Blood Spelled

by Gayle Parness

  The fire she’d created inside her mind came to life, attacking the sorcerer’s fingertips as they traced the spell, moving quickly over wrists and arms, engulfing shoulders and necks as if their bodies had been doused in rocket fuel. The stench was nothing compared to the sound of their screams as they ran about blindly, one into the main curtain, still open, the other slamming into the wall they'd constructed with their dark magic. The main curtain caught fire as if it were made of paper, the flames spreading to other curtains: the legs, travelers and backdrops that masked the skeleton of a bare theatre. Scenery stored in the wings from other theatrical productions began to smoke. The theatre was an inferno within minutes.

  “Hurry, Ingrid,” Alan shouted over the din.

  "But Gene’s hurt. He needs…”

  “We’ll come back if we can.” Ingrid knew he was right, yet she still stood frozen to the spot, ready to burn with her attackers. “Ingrid!” Alan's desperate plea, the idea that some of her friends could be saved, cut through her fury. The spell for the wall had fallen when the sorcerers began to burn, and the audience’s cries were now hammering against her sensitive ears.

  The night had become pure sensation, the stench, the smoke-filled air, the taste of blood, the heat—a nightmare made real.

  With Diane, another troupe member, stumbling beside them, Ingrid and Alan dragged Staci to safety though the back stage doors. Ingrid collapsed on her hands and knees in the parking lot, hacking up black bile as two medshuttles glided alongside the four thetas.

  But Gene was hurt and still inside and where was Dave or Sam? She turned back, shouting, forcing herself to stand. "The others..."

  "It's too late." Alan pointed at the backstage door. Black smoke billowed out, then rose into the air, carried away by a steady breeze. Alan was doubled over in pain, one of his hands badly burned. Diane sat on the ground beside him, clinging to his leg as she sobbed. The two medics, a human male and female, lifted Staci onto a gurney. She was unconscious, but didn't seem to be burned or bleeding.

  Ingrid wasn't about to be carted off to hospital if more of her troupe could be saved. She raced to the front doors of the theatre, stumbling on unsteady legs, hoping there was a chance she could get to the stage from that direction. Once in the lobby, she was grateful to discover she didn't need to push her way through a fleeing audience, although it was odd she hadn’t run into even one. She remembered hearing the audience screaming, which should mean the fire had spread beyond the proscenium. Using both hands, she stumbled into the theatre through a set of double doors, hot to the touch.

  The crackle and heat of the flames still burning on stage was forgotten as her mind tried to make sense of what she was seeing. Her gaze trailed from seat to seat, section to section, her brain unable to comprehend the destruction. "This isn't real," she whispered, although no one could hear her.

  Trapped in their high-priced seats by magic-blocking chains, the audience had been reduced to twisted slabs of charred flesh, where only a few minutes ago they were burning up with pleasure.

  All dead. Burned alive.

  Ingrid gagged, but had nothing left in her stomach to bring up. What sickened her the most was the smell of the magic used to secure them in place, a familiar scent that chilled her bones. This wasn’t the work of the sorcerers.

  The Director, the archdemon who held every theta’s life in his cruel fist, stood center stage, his expression grim. Because he’d fed off the audience’s pain as they’d died in the most grisly of manners, power arced in waves around his body, a light show created by death. Ingrid clutched at the low wall at the rear of the theatre, having never seen chaos on this scale.

  The wall of flames behind him spared her the vision of her friend's bodies, and for that, she was grateful. Ingrid put aside the pain of their deaths, as she’d put aside so many other feelings, and allowed her anger to surface. The Director had been present and had done nothing to help Gene, Dave or Sam. They'd been left to die, as he concentrated his energy on trapping and murdering the audience.

  The red and blue flames framing his prodigious form didn't spread or make contact with the floor, walls or ceiling. He controlled this fire, his element throughout the ages. In such a dramatic pose, he looked powerful beyond imagining, able to kill with a snap of his fingers, blah, blah, and blah. She would’ve laughed if the situation weren't so tragic.

  He locked his angry gaze on hers. "The three troupe males are dead." His deep voice vibrated across the length of the theatre, every word clear and precise.

