Charles settled back and relaxed, eyes still open but already unfocused—or, considering what he’d said, maybe focused on something else entirely, something I was incapable of seeing.
I wasn’t as certain of how the magic ritual worked as I would have liked. Did magic really always involve drugs? Little Ashley had stayed away from stuff like that, scared away by horrible examples both in real life and in the form of tales from my father’s police career. But, prejudice aside, what did I really know? Mister Wizard here seemed like a professional, not an addict, and it’s not like he was busily snorting lines of coke off a stranger’s bedroom floor.
While I pondered, Charles worked. The inner pile of sand disintegrated as he swept his fingers back and forth through it, smearing it as if painting the floor. His body relaxed as he continued, tension flowing out like water as the sand took form. The impressions of different forms and shapes seemed to come and go as he waved his hands back and forth, figures shifting like… well, like sand, changing so quickly I could never quite grasp one before it was suddenly another. A meditative hum swelled from his throat, deep and resonant, the pace and intonation altering swiftly but subtly as he went, shifting and flowing like the sand at his fingertips. The candles’ light, already weak, dimmed even further.
I let Charles do his thing. What else was there to do? I found that the peaceful silence didn’t treat me kindly, however; try as I might, my thoughts slipped back to the fact that Lori’s fate might well rest in the hands of the unlikeable stranger seated in front of me. From there it only got worse, as my traitorous thoughts conjured up a series of suppositions of what might have befallen her since she disappeared, each one more disquieting than the last.
I wrapped my arms tightly around my body, as if the chill in the air still bothered me.
What was probably only a short few minutes felt like an hour with only my own mind for company. It was difficult to simply stand there, potentially inches from answers but ultimately helpless to assist in their discovery, with only one surly, probably-high wizard to share the silence with.
Regardless, the shift caught me off guard when it happened. Tonal humming and sand-painting abruptly gave way into mumbled arcane gibberish, the air rippling invisibly with purposeful power. Charles swept away the mirage of shapeless sand, clearing away stubborn grains to reveal the marred section of floor. Furrowing his brow, eyes half closed, the wizard’s hand hovered over the center of the circle, and he leaned forward.
His large, calloused hand blurred and sunk into the floor as he pressed it down—hand, forearm and smudge wavering and indistinct as if viewed through a rippling pool of cloudy water.
Mouth hanging open, I watched in rapt fascination as the blurring grew along the warped flooring like a spreading fire until it consumed the whole thing, writhing and murky. An electric tingle hit the air, dancing down my spine and raising the short hair on my arms and neck. With a visceral rending sound I more felt than heard, the floor split open, a narrow, bloody red line tearing its grotesque way down the charred marking like a reopening wound.
Somewhere in all that, I realized that Charles was wrong. Real magic might not be what popular media might have me believe, but it was still awesome.
Tension and static pressured the air in the room as the magician lingered, intent, sweating face close to the raw red line in the floor, body supported by his other arm. His hand, submerged in the floor, began to shake, seeming to resist him as if he were trying to force two magnets together. Bit by bit, the line grew, slowly, with a not-sound tearing at the air as it seared red-hot in the dark, branding itself into the floor.
And then it was over. Charles recoiled, his hand flung free of the mark; the bloody edge of red dimming to nothing, just a raw, blackened tracing of a line on the ground. Both candles snuffed themselves instantly as the pent-up energy in the room burst outward, rolling past me in a surge, tugging tangibly at my hair and dancing along it in the form of static. Cursing dimly echoed from underneath the door as the apartment’s electric lights stuttered and failed in a wave, cutting out completely, only to slowly begin recovering a few moments later.
“Give me a hand up, please?” Charles requested from the floor, stretching out an unsteady arm, the other already tightly clutching his staff.
“You okay?” I took his hand and slowly, carefully pulled the tall wizard upright, mindful of my newfound strength and making my best effort not to accidentally fling him into the ceiling or yank his arm out of socket with my stiff, imprecise movements.
