was named after Reverend Justice Miller who led his small congregation of followers out of Malifaux eighteen years ago. He said that the city wasn’t just infested with evil but that it was a wicked living corpse and everyone there was akin to wiggling maggots infesting dead flesh. He and his faithful left to establish a parish elsewhere. They chose a hilltop along Ram’s River to build their church. No one heard from Reverend Miller again nor a single one of his followers. Hunting parties came across the half built ruin of a church some years later. Surveyors named that part of the river after him to honor his bravery. Simpler men just avoid that place.

The rumor has it Reverend Miller crossed paths with a witch out there in the woods. Collin met a man one time, a swamp tracker named McTavish, who told him the story over drinks in Ram’s Rule. He said that Miller was an indignant man. As evil as Miller said Malifaux was the Reverend was just as bad. He heard about a witch out there in the depths of the Bayou and so he led his men out to verify and to burn. They lit her house on fire and burned it down to the mud. He said there were a lot of twists to the story too. Some versions say that the witch’s son died in the fire, others say that it’s was a sister. Some too claim that the witch didn’t lose kin but lost her relics. But McTavish always believed the simplest version. That it was just a house. The witch came to collect her due and what she wanted was the children of the congregation. McTavish said that Miller didn’t bite on that offer. So the witch took more than she asked for. She took the whole lot from their church and into the deep bog. Not a trace left behind, not a drop of blood, fragment of bone or footprint to be found. McTavish said she ate her fill and fed the rest to the swamp.

Collin exits the coach that brought him this far and pays the driver the generous sum. Bog Edge is as far as the coachman was willing to ride. The swamp is thinnest here and a few shantytown fragments of civilizations do sometimes pop up along Bog Edge. At the moment though the tin box homes are empty and dark. He’s alone and with a long walk ahead. He pulls his gear bag from the coach before the rider speeds away. The return trip, should he be fortunate enough to have to deal with that, is his responsibility.

He takes his first few steps into the twilight of the swamp, hacking through what obstacles he must with a Guild blade. He keeps his pistol on his hip, loaded, with a surplus of ammo in his survival sack. He has to remind himself repeatedly why he’s doing this. Rare as the stories about Reverend Miller are, rarer still are the stories about how she fixes things. People seek her out and sometimes they get what they want. Sometimes the bog just takes them.

Collin’s trip isn’t easy. The wet earth grabs at his feet and the swamp insects bite and buzz. The twilight glow of dusk vanishes quickly, swallowed by the moonless night.

“Follow the river.” He reminds himself. It’s the best way to navigate the swamp. He wonders how men like McTavish do it? Everything looks the same.

The rush of the river drowns out most of the other swamp noises and the chaotic drift of dead material down the waters entertains his eyes.

He follows one particular ripple with interest. Especially the way it turns from the current and toward him. Collin slowly pulls his blade and draws his pistol. He doesn’t want to fire, not if he can help it. A noise like that will be heard across the entire Bayou by all sorts of hungry beasts. He doesn’t have that kind of ammo.

The ripple vanishes only a moment before the water erupts. Even without a drop of light Collin can see the creature land on the soft earth and skid a few inches from its own momentum.

Mud cakes up between the webbed toes of the beast’s feet. Its long arms covered in tight muscled skin clutch the earth as well while it holds its crouched posed. A heavy tail slaps the dirt while claws rake. A long fishy sail reaches from its back and stretches from the tip of its tail to the rear of the skull. The face is completely fish like except for its rows of needle teeth. Its whiskers curl and twist as the creature shrieks. Collin backs up as the fish stands, its full height several heads taller than him. Collin’s heard of these creatures. They attack Guild tugs on river and have occasionally ambushed trains that pass near the bayou. He’s never seen one in person. The only thing he can think to do is swing.

The blade catches in the creature’s arm but is pushes forward and slaps its claws against his chest. Skin tears and flesh bruises. Collin falls to wet earth and scrambles back as the creature closes in. His sword is lodged in the mud, lost as he fell.

He has no choice, as the beast prepares to pounce he fires. The round catching the creature in its overlarge skull. Its head snaps back and the beast slumps over squealing softly for a moment before it stills. The echo of the shot still rings through the night.

He picks himself up, the wetness of the swamp sticking to him and his chest aching from the blow. Collin plucks up his sword and shakes off the filth. His chest hurts when as he does so. He flinches to even sheath his blade. The pistol stays out now. The night knows he’s here.

Hours pass, how many he can’t say with certainty. But the swamp leaves him alone. Maybe it’s the stink of the dead creature on him that convinces the other predators to seek a meal elsewhere. Maybe the swamps just well fed tonight. Either way he’s thankful for it.

But that happiness fades as the river breaks and the hill comes into view. There, amid the tangle of trees and vines the hilltop rises. He can pick out the broken frames, piles of molded supplies and the skeleton of the church. The cross on the face of Miller’s Church looms over him and the entire swamp. Stained and vine strangled, it stares down accusing any who pass beneath it of faithless sin. Few in Malifaux follow the ways of the church. The lives they lead, the means by which they survive, there’s no room for the luxury of piety.

But there, up on the hill he can see a light as well. The dull flicker is the dance of fire. He crawls up the hill, the steps built having long since been devoured by mud. He feels like a rotter crawling out of his own grave.

