Rune Awakening

by Genevra Black

  He said, “My name’s Calcifer.”

  Looking him in the face sent panic racing from Edie’s gut and up her throat. The awful sight of him was catching up to her, making her slightly dizzy with shock. She choked back nervous bile, her heart speeding up.

  And, now that she was looking more closely, she noticed that he had a sawed-off shotgun strapped to his right thigh.

  “Get— get out of my house.” Her toes stung numbly from the nail polish remover soaking into the carpet under her; the rest of her body stung numbly from fear.

  Calcifer stood. She knew she would never be able to take him. Jogging was about all she had in her exercise repertoire, and she was only 5’5”. This guy looked like he wrestled bears for sport.

  “You can just call me Cal,” he continued casually, as if she hadn’t said a thing. “Actually, yeah, call me Cal. Edith, right?”

  He knew her name. She had to get him out of here.

  Edie didn’t give him any time to pull his gun. She kicked the coffee table forward, toppling Hervey’s cage and hitting Calcifer in the shins, catching him off balance. He staggered and fell backward onto the couch.

  It would only take him a moment to recover, but it gave her enough time to rush to Mercy’s room and slam the door behind her. She scrambled for the lock before remembering that Mercy didn’t have one.

  “Fuck you!” Edie spat out through the door as she crossed the pastel-colored room and grabbed a bowie knife the size of her arm. “Whatever you are, get the hell out of my house!”

  She didn’t have to wait long for the zombie to follow her. He forced the door open, leading with a revolver she hadn’t noticed before. Although, when he saw her knife, he lowered it slightly. The bemusement on his face bordered on cartoonish.

  “Huh. Where the hell’d you get that?”

  “Go away!” Edie took another step back, holding the knife out with both hands. “I’m going to call the police if you don’t leave right now!”

  The zombie glared, baring its teeth. “Oh, cut the shit. What, did Daddy teach you to act like an idiot? You can manipulate people better that way?”

  Daddy? Her dad? Edie felt herself begin to tremble. “Wh— What? He has nothing to do with this!”

  “Ha! That’s cute.” Calcifer’s grin was full of disdain. “The hamster’s just the start, and we both know it, kid. Guess I shouldn’t’ve expected you to be any better than him.”

  Click.

  “I didn’t haul my ass cross-country to have a tea party with a baby necromancer. The world’ll be better off without you.”

  He raised the revolver, glaring down the barrel at her.

  I’m going to die.

  She’d never considered what that might be like. She’d been depressed since her father had died, and suffered from general ennui like every other Millennial, never able to imagine a life for herself beyond her twenty-somethings. But she’d never actively wanted to die, not even when Dad had died—which, now that she thought about it, wasn’t very goth of her.

  And she realized, now, as her own thundering heart drowned all coherent thought, that she had never truly considered that she would die.

  Edie felt her anger and fear curl up in her chest and shake like a geyser about to burst. A strange energy built inside of her, finally culminating in a raw, angry shout like a punch:

  “Stop!” She looked past the barrel of the revolver, glare boring into the points of light in the center of his pupils.

  Suddenly, pressure she hadn’t even known was there was released. It was sudden and … satisfying, like she’d popped her spine after a long day at work.

  The zombie’s arms went limp and dropped to his side; still looking into his eyes, Edie watched as his gaze became unfocused for a moment.

  Then he straightened up, tucked his revolver into his waistband, and shook his head hard.

  “Okay … fine,” he finally muttered, backing up through the doorway with his eyes downcast and his jaw clenched tight. “I’m going.”

  Edie didn’t move. Between the strange energy she felt inside and the fear, she couldn’t. And he still had time to pull his gun again and turn her into Swiss cheese.

  But he didn’t. He just kept backing up until he was out of her sight; she heard him shuffle out the front door and slam it behind him.

  She stood still, silent, for what felt like an hour before she finally dared to creep out of the room. No one came, no one grabbed her from behind. She was alone.

