“Geezus, man! Why did you have to bring her into your business? She's worse than you've ever been!” Pill said to the Sandman.
“Oh, didn't you know?” the Sandman asked. “I'm her sidekick. She brought me into this business. Got tired of me playing nice. I'm kinda being evaluated right now.”
Replacing her scarf, she capped the water and turned back around.
“Yes, and you're going to have to do much, much better to satisfy me, Sandman,” she announced loftily. “I suppose you have objections to burning everything in this apartment to prevent them from ratting us out? Causing a much-needed distraction towards Alfi and the crew in the loft?”
Shrugging, the Sandman replied, “Well, the hooker in the bathroom didn't do anything to warrant death.”
“No, but she probably did business with all three of the douchebags in this apartment. She'd probably welcome death.”
The Sandman coughed again. “A fair point. Can we spare them to avoid inadvertently killing any of the other tenants in the complex, or damaging their property?”
Nightshade rolled her eyes for dramatic effect and sighed. She was enjoying this “good cop, bad cop” routine far, far too much. But she couldn't help it. She glared at Pill, sweating, shaking, and bleeding on the floor.
“Damned liberals.” She spat and exited the kitchen.
Chapter Thirty
S omehow, Alfi and his henchmen knew Nightshade and the Sandman were coming. The apartment was likely bugged, and they hadn’t done a sweep before getting their intel. The duo was outside the window of the only seemingly empty room of the loft. Before they entered, the Sandman adjusted the range of the infrared glasses, sensing something amiss.
“We can’t leave the power levels this high. The batteries will be dead in about five minutes,” he explained.
It only took a few seconds to see his instincts were accurate: The crouching figures of several people, positioned strategically, were now visible to them both via the infrared lenses. The outlines of the walls and furniture the people were squatting behind gave the duo the layout of the loft and their targets’ positions.
“Think we can take care of them in five minutes?” Nightshade asked.
“I think we’d be better off memorizing where they are, and work from there,” the Sandman suggested. “Otherwise, should it take longer than five minutes, we’re wearing sunglasses in the dark, against hostile forces.”
Nightshade didn’t consider it for more than a second. “Okay, I’ve got their positions memorized. Power the glasses down, and we go from there.”
They took thirty seconds to formulate their battle plan. The Sandman then lowered the infrared settings to conserve power and let them have the advantage they were used to with the lenses. He planted three small explosives on the windows, and they moved back a safe distance.
The front windows shattered when the explosives were triggered. At the same moment, Nightshade used one of the Sandman’s devices to unlock and open the window to the unoccupied bathroom. Unlike the previous incursion, only Nightshade entered that way. The Sandman went through the exploded windows, drawing fire.
The plan was for the Sandman to enter the apartment where the occupants expected the assault: He would throw stun grenades and then press the attack with his .45s. They both agreed there was little need for prisoners. She would come out after she heard a fourth stun grenade go off. From her position, she and the Sandman would catch the enemy in crossfire.
The first two grenades went off before she came through the window. Nightshade was expecting the percussive thump of them exploding, so her progress through the window was not impeded. The heavy roar of the Sandman’s .45s came next, followed by the loud, racketing sound of machine gun fire, along with smaller explosions that came from other caliber handguns. Nightshade pulled out the new weapons given to her, a pair of Smith and Wesson M&P .45 handguns and waited.
The third grenade went off, and Nightshade checked her side arms before replacing one to free up a hand to open the bathroom door. She placed her hand on the doorknob, wishing she was already a part of the action. More rounds from various guns went off, including the Sandman’s .45s. There was a yelp, followed by a spray of automatic gunfire. Bullets pierced the wall above Nightshade’s head.
Holding her position, Nightshade waited for the fourth grenade to go off. She took a moment to reach out with her senses and try to detect the necromancer. The smell of her black magic was around, but not strong. Nightshade guessed that she was either here and hadn’t used her magic recently or had left.
