Chapter 13

The story behind Fair Isle Landing was a common one in an uncommon place.

When the Saintess heard Goddess Rachiel’s call to found a new Temple on a deserted island, she boarded the first seaworthy ship she could find and set sail. She heeded not the warnings of the West Coast fishwives—neither the real accounts of freebooters and sea monsters, nor the fanciful old tales of Ancient Evil lurking beyond the horizon. She travelled the ocean for seven days and seven nights, heading straight for the setting sun, and arrived upon the land she named the Fair Isle.

The landing started out as just that: a beach of sand, slightly more accessible than the serrated cliffs that surrounded the island, where Tephania Lehtinen’s ship washed ashore.

The first building proper came years later, after pilgrims started pouring in from the nearest coast. Not that any coast was all that near, mind you—if one excepts the countless small archipelagos dotting these waters. But rumour had spread that an actual goddess had descended upon the re-baptised Fair Isle. No matter the dissuasions put forth by the virtuous orders of the mainland, people braved the ocean every year—in summer when the sun is most auspicious—in hopes to glimpse at the divine dwelling there.

A jetty was built to receive their boats and ships, then a guardhouse to guard the jetty, and then a lighthouse for people to actually find the jetty. The area had many a reef, and not all pilgrims were experienced seamen—or even competent ones.

Accommodations to care for the moored vessels and their crews soon followed, and the modest town bloomed out from there. Over the years, the Landing transformed from a settlers’ hamlet into a tight congregation of wooden houses, home to half-a-thousand souls. Some pilgrims refused to leave, and some folk born at the Temple could not withstand the austerity of a devout lifestyle, yet would not take to leave their families altogether.

Fishing became the activity of choice, as the island lacked pastures for cattle, and big predators from the woods claimed what little herds the townsfolk ever managed to rear. The clear waters around, however, were chock-full of fish and a guarantee for easy abundance—provided that the fishers did not stray from the shallows to venture out in the deep black pools where the sea-“food” rather ate you.

And pirates, too, were always a threat for lone ships.

Samael knew all this from her companion’s incessant rambling over the past two days of travel. It seemed Sophia would only shut up to eat, sleep or pray—or on the occasions when Samael decided to have some fun at her expense.

The anxious priestess might have quieted some if Samael had contributed more to the discussion, but the demon was not one for the meaningless prattle humans loved to indulge in.

However, history was the furthest thing from the young devil’s mind when they finally emerged from the forest and came in view of the town. Her eyes bugged out and her jaw dropped at her first glimpse of the ocean. Glittering water spanned endlessly to the horizon, rolling in white-crested waves. Scattered ships provided a sense of scale by how tiny they looked on the blue expanse.

“Fire and brimstone! Is this really all water?!”

“What else would it be?” Sitting on the wagon driver’s seat, Sophia shot the demon a tired look. Despite a liberal application of healing magic, dark rings underlined her eyes, made all the sharper by her pale skin.

Driving back through the ambush site played Hell on the priestess’ nerves, and before that, the night at the midpoint lodge had not been all that relaxing. Somehow—Sophia still could not fathom why she caved—Sam had managed to convince her to sleep together again, with predictable results. The demon still suffered from nocturnal shape-shifting incontinence.

Sophia had already added a nightgown for Sam to her mental list of supplies to buy. It would have to be large enough to fit her natural form. Otherwise, at the pace she was going through outfits, the infernal being would soon be short on clothing—even in the event of that gigantic backpack of hers containing nothing else.

Maybe a tent, Sophia thought resignedly.

“It could be kind of mirage,” Samael answered Sophia’s rhetorical question. “Or a large beast.”

“What kind of beast is that large?!”

“A behemoth?” Sophia looked at her with scared eyes. Samael tried to be reassuring. “Don’t worry. They’re very slow, and they’re not that dangerous once you burrow inside their eyeballs. The dangerous ones are the mind-flaying creatures that live on their backs.”

That did not seem to work.

In fact, now the priestess looked a bit green.

“I think I preferred when you weren’t sharing.”

Samael shrugged and returned to gawking at the ocean. She recalled Rachiel’s words. “How can anyone ever get thirsty if there’s so much water?”

“You can’t drink seawater,” Sophia replied. “It’s far too salty. Well, theoretically, you could take out the salt, but the process is far too complex to be viable. Even a competent water mage would struggle to separate the salt from the water, at least without removing all the other useful minerals. I read a study once about how kidneys deal with extra salt and…” She trailed off, watching Sam’s eyes glaze over. “The point is the ocean is useless as drinking water.”