  Hurriedly, she locked the front door and retreated to the living room, not taking her eyes off the door except to check Hervey. He had weathered the fall in no worse shape than he’d already been in—though that was very bad shape, indeed.

  What … was that? He’d looked so … defeated. But that didn’t make any sense; he was the one waving the firearm around. All she’d had was a knife she didn’t even know how to use. Sure, she’d felt fired up—all the emotion and energy she’d expended left her exhausted now—but she was tiny and noodle-armed, and would never pose even a bit of threat to … what was his name? … Calcifer, no matter how angry she got.

  The world will be better off without you, he’d said. She was pretty sure he’d really meant to hurt her.

  What had she done to change his mind?

  Zaedicus Oldine swirled his heavy goblet, scanning the underbelly of The Ash Wyrm Club. He drummed the fingers of his other hand impatiently on the arm of the high-backed chair, occasionally pausing to dig his nails into the leather. Where were those damned wraiths? Surely, the girl could not have escaped them herself; and, surely, he had dispatched them too quickly for the Aurora to capture her first.

  He sighed into his goblet and took a sip of the smooth liquid. Refreshing. Being a wealthy member of the Gloaming had its advantages. Most high-wights had to make do with feeding on the blood of humans and other lesser races. The blood of Ljósálfar—light elves, the race he’d once been—was much rarer, and so much more satisfying.

  The disadvantages, it seemed, were being confined principally to the indoors and the night, and being mistaken for a lowborn Døkkálfr—dark elf. No one who made that particular mistake ever made it again, one way or the other.

  Yes, Zaedicus’s ashen complexion, pale eyes, and pin-straight silver hair gave him an appearance similar to one of those tunneling savages. The difference was, as savage as they were, they were still living creatures—something he had not been for quite some time.

  He looked out into his club again, fresh disgust on his gaunt face. On display before him were the remnants of a Gloaming that had once been magnificent. Clusters of the once-great races of the multiverse—undead and living alike—were sprawled across velvet couches, indulging in the libations and entertainment The Ash Wyrm provided. Most of them were occupied with a companion or thrall of some other race.

  It was pitiful. There was nothing mighty about this. And it had become even worse since Gloaming Lord Fahraad’s death, with everyone holed up in their dens for fear of the Aurora, nothing to do but wallow in their cesspools of decadence. At least when Zaedicus indulged in such things, he knew he had earned the privilege. He doubted any one of the beings surrounding him was thinking about the discovery of the lost hellerune—the Holloway girl—despite the announcement he had made regarding her.

  Idiots. Didn’t they remember what had happened to Richard Holloway, how close Fahraad had been to swaying him to their side? And didn’t they remember what had happened when he’d ultimately refused? Didn’t they understand how important this was?

  How ironic that, ten years later, Fahraad had made the same mistake. Things were changing; there was a new player, someone more powerful than the Gloaming Lord could have comprehended. Fahraad had refused to turn with the tide, had refused the Wounded’s generous offer, and now he was dead after an unfortunate, opportune run-in with the Aurora. The thought brought a tight smile to Zaedicus’s lips.

  “Lord Oldine?”

  He looked up to see someone standing there.
It was a woman, dressed in a tight black dress that covered her top half completely, throat included, but afforded a surprising view of her long legs. She had the deathlike pallor and sloe-black eyes of a human-wight—vampire, they called themselves. A lowly race compared to high-wights like himself, but they served their purpose.

  He decided to hear her out. “Yes?”

  “Someone’s here to see you. They used the back door upstairs.” She raised her brows. He could see that she thought it strange. He had to agree. Anyone who had any real business seeing him would have used the entrance directly into the private, VIP floor of the club—his den, as it were.

  “I see. And who is this person?”

  She shrugged a shoulder. “Some wraith.”

  The wraiths. Zaedicus straightened up in his chair and set his goblet aside, signaling one of his enthralled human guards over. They exchanged words briefly, and with a wave of Zaedicus’s hand, the room was cleared of guests.