There were curses, sporadic gunfire, followed by the fourth stun grenade going off. Nightshade turned the knob and bolted out into the hall. Keeping low, she glanced down the hallway opposite of the firefight, to see the two gunmen holding their positions away from the rest. She dropped them both with two shots from the M&P in her hand even as she pulled the other from its holster. Pivoting, Nightshade sighted her weapons on the three remaining gunmen and opened fire. She cut them down in seconds and grew even more attached to her newest gifts from the Sandman in the process.
As the Sandman came into sight from the end of the hallway, Nightshade lowered her weapons and looked at the two dozen fallen men. The last one she had shot, the one standing behind all the rest, had been Alfi. She allowed herself a satisfied smile. It lasted for one second.
The smell hit her first. Before she could react, a cold hand gripped her throat. Her body convulsed from the spell the necromancer cast.
Electricity poured into Nightshade’s body, causing her fingers to tighten. Both guns discharged. Then the electricity stopped, and coldness spread throughout her. The guns dropped from her useless hands, and she began to shake. The necromancer held Nightshade in front of her, using her as a shield.
“Quite clever, vigilante.” The woman’s honey-sweet voice came from over Nightshade’s shoulder. “You certainly caught these fools off-guard. Not that doing so is a difficult task.” She laughed briefly. “Nice to see a man that uses his brain a little more than most.”
“Alfi’s dead, and that means your auction is off,” the Sandman said in his deadliest voice. “I doubt a woman of your talents cares much about that. You wouldn’t put all your bets on that idiot. You have greater plans. Ones reaching farther than selling out Temeria.”
“Oh, and he’s flattering as well!” The necromancer laughed. “No wonder you like him, dear. He’s darling. Is he any good as a lover?”
Nightshade couldn’t move, let alone speak. She felt the woman’s breath against the nape of her neck and ear.
“My, my, our little Selia has no comment,” the necromancer scolded in the same honey-sweet tone. “Sounds like you aren’t measuring up, Sandman, but then, what man does? So few, so very few, which is why we Temerian women know the benefit of our own gender.”
The Sandman remained as he had been: Standing, with his guns at either side. His mask and sunglasses hiding any expression he might have worn. Selia briefly wondered how this bitch knew her name.
“If you’re trying to seduce me, you might want to project images of Selia with another attractive woman, instead of you.”
Oh, shit, Selia thought, this is not going to go well.
Power swirled around her. She felt the dark energy growing in the woman holding her, being released into the air. The stench was so strong that Selia felt she would vomit, if her body were her own again. Right now, she did not feel like Nightshade, who was powerful, sure, and deadly. At this moment, she felt like the wallflower again: unable to do anything but be a part of the scenery.
The power was coalescing into a spell. The infrared lenses that Selia was wearing gave an unusual perspective of the energy as it swirled and roped into new form, branching off and touching all of the bodies on the floor. The Sandman had his guns up, obviously trying to get a clear shot at the necromancer’s head.
“Ah, the hell with this,” the Sandman grumbled. He dropped the barrels of both guns and fired one round f
rom each.
The effect on the spell was immediate. The energy intensified and then was gone. The necromancer hissed in pain and called him a bastard in Temerian.
She drew in a deep breath and shouted. “Not good enough, Sandman! You’re going to be busy dying, so I’m going to have some fun with the lovely Selia!” Selia felt the woman’s teeth bite gently on her earlobe and pull. “Girl talk!” The necromancer squealed and began pulling Selia down the hallway.
The Sandman was trying to get another shot at the necromancer. Selia noticed with dismay that he was oblivious to the reanimated bodies slowly rising from the floor. She tried to scream a warning, but her voice was as unresponsive as her body. Then, she was pulled out of the hallway and could see him no longer.
Chapter Thirty-One
S elia’s vision swam, and her stomach lurched. She felt as though she was blacking out. Her eyes started to focus as she felt herself falling.
Her back was against the gravel that made up the floor of the roof.
I must have passed out, she reasoned, I can’t remember how we got to the roof.