Finally his hands land on a solid surface and he pulls himself up. He stands among Miller’s ruins. Everything he worked for is slowly being consumed by the swamp. But like the rumors said, there’s no sign of life ever having been here. He follows the fire flicker through the walls of the church. Inside its confines he can see rotted pews. The half carved stone alter and a statue of Christ. The face looks like it has been sandblasted away.

He wonders how long it’s been since he’s seen the face of Jesus. He owns a bible, most do. But opened it? He can’t recall when was the last time or why it’s been that long?

“Is anyone here?” He calls. There’s no reason to tread lightly anymore. “Anyone?”

Finally he exits the open rear of the church and back into the mud. But there’s something else there too, a small hut built of swamp filth and church supplies. A glow comes from its open windows and reflects off the many crucifixes that are built into the walls of the hut, all them turned oddly or broken. Still, with so many icons of his faith before him not one possesses a clear face to look at.

The light comes from a fire burning outside the hut in a shallow earthen pit. Debris and tall overgrowth are everywhere and smoke billows from the hearth. Collin presses on through the obscuration. It smells like tobacco and burning sugar.

“Hello?”

Finally a voice answers. “Come closer Mr. Lloyd. I’m here.” The voice is like gravel, barely humans. Through the smoke he finds the fire. A cauldron boils on a pile of swamp filth while a figure tends to it. Hunched and low, heavy furs matted with water and mud cover her back though he can see enough exposed old flesh to identify her as a woman, once… long ago. A mess of silver hair hangs wet over her head and to her chest. His eyes wander up her wrinkled arms and bony fingers. They clutch a long cudgel she uses to stir the pot.

“Come closer!” She swings her head to face his and his eyes will focus on is her ghost white stare. But he obeys and steps closer when everything in his heart tells him to run. Her demand, spoken by gritty lips and a sandpaper throat, cannot be ignored.

“I’m Collin Lloyd. You sent me a letter.” He manages with no conviction at all.

“I know Mr. Lloyd who ya are. And I know what ya want.”

“What do you know about me?” He suspects the answer to that is too much to hear but he asks anyway.

She smiles showing blackened gums with few teeth to speak of. Shattered yellow nubs are all that remain.

“I know ya think ya want justice Mr. Lloyd but there ain’t none of that to be had in Malifaux. What you really want is a primal urge to be satisfied. You want what animals want. No convoluted trials for you. No justice for you. Revenge!” She hisses. “You want revenge. You want them to suffer as you suffered. You want them to fear like You fear. You want them to hurt like you hurt.”

“No.” He shakes his head.

“Yes ya DO!” She pierces him with her dead eyes again before turning back to the pot. A quiet moment passes between the two. “Yes you do Mr. Lloyd. I can give it to you. All you have to do is ask.”

Collin looks around. His eyes search the night for a way out of this. He’s not sure what he’s looking for but he hates that he’s here. He’s a man of the law. He upholds civility, justice and he sets the peace. But none of that was given back to him when he and his children needed it most. He hates that he’s here and yet, here he is. Willingly. Hungry to be here and hungrier still to answer.

“How? You’re old and you’re far from Malifaux. What can you do that I couldn’t?”

“Lots. Lots I can do.” She laughs quietly while stirring. “So much I can do. But you don’t really want ta know do ya Mr. Lloyd? You just want it done. So ask fer it. Ask. Ask me to get ya want ya want?”

“And what’s the price? Hmm. What will it cost me to do this? If I do this?”

“Nothin” She says, stirring slowly. “Price has already been paid by them boys that took her from you. Nature cries out for a balance. Something lives so something dies. It’s the way. These boys killed your wife but they had no cause. There was no reason for it. Nature was crossed. A death but for no gain. The price has been paid. Now you just have to ask for it. Ask for what you want Mr. Lloyd. ASK!”

“I want them dead!” He screams back, surprised how good it felt to finally let it out. “I want them dead and I want it to be the worst kind of death.”

She nods, chuckling to herself. “Good. Good. She pulls out a long filthy pin from her furs gestures for him to come near. Her hand grabs his. It feels like wet toad skin. She jams the needle straight through his palm and out the other side leaving the instrument there. “Hold your hand over the cauldron. Let your blood speak. Let it wake the forest.”

His hand trembles as he holds its over the head. Drops of blood run down the needle and into the smoke filled pot one by one.

“Say what you want Mr. Lloyd! Say it! SAY IT!”

“I… I want them all dead! I want them to suffer! I want them to scream! And I want their families to weep like mine does!”

Suddenly he can feel his head spin and a sickness fill his gut. He doubles over with cramping pain and falls into the mud. He screams out into the night as pain takes him but his scream mixes with another. His is pain; the other is the sound of a furious awakening.

His eyes water but through it he sees something else that his mind can’t process. The swamp rises up and takes shape, like bestial man made of the earth. Looming and terrible with eyes of flame. The creature marches off into the night while he lays there clutching himself.

“It’s done Mr. Lloyd. It’s done.”

He can’t help but weep. None of this is what he wanted. Now that it’s out, now that it’s been said what he wanted to say. Now he knows it’s wrong. It’s not what he wanted. Not at all.

He wanted his wife back.