  "So are the two sorcerers who attacked me," she countered, expelling a slow breath. Gene, Dave and Sam were dead, her worst fears confirmed by her most dangerous enemy. Blood magic sorcerers? Demons called from the depths of hell? They were nothing compared to the male on stage. If she were very lucky, he'd kill her quickly.

  But not until she had answers. "Why?" She pointed to the audience. "Why kill them?"

  He shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled, human gestures made vile by his alien version. "Witnesses. I could not allow them to live to tell the tale."

  "You killed everyone?"

  "An audience of sorcerers and witches—no great loss to our world. My news media will report it as a tragic accident. No one will hear that your panic caused the fire."

  "My panic?"

  "You—lost—control," he growled.

  Not even close, she thought, smirking on the inside. She'd been in complete control. She'd told the men to burn and they had. But The Director thought she'd panicked. Fine. Let him believe what he chose. Better that he doesn't know he's not the only firebird in the house.

  "The two sorcerers wanted to kidnap me. When I fought back they began to conjure a spell to kill my troupe. I pushed one into the curtain and his spell set it on fire." Ingrid lifted her chin, resolved to live or die without shame or submission. Even in her lie, she refused to be revealed as a coward.

  His eyes widened for a heartbeat, then narrowed again. "You should have gone with them. My soldiers would have located you. None need have died."

  "They were handing me over to a mid-level demon they'd managed to call up from hell or wherever your type lives."

  He growled, "What demon?"

  "They didn't say a name."

  "I will locate him by tonight. He will never attempt to steal my property again." She shivered at the word and glanced away. Slavery, no matter how good the living conditions, was still slavery. The Director scowled at her reaction. "Your race is mine, Ingrid. You may be a lovely piece of ass and a top projector, but you are as replaceable as a good whore. Now, where is Mack?"

  "I don't know. It seemed like he pulled his power as soon as he saw the sorcerers, even before the spell went into effect. The troupe was weakened by the sudden withdrawal of his axis energy, otherwise, we might have all escaped. The sorcerers were able to knock us out easily with their spell because we were vulnerable."

  "But not you? You remained alert?" The Director had no eyebrows to arch, only scarlet hair pulled back in a long braid, but he still managed to look surprised.

  "I blacked out like the others, but woke first," she lied easily.

  Ingrid’s quick thinking and stronger axis energy had saved her today, but defending herself against the sorcerers had resulted in the deaths of three friends. Maybe The Director was right. She should have gone with them. What was the loss of one life, compared to her three friends, or even worse, compared to the lives of hundreds of innocent sorcerers and witches who’d come to see the performance? Those deaths were also her responsibility.

  But the power Ingrid had manifested to save herself went beyond anything she'd ever accomplished in the past. It confirmed what she believed was possible for her race. So she slid her guilt into a box and locked it tight. She would move forward, convincing The Director to send her to a more powerful troupe. This was a dangerous path for her to take, but it was the only one that made sense. Her life had never been safe, but if her people found freedom, it might become significa
nt.

  The Director was studying her thoughtful expression with pit black eyes. Any minute he might rip through her mind and see the truth. To stave off a mental attack, she went on the offensive, using the tiny thread of power she had left to send him a visual of exactly what she'd described as having taken place. It was a fantasy she molded to look real, her specialty. When she finished, she stumbled against the chest high wall behind the last row of seats, her fingers turning white with the strain of keeping herself upright.

  The Director waved a hand and the bodies in the seats began to disintegrate, the metal chains clanking as they resettled on the empty seats and floors, echoing off the walls in Dickensian style. Ingrid looked around, but saw no spirits, only chairs covered in clay-colored ash and silver.

  "Gene would still be alive if you'd left with the sorcerers."

  A stab to the heart—one of his specialties. "Yes, sir." Ingrid kept her head down, showing submission, hiding her fury.

  "The media will report that someone in the audience set the fire with a spell gone wrong. When I find Mack Stone, we will speak again."

  The Director swung his hand out toward the audience then turned, walking directly into his personal flames without flinching. As the chains dissolved along with the bodies, Ingrid slid down the wall, curling into a fetal position on the ash-covered carpet. The medics found her a few minutes later, sobbing.

  Playing with Passion is free at all the usual vendors until 5/15/16