The thing is fast. Too fast. It turns to face her, extending an arm, fingers of the hand splayed, shouting, “Regredior daemon!” Lilja is flung back, colliding roughly with the wall.
Skot moves out of cover, standing to full height. He quickly draws in power, ushering forth with great force and magick: “Non sumus daemōnēs!”
Everything halts. Everyone looks at Skothiam. He looks back at their opponent, hoping his suspicion will be confirmed. He sees what indeed does look to be a man, though radiating with such preternatural energy as to rival his sister. This thing, this man speaks Latin, and though Skot is not fully fluent, he hopes he knows enough.
Eyes study with an outré awareness, hands yet aglow with the promise of further lethal release. Skot steps further into view, arms open in a non-threatening way.
“We are not demons,” he repeats, still speaking Latin.
“You do not have the demonic cast,” the man finally utters, and though Skot has some difficulty with the enunciation, he does understand. “But you are unfamiliar to me, as are your weapons. Strange sorcery. Whose side are you on?” The last shifts from the guarded, conversational tone to one of demand.
“The humans’ side,” Skot says.
The others have not strayed from their positions. Lilja has recovered, paying close attention, able to pick up some on the exchange. She moves nearer, noting how Skot exposes himself. Curiosity courses through her now, but she is ever-watchful for a threat.
The man moves his head back. His eyes dart again over the assembled.
“We fight the demons,” Skot continues, still keeping to Latin. “We thought you were a demon.”
“Of course, I am not! I am the Guardian.”
“Of what?”
The man again takes time to observe. His aspect has muted, but Skot can still sense the power.
“How fares the battle outside?”
“The battle outside?”
“Yes! The one for the school.”
Confusion has now found all of them, though the others remain patient and watchful. Zoe moves to peek through another open doorway as the conversation she does not understand continues.
“There is no battle outside.”
The man looks upon Skot for a moment, then sighs. “It is over, then. Are they all dead?”
“Is who all dead?”
“The defenders! At least this means the demons could not breach the gate.”
“You there put,” Lilja says, trying to venture into the Latin conversation.
The man drills his eyes into her, and she stares back, unfazed.
“The gate,” Skot elaborates. “You opened it?”
“We created it.”
“Where are we?”
The man looks again at those who have entered his domain. Though he looks guarded, the conversation continues.
“This is a separate place, but it is based on the school. It is in-between dimensions.”
“Time?” Lilja asks.
“Time is also affected,” the man answers, “but the battle is finally over?”
A moment passes, and the air feels to fill with the weight of it.
“Yes,” Skot finally replies.
“The demons are gone, then?”
“Yes.”
Those eyes again drift over the others in here.
“You are not here because of the battle,” the man concludes.
“No,” Skot admits, “we were not sure what we would find.”
“Why are you here?”
“We seek the book, Ostia Tenebrosa.”
The man reels back, eyes widening. He brings up his hands, fingers crooking a peculiar way as he begins to murmur. Lilja notices, legs bending as she hefts her weapon.
“No!” Skot calls out, raising his hands, palms out. He speaks rapidly, switching between English and Latin. “Do not attack,” then, “We are not possessed. We are not demons. You must know this. We have the other two books.”
The man’s eyes go even wider. “Is it true?”
Skot nods, soberly, standing there, letting himself be scrutinized.
“You do speak truth.” The man looks from Skot to the others, seeming to suddenly see them in a new light. “And the battle. You said it was over.”
Skot looks at the man. He pulls in a breath. “We don’t know when it happened, but it ended more than five hundred years ago.”
The man stares. He finally blinks. His lips part, and Skot expects him to rebut. He does not. “You speak truth,” is realized instead.
“What power this?” Lilja interjects, having managed to keep up with the basics of the conversation.
The man looks at her, brow furrowing.
“This in-between place. The gateway. Being outside of time,” Skot expands.
“You do not know these magicks?”
“No.”
He heaves a sigh. “We created this school to properly train people, but it all fell apart.”
“What happened?”
The man looks upon Skot then turns, as though defeated. That undeniable potency that filled him looks gone, deflated. He moves into an adjacent room. The others follow.
This one looks more comfortable. The shelves are not entirely empty, and there is furniture in good condition. The man has taken place in a large, wooden chair, cushions on the seat and armrests. They also notice sigils painted on the walls, the aspect and intricacy very deliberate.
“Please, sit,” the man invites. “There is no need to rush here.”
Skot nods, explaining to the others as he finds a place near the guardian. They do not appear so eager to relax, looking around, slowly finding some degree of calm. Skothiam introduces himself and his companions. The man’s eyes move to each, piercing, not as bereft of promise as the rest of him has so suddenly become. Skot looks upon him, thinking of a piano wire that has finally been cut.
“My name is Kuzma Nasht.” Silence finds them for a moment, but it feels weighty.
“The battle?” Skot prompts.
“Yes,” Nasht replies, the question having broken his repose. “It was only a matter of time. I am surprised it took as long as it did.”