In the near-dark, he nodded slowly. “Yeah. Thanks. Shouldn’t be long, just a little unsteady at the moment.”
I raised my eyebrows, knowing he couldn’t see the surprise on my face with his normal human vision. If I’d ever needed more firsthand evidence of how drugs could mess with someone, Charles’ sudden shift to “please” and “thanks” more than sufficed. Combined with a softer, suddenly non-gruff tone, it was honestly weirding me out. And people are still against legalization. “Need help making your way back in there?” I asked.
He shook his head with great deliberation, eyes pointed generally toward my head, but still off target. “Not if you open the damn door so I can see.”
And he’s back. With a mental shrug, I released Charles’ arm and popped the door open, letting him blink aggressively at the sudden influx of comparatively bright light, a shift in visibility that didn’t affect me in the slightest. A spark leapt from my outstretched hand to the door knob when I went to turn it, but it didn’t sting like I knew it should have. I couldn’t help but grin a little.
Back in the lands of the living room, Corey looked highly irritated, vigorously shaking a black-screened smartphone, while Tamara sat on the other end of the couch, wearing an amused smirk. Face abruptly serious, she stood as soon as I threw the door open, looking to Charles. “Well? What did you find?”
I stepped aside and Charles made his way in past me, still blinking and disoriented, holding up one hand to stall her questions while leaning on his staff with the other. “Hold on, if you would. Still processing what I encountered. It’s not good, I’ll tell you that much.” As Corey cursed under his breath, Charles cast him a querying look. “The hell’s wrong with you?” He glanced the scene over. “Oh. Your phone?” Charles snorted with sudden amusement.
The apprentice sighed, looking out the window as he stuffed the still-blank device and its attached earplugs away. “Yeah.” The boy’s voice was too loud, and slightly off tone as he tried to covertly rub at an ear, his face reddening a little.
“I’ve told you not to do that. You should have known better.” Still chuckling, the wizard made his way slowly to the end of the couch, leaning against it for stability. I followed him, so he could easily see me laughing if he fell.
“When magic influxes from Next Door, it can cause havoc with the electrical systems it comes in contact with,” Tamara explained, seeing my confused expression. “Like an EMP, but with less predictable results. And occasional explosions.”
I nodded my approval and understanding. I was pretty certain I’d seen a movie where they did something like that. Or maybe it was in a book.
“You see,” Charles began with a deep breath, his dark eyes still unfocused and dilated, “when a magician brings forces into this world from Next Door, there are swells of energy shifting as the world seeks equilibrium, rebalancing and adjusting itself to the influx of energy that—”
A powerful kick slammed the door open with an impact like a gunshot, followed immediately by an actual gunshot. A broad, sturdy, middle-aged man in digital camo and military fatigues filled the doorway, a heavy pistol held firmly and professionally in both hands. A burst of static and air came with the indistinct flicker of Charles’ defensive gesture, but it wasn’t enough. The smell of blood filled my nostrils from where the shot grazed the side of the wizard’s head. He reeled and staggered, his staff tumbling from his grasp.
Tamara moved like lightning, throwing herself forward—no
t behind cover, but at the armed invader silhouetted in the doorway.
Time seemed to slow down.
I remembered my uncle at the shooting range, the instant of cool calculation before the precise follow-up shot, almost identical to the man at the door. He shifted his aim and fired in a smooth, expert motion, but his target wasn't Tamara, the closest and easiest-to-hit threat. It was Charles’ center mass.
So I shouldered him out of the way.
From my childhood exposure to guns, I’d learned two things about them. One, they were really damn loud. Even if they were silenced, which this one wasn’t. Two, you absolutely did not want to be on the receiving end of one.
Twin gunshots split the air, dual cracks that weren’t as deafeningly painful as I expected in the confines of the room. I felt the force blast through me, my dead body absorbing the shock from both bullets as they struck my chest, and I stumbled.
