by Rainy Kaye
The steps creaked under me, and I tried not to take in the strange paintings of people long dead and wall-mounted shelves full of sculptures whose eyes seemed to follow me.
I came to a hallway. Light shone from the second door to the left, so I shuffled over to it and, shifting the plate to hold it propped against my chest, knocked.
No answer.
“Isadora?” I called softly, then added, louder, “I’ve brought you some tea.”
No sounds.
Pressing my lips together, I reached for the knob and turned it. The door eased open. Readjusting my hold on the plate, I crept inside.
A floor lamp near the door provided the only slice of light in the room. Wallpaper with large pink roses, as faded as that in the foyer, lined the far wall. Gold and green curtains hung over the windows, and a wooden chair piled with books stood in the corner.
Isadora was tucked in her bed, covers pulled to her chin. A wooden vintage farm radio on the nightstand had been tipped over.
I lifted the tray up, looking for a place to put it, but found nothing. So, I bent over and placed it on the rug before inching over to her.
Her eyes were open, her jaw relaxed. The hint of life under her skin had vanished, replaced with a thin waxy texture. One hand rested on a small, framed picture on her chest.
She wasn’t breathing.
Grimacing, I slid the picture free and held it up: a young man, maybe in his twenties, wearing a military uniform—no doubt Arthur from many seasons ago.
With a sad smile, I placed the picture of Arthur back on her chest and patted it once.
“I’m sure you’ll find each other, whatever is beyond all this madness,” I said. “He’ll be happy to see you.”
I turned and left the room, leaving the tea on the floor.
Back downstairs, the portrait of Uwe Visel had been propped against the wall.
Randall was tucked back under his blanket, and he poked out one hand to point at a few throw pillows and a floral-printed blanket a few feet away.
“I made you a bed,” he said, dropping his hand.
“The accommodations weren’t very clear at this homestay,” I said, forcing a smile.
My face felt sweaty and itchy suddenly, and I wanted to remove the damn mask and wash up. It wasn’t worth the risk though, especially knowing that Isadora had been infected. No one had yet confirmed if the plague spread person to person or just through the red mist, and I wasn’t interested in testing any theories.
I laid on the floor, rearranging the pillows until I had something resembling comfort.
Ever remained awake, sitting on the floor at the side of the sofa, her head against the armrest. She turned to look at me. “How’s Isadora?”
“Oh, she’s…fine,” I lied.
No point in riling up everyone. We would be leaving in a few short hours, anyway.
“Mm.” Ever didn’t sound like she believed me, which was fair, but she seemed to also conclude one corpse upstairs wasn’t the worst of our concerns.
“Who was that guy?” I asked, as the thought occurred to me. Ever had grown up in this town; she must have had some insight into the man who had tried to take on the undead army and had become their captain instead. “Did you know him?”
Ever glanced at her sisters, as if verifying they were asleep. They were.
“Yeah, his name is—was—Adam,” she said, voice soft. “He went to high school with me. I knew he was a witch…”
“Mage,” I corrected, as if I had always known what to call us, and not that I had just learned the proper terms in New Orleans.
“Right. Mage. Anyway, I went looking for him when all this…stuff…started, but I couldn’t find him.” She chuckled, but it sounded sad. “I can’t believe he just ran headfirst into an undead army. No idea what he was thinking.”
“Obligation,” I said without hesitation, but once the truth was out, there was no point in trying to backpedal. “He probably felt like because he could use magic, he should at least try.”
“Is that why you’re here?” she asked.
I retreated a little, inside.
She seemed to notice, because she didn’t push the issue. “Adam was a nice guy. I know he’s dead because he would never have helped the necromancer willingly. No one in Haven Rock would have. We would have fought back.”
Judging from the emptiness of the streets and buildings, there weren’t many people left to even try to resist. Haven Rock had been almost entirely wiped out. I doubted that would satisfy the necromancer, though. I could envision him storming across Colorado, consuming small towns, little blips on the map, increasing his numbers. When he reached Denver, he would be ready to claim it all. With more than a half-million soldiers, he would be unstoppable, his reign increasing with each death, growing his army until those who survived the plague were outnumbered.
We didn’t have much time left to think, to plan. If we intended to take on the necromancer, intended to make this trip worth coming in the first place, we had to act—soon—before he became unstoppable.
21
Sometime in the night, I woke with a deep pain in my neck that pulsed down to my stomach.
I reached under my head to adjust the pillows as I rolled onto my side. Randall laid on the floor an arm’s length away, back to me. All of me wanted to shimmy closer to him, snuggle up to his warmth and comfort. It didn’t seem out of place these days, if it ever had been. I couldn’t quite remember why he had been off limits in the first place.
Jada. Yeah. I couldn’t have a real relationship with Randall. Not now, not ever.
Still, in this moment, the desire seemed reasonable enough. We had been through more in the last week than in the years before then. All in all, we were a permanent fixture in each other’s life. Both of us could use something good, even if just for a little while.
I grabbed my pillow and tugged it as I inched closer to him.
He rolled onto his back, gazing up to the ceiling, and then pushed to a sit. The slight movement rustled the air, and the chill crept under my blanket. I shivered despite my jacket and boots still fastened in place.