  Only he and the woman remained, for now. He studied her closer. Human aging had always baffled him, but if he had to guess, he would have said she’d been approaching her mid-thirties when she’d turned. Her hair was black, her lips red and smiling. Zaedicus couldn’t help but feel a prickle of disgust at her appearance. So human.

  “Thank you, vampire. You were brave to come down here from the public level.” Either she was very brave or didn’t know her place. The upper floor was for the common Gloaming, and she certainly was that. “What is your name?”

  “Scarlet.”

  Of course it was. He waved a hand. “Begone, and I will see to it that you’re compensated for delivering the message.”

  She said nothing, but as she turned and climbed the stairs to the main level, she glanced back over her shoulder at him. Her look was equal parts solemn and curious.

  Odd woman.

  Before he could ruminate further, his doorway was darkened once more.

  The wraith struggled down the stairs. It was a pitiful sight, stuck halfway between its human and true form. Its skin was stretched and scarred and covered in pale, branch-like appendages which shot from pockets in the flesh. Its glass-clear eyes searched the darkness almost blindly for its master; claws of bone protruded from finger- and toenail beds. Its needle teeth cut through its own twisted mouth, and, branching out from its chest, like lightning … scorch marks.

  The Aurora.

  “My, but what have you done?” Zaedicus mumbled, staying seated as the thing limped its way over to prostrate itself before him.

  “Master,” it said, “I’m dying.”

  The high-wight sighed. “Let me see.” He stood and took the wraith by its chin, lifting its head so he could examine its body more closely. What little human flesh wasn’t torn was burnt and bubbling. Zaedicus’s hand dropped to the strange scorch mark in the middle of the wraith’s chest, just below the solar plexus.

  “No!” croaked the creature. “Don’t take it out. If you take it out, I’ll die.”

  Zaedicus raised a brow, but indulged his thrall for now. He removed his hands, looking down at the pitiful creature. “Where is the girl? Don’t tell me you lost her.”

  The wraith was either unable or unwilling to meet its master’s eyes. It was looking at the floor, snarling and snapping in animal pain. It finally managed, “We found her, started to follow her home … but we met an Auroran looking for her, too….”

  “Did you recognize them?”

  “No … but his eyes glowed like the sun. He … unleashed himself, burned us.”

  Zaedicus tilted his head and took the wraith by the chin again, checking its wounds once more. Clinically, he prodded the boils covering some exposed flesh. They were … hard. Unlike blisters. Indicative of the specialized radiation of an Auroran vivid: the holy power of the sun.

  “Keep going,” the master said over the wraith’s whimpers of pain.

  “He killed the other. I barely escaped.”

  Zaedicus doubted it had been much of an escape. More likely, the vivid had allowed the wraith to live so it could relay the tale. Nonetheless, there were more important things to deal with than the arrogance of the Aurora. “And the girl? Focus!”

  The wraith snarled at the ground. Its movements had become jerkier. The pain was overtaking its logical brain.

  “Focus,” the master said again, gripping his thrall’s deformed shoulders.

  “She … ran. She had already left and run away….”

  Fear mounted in Zaedicus’s chest. “Surely, you must have followed her. Even in this state, you could bring her to me. Surely, you know where she is, at least.”

  “I tried to wait, but….”

  “But what?” His voice was strained, betraying his fear. This worthless thing had better not have lost the girl’s trail—for both of their sakes.

  The wraith wheezed, grating out, “The revenant. He came, he found her. I tried to come to you as soon as I could….”

  No. That couldn’t be. The zombie was supposed to be across the country, sucking the Holloway inheritance dry and minding his own business. He had no business with the girl; Zaedicus would have thought he wouldn’t want any business with her, considering how much he despised her father.

  This had never been a consideration. There was no plan for this contingency. The Gloaming had let the revenant go because they had known he would never come back.