“You can’t drink it?” Samael was still in denial.

“What did I just tell you?” Sophia groaned. “It’s too salty. You can drink it, but it only makes you thirstier.”

“What kind of cruel torture is that?” A little awe was mixed in Samael’s whispered disbelief. As a demon, she felt some instinctual professional respect for the creators of this world.

“Why are you nodding like it’s a good thing?”

“I still have a long way to go.” Samael rubbed her chin pensively.

The priestess rolled her eyes exasperatedly. Trying to understand what was going on in this demon’s head was proving to be an exercise in futility.

She whipped the reins, and they began their slow descent into the cove, towards the cluster of wood houses battered by the elements, with their gabled rooves, their corroded, creaking vanes, and their smoking chimney-pots. For the first time, the familiar sight filled Sophia with a sense of dread.

She tried to tell herself the feeling had nothing to do with the mid-sized merchant ship rocking at the pier, the Beatrice, which was to be their transport onto the mainland.

* * *

All gazes were on them before they even reached the first houses, which did nothing to surprise Sophia. She always was the centre of attention whenever she visited the town. Her (former) status of Assistant Head Priestess and her assumed proximity to the Goddess were enough for the inhabitants to revere her as quasi-divine herself. One feather of a holy dove is worth the worship, they would say.

Their near-fanatical devotion used to frighten a younger Sophia. She had grown to accept it as another burden of her position, though it still saddened her how she could not talk to anyone without them bowing to her every other sentence.

She thought it ironic that the people at the Temple, who lived stricter and more orderly lives, were the more casual of the two folks. Maybe because the templars understood that they were all, in the end, mere servants of the divine, and that titles were a matter of responsibilities rather than personal elevation.

This time, however, the stunned and furtive glances were not on Sophia the priestess, but on the seven-foot-tall, built-like-a-strongman, abysmally-black-skinned, and pelt-clad barbarian walking beside her carriage. The donkey trotting at her side might have contributed, providing a weird counterpoint. Where they passed, conversation stopped; eyes peeked behind shutters and curtains, and underneath porches; children stared openly; hushed whispers erupted in their wake.

At least try to be more discrete! Sophia reddened in embarrassment, ashamed on her shameless people’s behalf.

Rude as it may be, their reaction was, unfortunately, to be expected. The population of Fair Isle Landing was small, and its nonhuman population was even smaller. In fact, of Landing’s four hundred and seventy-three inhabitants, the queer folk—as they were known locally—could be counted on the fingers of one hand.

There was Simeon Bolton—or “Big Sim” as he answered to—who was the closest Landing had to a blacksmith. The gentle man mostly repaired simple everyday tools, and the only things he forged with any regularity were fishing hooks. Lots, and lots of fishing hooks. Despite his placid disposition, he undeniably had cyclops blood running through his veins, and nobody in town—save for the very recent addition of Sam—could rival his height. Oddly, having only one eye never made his hammer any less accurate—in trade, or against the skulls of rude fellows overindulging at the tavern.

Granny Flinch, who lived down by the docks and shrieked at rowdy children from her attic window, was a literal harpy.

Fumus the Street Sweeper always wore a large hat to hide his horns. But since he also had the face of a goat, the purpose was somewhat lost. It was however considered polite not to point it out to him.

Laat, Laathunnchomptum to give him his full name, worked as the janitor of the healing house headed by Sophia’s grandmother. He was a twiggy, ugly, brown-faced little man covered in dense and hirsute coarse black hair. He also had the temperament of a mangy dog—down to biting ankles. But he did his job with zeal and a capability everybody would agree to call magical. He also only came out at night, and agreed to be paid in milk, cream and pastries—so Sister Meredith was happy to keep him employed.

Lastly, Old Richard Barns—the lighthouse keeper—was said to have a selkie wife, although no one knew to confirm it. But since Mrs Barns made the best apple pies in town, and she was of a generous sort, nobody gossiped too loudly when she disappeared for a couple of days around the full moon.

The point was, in this small town, everyone knew everyone else and their pets, by sight at least, if not by a tangled web of blood relationships (not the pets). Strangers were a novelty, and strange strangers even more so.

And no one here was stranger than Sam.