Randall meandered over to the fireplace and crouched at the dead hearth, staring into it. He pushed back the grate.
“I can light it,” Sasmita said, voice thick with sleep. She sat up from under her blanket and padded around April and Paisley to join him at the hearth. “Just toss in a few logs.”
He leaned over, grabbing one from the stack, and shoved it into the fireplace.
Sasmita reached around him, pushing up against his back, and wove her arm over his, touching the log. A little blue spark jumped from her fingers, and she retracted as the flames spread across the log.
The heat rippled through the room, washing over my face. I wanted to close my eyes, to relax and go back to sleep, but curiosity—and something darker—won over me.
Randall turned, sitting on the edge of the hearth, facing her.
“I’m sorry about leaving you with the mage earlier,” he said, his voice low as not to wake the rest of us. “I really should have gone back to help.”
“I told you,” she said kindly, “I had to go on my own. I needed to collect his blood.”
She tapped the vial under her shirt.
Randall hesitated. “You really can’t tell us what that is all about? We could probably help you more if we knew.”
“He made it clear—if I talk about it, he will retract his offer. I can’t risk it.” Her voice quivered a little, but she straightened her shoulders. “Two down. It will be fine in the end.”
“Yeah…” Randall sized her up and down, and the look in his eyes, even from here, boiled rage in my chest. He squeezed her bicep a little. “Just know we got your back, okay?”
Her eyes crinkled with a smile. “And yours.”
He tipped his head with a short nod, and she parted from him, making her way back to her bed. Tucked under her blanket again, she rolled to her side, away from me. I squeezed my eye
s shut as Randall headed back for his blanket and pillows next to me, less because I didn’t want him to know I had witnessed their sweet little exchange, but because I was afraid what he might see.
He was Jada’s ex-boyfriend. That was that. Sasmita could have him.
With that, I turned, cocooning myself in my blanket, and willed myself to think of anything but the ache in my chest. The one that didn’t have any right to be there.
Exhaustion—mental, and physical—drained me, and I dozed back off, warmed by the fire that soothed the chill in the air. I had almost forgotten what it was like to not be this side of freezing to death.
Something thudded in the kitchen.
I startled awake. For a split second, I thought Isadora had come downstairs to make a fresh cup of tea.
But Isadora was dead.
All of my comrades were present. Even Fiona was asleep, or had her eyes closed at least.
Another thump, and then a soft, long scratching sound.
I shook Randall’s arm. He shifted, turning to face me, and squinted at me with one eye. I put my finger to my lips, over the mask, to silence him, and then pointed to Sasmita.
The scratching sound came again. It was definitely from the kitchen.
On hands and knees, I wove around the others, padding toward the doorway to peek at the source of the sound. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught as Randall shook Sasmita awake. She sat up, her hands shimmering with blue magic.
My bruised ego aside, I was pretty attached to having her around. At least one of us could rely on our magic in times of trouble, which we had plenty of these days. I needed her on my side.
I veered toward the wall and crept up on the doorway, peering through.
Isadora crossed the kitchen, headed to the back door, dragging the painting of Uwe Visel with her inch by inch.
A deep chill shot through me. The painting had been in the living room. That meant she likely had passed by us to grab it in the first place.
And she was dead. Or supposed to be.
I hesitated. Could I have been mistaken?
No. She hadn’t been alive when I had brought tea to her, and now she was roaming around, just like the rest of the dead townspeople.
She wasn’t just under the necromancer’s spell. She was bringing him the portrait.
Gritting my teeth, I launched at her. She dropped the picture and turned, hands up like claws. She hissed and lunged at me.
From the living room, Randall shouted. Footsteps charged toward the kitchen.
I ducked out of the way and shoved her forward, ramming her into the stove. She shrieked and spun around to face me. The countertops didn’t contain anything I could use as a weapon. I pulled open drawers behind me, keeping my attention on her, and felt around the contents. I tossed a potato peeler, a wooden spoon, and a pair of tongs to the floor.
She launched forward. I yanked out the whole damn drawer and swung it at her. The remaining utensils clattered to the tile. The bottom of the drawer connected with the side of her head. She reached up, wrenching the drawer from me, and tossed it aside.
In my peripheral, Sasmita stalked into the doorway, powered up. Behind her, Randall stood, armed with a heavy candleholder. April, Ever, and Paisley created a wall past him, kukris drawn.
Isadora’s top lip curled back in a rabid growl.
Sasmita rushed her. Isadora spun to her and reached for her throat, but Sasmita shoved her palms against her chest. Blue magic arched along Isadora’s skin. Isadora shoved Sasmita away. Sasmita stumbled back. Her foot slid on the utensils and she landed on the floor with a yelp.
Isadora sprung at her, expression feral. Sasmita put up her arm to block as Isadora landed on her. Isadora reared back her head and plunged her teeth into Sasmita’s forearm.
Whatever the necromancer’s magic did, he had given them sharper teeth too.
The painting laid on the floor, next to where Sasmita wrestled with Isadora. Randall lunged forward, swinging the candlestick into Isadora’s skull. She released Sasmita and hissed up at Randall. Ever and her sisters moved in.