Shit. I’ve been shot. Numbly, I looked down at myself with detached shock, then let myself collapse to the floor before the gunman could finish me off.
Meanwhile, Charles tumbled and rolled to safety in the far corner of the room; my hasty and lifesaving shoulder-check had propelled him well past the couch and into a fragile end table. I could only hope its textured glass top was the only thing that had broken when they both hit the wall.
Intact or no, at least he was alive. And unshot. Unlike me. I entertained a moment of panic; how bad were the wounds? I couldn’t feel anything. My body’s lack of a pain response only left me to my own vivid imagination, and I distinctly remembered lesson number two: Gunshots Are Bad.
Looking past the end of the ugly mauve couch, I watched as Tamara dodged two more gunshots at point-blank range. Her irises were huge and luminous, gleaming with energy, her movements far too fast and fluid to be mistaken for anything human. I shuddered to think what damage those missed shots might do in the inhabited apartment building; the walls here were too thin to stop something with that much force behind it. Likewise, I shuddered to think what those bullets might do to my Moroi companion, since her vampiric nature didn’t protect her from being killed dead by a single lucky bullet.
I rolled over and pushed myself up, body creaking, then paused.
A flattened piece of lead fell out of the folds of my hoodie.
There wasn’t time to stare blankly at the little piece of deformed metal. I pulled myself onto my feet, knocking the end of the couch aside as I staggered toward our assailant, picking up steam as I went.
Even as I rushed to Tamara’s aid, any doubts I might have had about her supernatural abilities were laid to rest. She kept easy pace with the mystery military man, despite his defensive footwork and the potential lethality of his weapon in close quarters. My eyes went wide with helpless alarm as he finally caught her and shoved the gun barrel into her stomach, but Tamara was still in control as she slapped a hand down on the gun and pivoted lithely. Our assailant pulled the trigger, but nothing happened, so tight was the Moroi’s grip on the gun’s slide. Then she twisted the weapon away from her torso and ripped it out of his hands, right before taking a smooth step to the side and away, clearing a path at the last possible moment.
I slammed into him like a ton of bricks. His weight did nothing to slow me down, and together we crashed headlong into the wall like a runaway train. Textured tile cracked and split like lightning, and the lights overhead flickered and survived for the second time. The wall shuddered and bent under the thunder of our impact but held, and I bounced off our attacker. I didn’t want to kill him, after all, though the sound of cracking bone from low in his torso said I might have come closer that I’d intended already. That fear was driven home as his knees went watery and he slumped, slipping heavily toward the floor.
Then he shook it off and stood back up.
His green eyes were blank and dispassionate, glossy, yet with a hint of anger. And as they met mine, I saw something else looking out from behind them.
I took a step back as, instead of succumbing to pain or damage, he started toward me. Tamara leapt on his back, one slender, alabaster arm slipping around his throat and locking into place, her other arm bracing it and forming a triangle designed to rapidly choke him into submission.
He staggered and still kept coming. One heavy hand came up to pull against Tamara’s stranglehold, but to no success; he might as well have been trying to pry loose a metal vice instead of the Moroi’s pale, toned arm. He gave up and leaned forward instead, weight and leverage doing what raw strength could not; I watched Tamara’s feet leave the ground and dangle between his legs. Tamara eyed me with pale, icy blue, inhuman eyes as he trudged forward, hindered but heedless of her efforts.
Then I noticed his other arm, tugging a backup pistol free of a holster on his thigh.
“Ashley!” Tamara noticed it too, shouting a warning that spurred me to action. The veins in his throat and forehead stood out from the strain as he shouldered Tamara to one side, freeing himself enough to raise the gun.
Without thinking, I grabbed it, not in the classy, skillful way Tamara had, but just getting a crude fistful of Beretta barrel. Then I stepped back and took it from him, my inhuman strength yanking it nearly effortlessly from his grasp. I looked down in surprise and cringed.
A couple of his fingers had come with it.
