She crafted each new Band attunement with a love she used to put into gardening. She ran her fingers through the music, pinched and cut things free, twisted notes into new shapes, pulled out a delicate pair of pinking sheers and cut the heads off this or that tone. Roots went deep, poisons ran through leaf veins, bright flowers hid thorns and hairs and toxins.

"My lady?"

Her first servitor was a Calabite. It had seemed natural enough; where she had nurtured he destroyed. It worked for her. Today she wore vines, wrapped around her breasts and between her legs. She knelt in front of him, felt thorns bite, watched him watch blood wind down bare skin. He swallowed.

"Call the demons," she murmured to him. "Bring them to me. Make them bend to me."

He rose, but she didn't let go of him. Her hand was bound to his where they touched, roots extruding from her fingers to wind under his skin. He bit back a scream with years of practice; he'd served Andrealphus after all. She let the ends of the roots go, and pulled her hands back. They were still buried in his skin, but they would take hold there, spread, squeezing out all the things she didn't want and only letting live what she wanted. Soon she would have a following; the marks she had left would spread to other demons.

After all, it was what weeds did.