Zoe stands near David, watching the exchange. Though the two are unable to comprehend it, they study in their own ways. Lilja also pays close attention, picking up enough to follow the basic thread of the conversation.
“You know there is real magick here,” Nasht continues. “Superstition is rampant as well. We took on students, but so few of them showed any real promise. This sparked jealousy. The rumors began. We do not sell our souls to Satan!” The others look over at the sudden rise in volume. “Those are foul lies begun by the demons themselves to thwart us.”
Skot nods, contemplatively. He will not share with the man that the school still bears the shadow of that reputation.
“The inquisitors began to infringe on our undertaking. What does it mean that the Church was doing the business of the Infernal?” He heaves a sigh. “I am not sure they even wanted to steal our secrets. They just wanted us to burn.”
“The demons were after the book,” Skot says.
Nasht looks at him, finally nodding. “Of course. That is why we took such measures to protect it.”
Skot glances at Lilja, and her eyes meet his for a brief moment. He contemplates the situation. Might it be better to just leave the book here? He hesitates to think of this guardian’s lot. Is he stuck here forever? What might happen to him if he passes through that gate?
“Where is book?”
Both men set their eyes on Lilja.
“Ahhh, that is also part of our defense,” Nasht answers. “We expected the demons to breach the defense, even make it through the gateway. I was waiting to give my last fighting them.”
“It’s not here.”
Nasht moves his eyes to Skot, nodding.
“We made another gateway, and it was carried away for further safety. I know only where that passage led but not where the book ultimately found its repos
e.”
It is Skot’s turn to sigh. The guardian nods again.
“I understand. It is better to know where it is for that protection, but we were desperate.”
“Of course.”
“Where?” Lilja asks.
The man sets his eyes on her, again studying. “You. You are also a guardian.” She nods once. Skot fights the sudden twinge he feels inside.
“Leng,” Nasht finally reveals. “It was carried to Leng.”
“Leng?” Skot asks. “That is a place of myth.”
“Oh, no,” the elder man replies, shaking his head. “You should know that such places do exist. Think where you stand even now.”
“Between place.”
They both look to Lilja, and Nasht nods. “Yes. Unlike here, it is a permanent connection to our world, but it is not a land native to the Infernal. It disappoints me that such knowledge has been lost over time.”
“How do we get there?” Skot asks, bringing Nasht out of his sudden drift into thoughtful melancholy.
“You must go to Tibet.”
Chapter Seven
It is past 2:00 AM. The dark, stillness, and quiet work to paint a strange dimension over that which feels known. Eyes creep unto the solitude, looking for hints of danger. Is something there, or do they create it with their concern? Fingers scratch at the blemished flesh, dirty, cracked nails working, working, finally breaking the surface for that rich treasure of blood.
“Are you okay?” Lance asks, looking at Pierce.
“What? Yes.”
Lance is not convinced. He thinks none of them are okay. He truly knows this, but something in his innate defense mechanism conceals that in hopeful doubt. He looks up, trying to find some other light besides the seep of distant street lamps and fading oil can fires.
“How’s your leg?”
He looks again at Pierce, surprised at the sincerity in that voice. “It hurts.”
“Here,” Pierce says, producing a small pill bottle like a street magician.
“What’s this?”
“Aspirin.”
“Thanks.”
He pops the cap, crunching then dry-swallowing one. He peeks inside, shaking the container, hearing very few left. “How’d you get these?”
Pierce shrugs.
Lance looks up as one of their shadowy brethren shuffles by. He is not sure who it is. He is not even sure of their gender.
“Do you ever wonder if you’ll be next?”
Pierce looks at him, face pinching with annoyance. “Next for what?”
Lance stares back, stretching the silent moment. He finally answers, speaking in a fearful whisper. “The next sacrifice for when that … thing comes.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Pierce retorts. “You know we’re special, and they won’t-” His voice disappears into a stream of coughs. This gains a look of worry from Lance. The sickeningly wet sound continues, breaking up the peace of the night, becoming a terrible clarion in the quiet.
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
Pierce glares at him, then gets up and stalks away at a pace he knows his lame companion cannot match. He hunkers in a shadow. He hears someone close, some raspy breath. The person is probably asleep. He doesn’t care. Lambs for slaughter.
He doesn’t know why he and Lance were chosen. At first, it seemed like even more bad luck heaped upon this curse called life. They both became ill, which can easily turn into a death sentence for street people like themselves. Sure, they could go to some free clinics, but there’d only be so much effort given for dregs like them. At least, that was his take on the matter.
The symptoms had worsened, then stabilized. It can’t possibly have been that long, but to him, it now feels like forever. As though history stretches far before his birth, and he was always there, hacking up blood as some bizarre toll to draw this fetid breath. His memories have been compromised, just like his body.
He feels a tickle, but this one is not to a herald of another coughing fit. No. He moves from the shadow, shuffling toward the twenty-four hour internet café. Time for more messages.