The demon did not seem to care, though. If nothing else, she was as curious as the townsfolk and returned the attention stare for stare. The dour façades decorated with shells, dried starfish and seagull dejections captivated her as much as the fishermen garbed in oilcloth.

“I guess humans really are a lot like ants,” Sam commented casually. The donkey snorted.

“I wouldn’t say that out loud if I were you.” Sophia’s reply came distracted. She directed the carriage through the paved main street, heading straight for the healing house. Out of this whole ordeal, the only positive outcome she saw was that she would get to see her grandmother again sooner than expected. And, frankly, she needed a hug.

“Why?”

“People don’t like being compared to insects.”

“Why? Insects are highly organised, deadly, and masters of survival… Eh. I guess humans are not so similar to ants, after all.”

“…Why do I feel we just got downgraded?” Sophia shook her head. “Anyway, that’s not the point. Insects are gross, and people don’t want to be compared to something gross. Or they’ll think you’re calling them weak. What even brought this about in the first place?”

“I was thinking. I don’t know if I could live with so many others in such a small territory.”

“Eh…” Sophia looked around. Fair Isle Landing was crammed in a cove surrounded by steep, forested hills. People did not exactly live on top of one another, but she could understand how someone who had never seen a city could compare it to an anthill. Not a very flattering image, that was for sure. “I never really thought about it like that. This town and the Temple are all I’ve ever known.”

“The air smells weird too,” Sam added. “Not bad, just weird.”

“It’s the fish.” Sophia sniffed. Indeed, the odour suffused the town to a point even chicken smelled like fish—kind of tasted like it too. “Be glad we’re not in summer yet. It gets even worse in the heat.” Which meant, right now, the stench was close to its weakest. On top of the cool spring weather, a large bank of white clouds was drifting over the island, blocking off the sun. Sophia shivered despite her winter coat.

“…I’m hungry.”

“Eeeh haaaaaaaaw.”

Sophia groaned. “Can’t it wait? You ate three whole rabbits this morning.” She had eaten them whole, without even skinning them. The young woman had almost thrown up her own breakfast when she heard the bones break inside the demon’s throat. As for the donkey, all he seemed to do was eat. Like master, like pet. That’s a proof of saying right there.

“I guess,” the demon mumbled. Her stomach stated its disagreement with a loud growl. Sophia glared at her, and Sam shrugged helplessly. “I’m a big girl.”

“That you are…” Sophia herself was not too sure what she meant by that—but she was unwilling to examine the thought further. “Just wait a little longer. We’ll meet with my grandmother. Then you can buy some fish on the docks while I talk with the captain of the Beatrice.”

“That works.”

“Eeeh hawww,” the donkey whined, seeming to side with Sam’s stomach.

Thankfully, they reached the healing house before Sam or her animal sidekick changed their mind. Sophia guided the carriage inside the courtyard, stopped the horse in front of a trough, and then stepped down. “There’s a manger in the stables if Slei is hungry.” She saw only Sam standing next to her. “Uh? Where did he go?”

“To the stables, probably.” Sam's stomach grumbled. “Lucky bastard.”

“Please don’t swear.”

“You’re naggier than my aunt.”

“From what I’ve heard of her, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Tsk.” Sam rolled her eyes, and followed Sophia, not towards the main entrance, but to a smaller side-door that lead to her grandmother’s private quarters.

As they approached, the demon heard muffled voices coming from inside.

“Thank you, Mrs Hale, but I need to get going. My time in Landing is short, and I still have some business to take care off.”

“Oh! Of course, Mr Elmas. I wouldn’t want to make Eleonore jealous, now. Good day, good day. And goddess bless. Again, thank you for indulging a lonely old woman.”

“Nonsense. It was my pleasure. Good day, Mrs Hale. May the Virtues keep you.”

The door opened just as Sophia was reaching for the handle. The priestess found herself looking up at a tall, handsome man in a long brown leather coat. He had the tanned and weathered skin of someone who spent much time in the sun, golden-brown eyes, and a thin horizontal scar cutting across his left cheek. A few week-worth of stubble shadowed his face, and his chin-length dark hair was combed over.

He had on an expression as if he endured every second of his life—or if he had very recently stubbed his toe. Samael took an instant dislike to him.

“Lucian!” A bright smile bloomed on Sophia’s lips, and a faint flush darkened her cheeks.

And now, Samael was wondering how the guy tasted.

* * * * *