The increasingly-familiar scent of blood struck the air like a hammer blow. I felt like my stomach should be rumbling and my mouth watering, but neither of them were. I wavered on my feet, jarred by an instant of sudden, alien hunger. I blinked it away and glanced at the gun in my hand; the barrel was a mangled mess, rendering it useless, at least unless the shooter intended to kill themselves.
I expected the man to show pain, maybe cry out. Do something, something human. But instead his face twisted into a mask of feral rage, his eyes still hollow of true feeling. Stepping further away, I set the dangerously mauled handgun carefully on the ground as he staggered another couple of steps before finally sinking to his knees, succumbing at last to Tamara’s chokehold.
He met my eyes one last time before losing consciousness, Tamara having ridden him relentlessly to the floor and still holding tight. Eyes still hollow and haunted from within, a flicker of a smirk crossed his features, before he finally went limp and still. With the threat nullified, a wave of relief washed away the tension I hadn’t known I was holding on to.
Finally, I could spare a moment for myself. Looking down, I expected to see blood by now, but my fresh clothes were still bone dry. No gaping, gory wounds were visible from the front, not that they should have been—they’re called exit wounds for a reason. But awkwardly patting myself on the back, I didn’t feel any holes back there, either. And just as before, no pain.
Maybe I could walk this off after all. I certainly hoped so; I had a sneaking suspicion that a dead body strolling into the nearest hospital and asking to have some bullets pulled out might cause a bit of a stir.
“Ashley!” Tamara rolled off of the still form beneath her, taking a quick moment to check his pulse with satisfaction before rising to her feet and looking toward me with concern written across her pale, beautiful features. Her eyes refocused, brilliant sapphire irises shrinking to normal size, their uncanny, liquid glow fading. “Are you alright? I thought he shot you for a second there.”
“He did, and she’s fine.” Charles’ voice emerged from behind the couch as he used it to pull himself upright, staff reclaimed. Corey’s mop of flame-colored hair peeked over the opposite end, the boy hopefully safe and intact. “Mortal weapons like that will do little or nothing to something like her.” Charles leaned casually on the back of the couch, as if a psycho trying to gun him down in a stranger’s apartment was no big deal. Maybe he was used to people wanting to shoot him. “Things created by or to use against supernatural beings may be a different story, but few things will do what they would to a human or even a Moroi. Strigoi supposedly were—are—as tough as worked iron.”
As if to prove his point, he ben
t carefully and plucked something from the plush cream rug, from near where we’d been standing when crazy military guy number two had burst in. Tamara and I had to step closer to make out what it was.
The second bullet lay, spent and deformed, in the palm of Charles’ hand. I took a moment to stare at it blankly in disbelief as I’d intended to do earlier. No way this is for real.
Tamara threw an arm around my shoulders, gushing excitedly about how badass this was and how awesomely we’d worked together. But instead of paying attention, I was busy peeking under my hoodie, trying to satisfy my beleaguered rational mind.
And it was the spreading, purple-black bruise I found growing there that told me I wasn’t quite as invincible as everyone seemed to think.
14
Burning bridges
The sound of sirens was distant for now, but the wailing sound clearly heralded that our time was swiftly running out.
“Can we go? We should go,” Corey spoke up. He didn’t look as spooked as I would have expected after the shootout and brawl but maybe that just spoke of what he’d been through to wind up here. Regardless, he didn’t look too happy about the impending arrival of the police.
“We can’t just bolt,” Charles stated. His eyes were already more firmly focused and present as he looked to Corey. “Pack up my bag.” He glanced at us. “I have something else to do anyway.” Without another word, he stepped outside, scanning the doorframe with a critical eye.
Tamara laid a hand softly on my arm. “Thanks for your help back there. You did really well for someone who doesn't deal with this shit on the regular.” She shared a smile with me, inspiring one of my own in return.
“What about the police?” I asked. If we were here when they showed up, we’d have to answer a lot of really awkward questions.
Dead Girl's Ashes (Dying Ashes Book 1) Page 11