Fingers hold poise over the keyboard, and it might seem a ready lurking were it not for the slight tremble. The fingernails could use a cleaning. A blur as the digits move, speeding over the keys as a sudden maestro. They stop, hanging there, occasional twitching taking one or another.
Eyes do not notice the time, now nearing 3:00 AM. He’s been paying close attention to other things, many other things. He has pieced together some of the puzzle, connected some dots in the hazy, fog-shrouded web. One of those pieces is another person, and he composes a message to her.
It’s not a long message, but he keeps worrying over it, trying to pick the right words. The intended recipient will be unhappy to receive this and might immediately move to cover the small holes in her careful approach that allowed him to find her in the first place.
He does not cough, at all. His name is not Pierce, for many still avoid sleep at this hour, coursing around in cyberspace or the meat world. He decides to send her some links and details but not all of it. This is too sensitive for that, even if both of them hold abilities beyond the norm.
He hopes he will hear back from her. This is important. Too important for Sparrow to ignore.
*****
Zoe brings the glass of bourbon to her lips, taking a generous swig. She swallows it with no outward sign of any burn. The glass is somewhat large, and there is some ice in there, but the measure of whiskey is generous. She is too young to legally be drinking in the U.S., but she is a regular here. She’s never been asked for I.D. She also usually drinks beer, but this time, she opted for something stronger.
The burly, bearded bartender already had a bottle pulled from the cooler when he saw the shorn-haired girl walk in. She stopped him with a small shake of her head and steely-eyed gaze, uttering her desired drink. The slightest rise of his unkempt eyebrows had been his only reaction.
One might think of this as a biker bar, maybe a metal bar. The clientele and music suggests both of those, but that is not the entirety of their visitors. The bartender has seen Zoe coming in here for a good while. He knows she doesn’t hold any interest in idle chatter. He thinks she’s in the military or possibly a vet, but there isn’t a base that close, and she sometimes comes in on weeknights. He also wonders if maybe she partakes in criminal pursuits, what with her aspect and the thick folds of cash usually pulled from those pockets.
He’s seen some guys hit on her. As far as he knows, none have ever succeeded. There’s never been any trouble, but it’s clear she brushes them off quickly. She’s a pretty girl, even if her hair is so short and she doesn’t wear make-up and dresses kind of masculine. Hell, he’s thought before of trying to get in her shell, but he’s past his prime.
He notices it now, though, and a part of him knew it the first time she walked in. There’s an edge there. She’s seen things. That’s why he thinks she military and part of why he’s never bothered to ask her for I.D. Hell, some local cops came in once, and though one of them gave a bit of a curious look, they didn’t ask about her at all. They didn’t talk to her, either.
Zoe knows she could throw around the Felcraft weight. Her extent of that is to collect a very nice paycheck, really more of a stipend, and use it to live on her own away from most of the central family. It’s not that she doesn’t love them, but she feels like something of a black sheep.
She’s been given a short respite before they head overseas to continue looking for the third and last book. She wonders about that, still worried that all of this is a trap with Lilja at its core. When Skothiam had been talking to the centuries old guardian they’d found, she and David spent the time basically watching and waiting. Lilja, though, had been right up in it, even throwing in some comments from time to time. It chapped Zoe. Skot is the Head, so it was his place to talk to the guardian.
It bothers her to know how little time Lilja has been among them and yet how much privilege she gets. She’s
had the woman’s skills and experience hammered into her head as they all seem to spring to her defense. Even Nicole thinks something special lies inside the redhead, but Zoe doesn’t care. They’re all special, every single Hunter, and as Zoe is quick to point out, she’s been training for it her whole life.
She just doesn’t get it. She’s the last one to follow rules for their own sake, but the amount of leeway given is obvious. Lilja’s the main reason they didn’t push harder to get the book out of the university’s library! If it weren’t for her, that book would be in the Felcraft’s private collection.
Zoe doesn’t look up when she’s approached. The bartender obliquely notices, seeing the man walk up from behind and casually slip atop the barstool beside the young woman. There are plenty of available spots in the place, so he assumes this is another one who is going to try. Zoe still doesn’t look over when the man up-nods to the keeper.
“A refill for the lady, and I’ll have one, too.”
He shifts his eyes to Zoe, and she finally seems to give some outward attention, nodding lightly to the bartender with closed eyes before focusing on the newcomer. “David, what are you doing here?”
“I came to have a drink with you,” David says, smiling as good-naturedly as you please.
Zoe shakes her head with a barely noticeable motion.
“You’d think we hadn’t just found out something huge. Why are you so grumpy?”
The bartender sets the two whiskeys in front of them, eyeballing the exchange as if he expects something bad to happen. Zoe slits her eyes at David, then has a deep draw on the fresh drink. “What did we find out?”
Now comes David’s turn for a light shake of the head, then angles with a gesture. “Let’s go sit somewhere more private.” He heads off to a secluded table, and Zoe follows. “What’s in your craw? Wait, don’t tell me. Lilja.”
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