I went for the painting.
Isadora’s skin began to ripple and crack, and then reformed into a hardened shell. Her face contorted, her jaw elongating.
I abandoned the picture and yanked open another drawer.
Knives.
With a shaking hand, I pulled the largest one from the drawer and turned, raising it high. Isadora wrapped her fingers around Sasmita’s face and smashed her head into the tile. Sasmita gave a gargled scream.
I rammed the blade of the knife into the back of Isadora’s neck.
She froze.
I let go and stumbled back a step.
Isadora rose to her feet. I tripped over the portrait and grabbed the refrigerator handle to catch myself. The door swung open.
Isadora reached behind her and twisted the knife, pulling it free. Blood dripped in slow droplets from the blade.
Ever and her sisters slacked, lowering their kukris slightly. Their faces tightened into a scowl.
All they had to defend themselves was their bladed weapons, and those didn’t do much against whatever Isadora had become.
Isadora dropped the knife to the floor.
A new fear hit me then, and it nearly took me off my feet.
She didn’t need the knife. She didn’t need weapons. She was too powerful for such things.
“Oh, fuck,” I whispered, unable to move.
Sasmita scrambled to her feet.
Isadora swung around, green magic on her hands.
Had she been a witch too? Whatever she had been, she was dead now and belonged to the necromancer. His undead army didn’t stay down with physical force, but Isadora hadn’t responded to Sasmita’s magical zap, either.
I couldn’t imagine what would work on them. Randall had suggested fire, but I didn’t know how to make any, not even the little spark Sasmita had done to light the campfire for the Taylors or the fireplace while pressed up against Randall.
Heat boiled through my body, and I realized my eyes were closed. I snapped them open. Randall grabbed Sasmita by the arm and pulled her through the doorway, into the living room, Ever and her sisters falling back.
The heat welled up and exploded from my skin. My vision turned orange.
I realized I was burning up, from the outside. Smoke filled my vision.
I waved my hand in front of my face and squinted, trying to make sense of what was happening.
Isadora lay in a motionless, smoldering heap on the floor in front of me. Flames danced off the upper cabinets and happily ate away at the curtains above the sink.
The heat inside me extinguished, and I shivered against the sudden cold before the warmth of the flames engulfed me.
Apparently, I could conjure fire, albeit with all the grace of a sledgehammer.
I took a step forward, toward the living room, and halted. We needed the painting. I spun around, and my stomach clenched.
Flames had consumed one corner, working their way across the canvas, devouring the shoulder of the portrait.
“No, no, no!” I screamed as I darted toward it. I slapped my gloved hand against the flames, but only managed to fan them. Gritting my teeth, I gripped the frame and tugged the painting through the kitchen, into the living room.
Something in the kitchen cracked.
“Saf!” Randall called from across the room. Thick smoke separated us. “We have to get out of here.”
I peered through the haze at him. “Where’s Sasmita? Can’t she just put out the flames?”
She could probably conjure a waterfall and smother my mistake.
“No, I don’t think that’s going to work,” she said from somewhere nearby. I couldn’t see her through the darkening air.
Another snap from the kitchen.
“It’s a little too much for that,” she said. “Come on.”
Fire crackled behind me. Then beside me.
Then above me.
From
the hazy darkness, Randall grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the exit.
“Wait, wait!” I beat at his hand and stooped to grab the painting. “We need this. If we don’t…”
I didn’t want to finish my sentence, because I didn’t want to think about what would happen if we lost the painting. If it had been damaged past being able to use it.
Ever emerged from the smoke and grabbed the opposite end of the portrait. Together, we hoisted it up. I couldn’t make out if it was still on fire or how badly it had been burned.
We made our way to the door, Randall leading the way, and pushed the portrait out onto the patio. My vision began to clear and sweat poured down inside my clothes as the cold weather battled the heat on my skin. Everyone trickled across the yard, heading toward our van still pressed up against the fountain.
Randall took the painting from me and, with Ever, wrestled it down the steps and dragged it across the frozen ground in the direction of the others.
Sasmita and Fiona were already loading up in the vehicle. Swallowing hard against my parched throat, I hustled after them. On the grass, I took a few paces and then turned back to the house.
Flames shot out the windows and bore holes through the walls. Glass shattered.
Somehow, I was numb.
I hurried to the van and joined Randall where he stood, with the painting propped up against the passenger side of the vehicle.
The flames on the portrait had been smothered, but the top corner of the canvas gaped with a charred hole big enough to stick my fist through with room to spare.
“That…that might be a problem,” Randall said. “Do you think the painting can hold them if it has a piece of it missing?”
I raised my hands in front of me in resignation. There were no words left to say. The painting had been significantly damaged, and I doubted it would work now the way we needed it to. If at all. My magic may have saved us from Isadora, but it had cost us the battle.
As I stared at the portrait, contemplating how badly we had failed—had badly I had failed—little blue dots dropped down from the charred edge of the canvas, leaving behind them glowing thin lines. The dots moved about, dragging the threads with them, crisscrossing and weaving. They were like spiders, spinning a web. This one just happened to glow blue with magic.