She looked up into the sky. She could hear gunshots, sirens, groaning and on the street below, people shrieking.
It might have been her imagination, but she thought she heard the Sandman distantly yelling, “Zombies? Are you kidding me?”
“So, my delightful little treat, are you ready to take your place?” The necromancer reached down and pulled the scarf off Selia’s face. “Such a pretty face,” the woman chided, “Shouldn’t be kept hidden.” She paused. “Don’t worry. I won’t be posting your face on the Internet.”
“Who are you?” Selia asked, finally able to talk. Her body was slowly, far too slowly in her opinion, starting to respond to her.
“Oh, I suppose I should introduce myself.” The necromancer gave a put-upon sigh, as though Selia should have known who she was already. “I’m Moreisa, darling, and if you’re wondering about your ‘place’, it will be at my side.” Another pause, and then she leaned forward almost conspiratorially. “Well, at my feet would be more accurate.”
No, thank you, Selia thought. Only someone with a fetish for necrophilia would want to bed you. Or a mortal who can’t smell the retched stench of rotting flesh pouring from you. Not someone from our homeland who could guess about why you aren’t living there, and the forbidden arts you’re using to spy on or reanimate other beings.
The stench was more than enough to cause her stomach to flip and Selia felt as though it wanted to expel everything she’d eaten. She wiggled her toes in her boots and smiled inwardly. Her strength was finally returning. Closing her eyes, she gave the impression of slumping back against the gravel of the roof. Taking a moment, she thought of the Sandman and concern for him fueled her recovery. Or maybe it was magic. It was hard to tell.
She opened her eyes and struggled to a sitting position. She leaned to her side, bent over as though she were having difficulty breathing. Looking up, Moreisa was studying her hips and muttering under her breath about men and their stupidity.
“You’re a necromancer,” Selia gasped, the pain in her voice not an act. “What do you want me for?”
“Unlike men, I do not plan to be alone at the top. Nor do I need to be,” Moreisa replied. “We are alike, in many ways. We both escaped the tyranny and small-mindedness of Temeria when we were young. The Art is strong in both of us. We can have men at our beck and call.”
Just keep talking, Selia thought. She tensed her back and legs and was gratified that they did not cramp. Her body would be ready for combat soon.
“You need guidance to properly use the Art and all its glorious forms. I will teach you. I will teach you... many things. Strength and passion and how they can entwine between two women, in all aspects. How to use men, to make them do what we wish, while never truly giving them our bodies.”
“Never had much difficulty in being a tease,” Selia retorted.
“Oh, that is the most juvenile of womanly arts,” mocked Moreisa. “I am talking of the supreme art of the woman: taking all the pleasures you can from a man, making him think he owns you, even as you completely own him. Or have you begun to do that with the Sandman? We will find better, more attentive males for your use, and training. Your stubbornness and wit are part of why I haven’t just killed you. They show some steel in your spine.”
“Thanks!” Selia replied, and leaped at Moreisa, pulling her left sword from its sheath.
Moreisa gestured, and Selia was caught in midair, suspended by a holding spell. The necromancer plucked the sword from her hands and admired it.
“The Japanese know craftsmanship so much better than many countries, including our own. I, like you, prefer their swords to any other in the world or history.” Moreisa examined the blade and placed it down on the gravel. “I have a better set, myself. One of the many benefits of having true power and wealth. Of course, one can never have enough of either.”
“Unlike you, I did not come to this city with a wealthy escort who pampered me. Nor did I become weak, as you have,” Moreisa said in a chiding tone. “I stowed away on a ship. Before I arrived here, I had been with every member of the crew, and I owned them all. They would do anything, even fight over me, to have my favor.”
She gestured again, and Selia’s body pivoted until she was kneeling at Moreisa’s feet.