  Now that he was here, what could it mean? Could it be—

  Zaedicus laughed at the thought, dropping his thrall to the ground. Unifying the Reach had been a pipe dream, an experiment that had died with Richard Holloway. With him out of the way, it would never come to fruition. There was no chance.

  There is a chance, said something inside of him. If conscripted, the lost hellerune might revive the Reach as surely as she could the Gloaming.

  All at once, it made sense. The Reach—whomever that consisted of now—must have her.

  The lord he served would be furious. Zaedicus had to set this right before the Wounded ever found out, or his punishment would be unspeakable.

  “I will have someone scry for her again, and send someone more competent out for her,” he whispered, mostly to himself. The wraith’s whimpering distracted his thoughts. He turned his attention to it sharply. “What are you blubbering about?”

  “It hurts, Lord Oldine.”

  Zaedicus had no doubt. He glanced down at the scorched fissure in the wraith’s chest and thrust his fist inside.

  The creature howled in pain as deep orange embers spurted from the fissure. He gripped the wraith by one shoulder and eased his hand further in, until his fingers wrapped around something smooth.

  It was white-hot. Agony seared through Zaedicus as he touched it. It was as if the sun itself was lodged in this wraith’s chest cavity.

  A holy boon, like a bomb, meant to implode the creature. Meant to send a message.

  Zaedicus steeled himself and tore it out.

  Chapter Eight

  When Mercy arrived home, Edie was bundled on the couch in a pile of blankets and pillows that resembled a snail’s shell, fast asleep and drooling on herself. She still clutched the TV remote in one hand.

  It was about five in the afternoon. Not exactly a normal time for anyone to sleep in till, but she hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all. In her half-dreaming state, she could vaguely hear the TV, still on the same channel she’d been stalwartly watching all night: the local news.

  The couch shifted as Mercy managed to negotiate a few inches of it for herself, and Edie felt a cool breeze brush her face as her friend reached out and shook her gently. “Edie … hey, Edie? I’m home!”

  Edie stirred in her cave of blankets, groaning as she sat up and surveyed her surroundings. Almost immediately, she went tense, ready to run. But the second she saw Mercy, she relaxed again, rubbing her face.

  “Yay. How was your convention?”

  Mercy ignored the question, brushing her lion’s mane of bubblegum pink hair over her shoulders. “Are you feeling ok
ay? Your eyes are all bloodshot. And— ew, your blanket is soaking.”

  Edie looked down at her primary shell of duvet and cringed as she touched it. “Sorry.”

  “No, I’m not … angry, I’m just worried. Are you sick?” Mercy sniffed the air. “And what is that smell?”

  Edie stiffened up. Hervey. Dammit. After that … zombie had broken into the apartment, she had refused to sleep a wink. Even when the sun had finally come up, she had stayed at her post, eyes on the locked door. She wasn’t sure when she’d finally succumbed to her exhaustion, but she remembered thinking about having lunch before she’d decided to “rest her eyes for a second.” It must have been around noon.

  “Edie? What’s with the smell?” Mercy persisted, waving to draw her friend’s attention back to the matter at hand.

  She was too exhausted to do anything but tell the truth. “Um … it’s Hervey.”

  Mercy wrinkled her nose. “That’s him? Are you sure he’s alive?”

  Edie gestured to his cage, which she had righted back onto the coffee table. “He’s been up and moving around all night. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

  Well … she had an idea, but it was so crazy it wasn’t even worth talking about.

  Mercy shifted a little to take a closer look, pinching her nose. “Aren’t you going to take him to the vet?”

  “I was,” Edie said, sighing and reaching back to reconfigure her messy bun. Compared to Mercy—who was travel-chic as hell with her wide-brimmed black hat, matching round sunglasses, and velvet leggings—Edie looked like she’d just escaped from a serial killer’s basement. “I was going to do it today, but it’s probably too late....”

  “There’s an emergency night vet a couple blocks away,” Mercy said, shrugging one shoulder. She gave Edie another once over before quirking an eyebrow. “But you don’t look so hot, girl.”