“That is where I prefer my subjects. You would have learned to appreciate my generosity.” Moreisa viciously kicked Selia in the stomach. “You would have known worship second only to me. I could have purged your weakness from you. I would have taught you my knowledge of truth: Necromancy is the key to ruling. Necromancy and the power of Magic. The power of life and death. I studied the tomes as I seduced and used more and more wealthy and powerful people. Each one teaching me the ways that ordinary humans gain control over others. Coupled with my magic, I have built my empire. The selling of Temeria would have been a coup on multiple scales. But I will find another way to have my homeland finance my final ascension to complete power.”
She kicked Selia again, harder this time.
“I selected you to be at my side, and you fail to see how inevitable my rule shall be, how complete my victory. Your poor decision to not join me can haunt you in Hell, where I will-”
The gunshot was deafening.
Moreisa bellowed in pain and outrage. Her right hand went to her backside. There was another shot, and Selia saw the bullet exit Moreisa’s torso just below her collarbone. As she fell, the Sandman came into sight behind her. He held a compact Walther .380 in both hands. It was his holdout gun. The one he kept in one of his boots. She could see the .45s in their holsters. He must have run out of ammo.
“Really? Monologuing?” the Sandman all but yelled at the fallen necromancer. “Do you not know how that works out for the villain?”
Selia collapsed, released from the spell. Her stomach felt like a burning knot in the middle of her body, but she picked up her sword and stood. She looked down at Moreisa.
“That’s arterial bleeding from the chest wound,” Selia observed. “You have, maybe, two major spells left in you before you are too far gone to heal. Only one, if you cast against more than a single person. Surrender, or one of us will kill you.”
“I’m for shooting her more while she thinks it over,” the Sandman added.
“Another time,” Moreisa gasped, and she was surrounded by a golden light.
Selia moved forward to strike, but the woman disappeared. Not a nanosecond later, three shots slammed against the gravel where she had been. Selia glanced back at the Sandman, whose gun was issuing a stream of smoke, and was now empty. He reached into his left boot and brought out a spare clip.
Reloading the small automatic, he explained, “I thought she had gone invisible. Didn’t want her to get away.”
“That was a teleportation spell,” Selia gasped as her chest tightened, an after effect of the necromantic spells. She swiftly replaced her scarf. “She’s probably less th
an a hundred yards away right now and will need to use the last of her magic to heal herself. Otherwise, she’ll die.”
The Sandman nodded. “We won’t be able to look for her. The police have entered the buildings and are going floor to floor. We’ve gotta get out of here. Across the rooftops until we’re off the block, and even then, if you can manage it, we may need your magical cover. I’m too spent to trust my ability to sneak past four dozen ‘on high alert’ cops. On the bright side, if she’s anywhere in the buildings, she’ll have to explain the four bullet wounds.” The Sandman paused, eyeing Selia closely. “Alfi wasn’t one of the zombies. I didn’t get a chance to search him for the drive.”
As if on cue, a reanimated Alfi lurched over the fire escape ladder and spilled onto the roof. He shambled to a standing position before approaching them. His right hand was open and clawed, his left still held an oversized .50 caliber handgun.
“Guess he was a little slower than the rest,” observed the Sandman as he took aim.
“Don’t bother,” Nightshade said, stepping past him and beheading the reanimated gangster in a single stroke. She knelt, rummaging through the corpse’s pockets. Nightshade found the flash drive in his inside jacket pocket.
“There we go,” she announced, holding it up. “Now, I just need one more thing.”
When they arrived at the rented bungalow a little over an hour later, the Sandman came into the bungalow with her. He pulled off his mask, breathing heavily. He placed the plastic bag, containing that ‘one more thing’, in the fridge.
“Can I ask you something?” Selia asked as she removed her outfit.
“Of course,” he replied.
“You said she, the necromancer, has four bullet wounds. You got her just below the collarbone. The two shots in the loft...”
“I grazed her on both hips. It was the only visible part of her around you,” he answered.
“When you got to the roof, you shot her in the ass, didn't you?”
Taking The Night (Nightshade series Book 1) Page 20
