by R. L. King
After an agonizing several seconds that seemed to stretch on forever, the door slid closed and the lift descended. A few seconds later, the door opened on the hallway leading to the workroom.
Alastair had gotten a bit of his wind back from the brief rest. He grabbed Selby and dragged him out into the hall. So far, nothing impeded them. He shifted to magical sight, and slumped in relief when he saw the familiar lines of Desmond’s wards, their ordered, mathematically-beautiful structure glowing and unbreached around them.
They’d made it! If the wards were strong enough to keep the creature out, they’d be safe here.
“Okay,” he said, puffing. “You stay here. I’ll go find the others and bring them back. If there’s anything else you can tell me about this thing that might help, now would be a good time.”
Selby gripped his arm. “I think…it wants Mr. Desmond. I think…that’s why it…wanted me to summon it inside the house.”
Bloody brilliant. So the thing’s plan, apparently, had been to kill Selby and then lie in wait until Desmond returned home, but his appearance had spoiled its surprise. That meant it would be after him at minimum, but probably the others too, to ensure nobody tipped Desmond off. This just kept getting better and better.
“Stay here,” he said again, even though it was unnecessary—Selby wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
Selby sagged against the wall. “Be careful…” he whispered.
“Yeah.” Because a barely-trained mage who knew about five spells total was going to be any use at all against some kind of super-powered shadow-thing he had no idea how to find. He stepped back into the lift and pressed the Up button, wondering how this whole situation could get any worse.
The lights went out, and the lift shuddered to a halt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Alastair stood in the dark and tried not to panic.
His first, visceral thought was, It’s in here with me.
He pressed his back against one of the walls and quickly shifted to magical sight. The thing had left traces before, so he hoped that meant it couldn’t hide completely.
No traces, and no glowing aura, appeared in the tiny space.
How had it shut off the lights?
It doesn’t matter. They’re off. You’ve still got a job to do, so get going.
The lift shuddered again and slowly began to descend, until it settled back to the bottom of the shaft.
That was great—he wasn’t stuck between floors, which would have been even worse, but he was still stuck back at the bottom. He stabbed the button in the hope that whatever backup system had lowered him down would also take him back up, but apparently it didn’t work that way. How was he going to find the rest of the staff while stuck in the dark, inside a lift barely bigger than a phone box? Even if he could get the doors open, it would do him no good if he couldn’t get out of the lower level.
He had to try, anyway. He slipped his fingers into the crack between the two doors and tugged. After a moment, they slid a few inches apart, and magical sight revealed his fear was real: Selby’s flickering, fading aura glowed against the wall of the workroom hallway.
Okay, the lift was stuck, and the doors would be no help. He paced the tiny confines, thinking. The cubicle didn’t have an intercom or a telephone to reach anyone—he’d used it plenty of times, and certainly would have noticed such a thing. His telekinesis magic wasn’t strong enough to raise the entire lift to the ground floor. So how was he supposed to get out?
His thoughts returned to one of the mindless television shows he’d watched while relaxing in the common room back at Barrow. It was some kind of spy thriller thing, and the heroine had gotten trapped in a lift in an office building. She’d escaped by going through an emergency hatch in the ceiling, and climbed the cable to the next floor up.
Did this one have a hatch like that? He realized he’d never even looked; it wasn’t something you normally did, and in any case he was fairly sure that under normal circumstances, nothing in Desmond’s house would ever have the nerve to cease functioning properly.
He reached up, but even with his arms fully extended his hands didn’t touch the lift’s ceiling. There was nothing to stand on, so if he wanted to get up there, he’d have to use levitation.
The good news was, it was one of the spells that came easiest for him.
The bad news was, being scared he was about to be jumped by a bloodthirsty shadow-thing as soon as he poked his head up through the roof didn’t make concentrating on magic easy.
Just get on with it. They’re counting on you.
He took a few deep breaths to calm his pounding heart, and closed his eyes even though it was so dark he couldn’t see anything but blackness. After a moment, he felt his feet leave the floor, and a moment after that, his outstretched hands pressed up against the lift’s ceiling. To his relief, the panel gave way to his push, shifting upward with ease. Score one for bad telly, I guess.
Catching hold of the edge, he used a combination of levitation and muscle to squeeze through the small opening, and a moment later he was standing on top of the lift. It was just as dark in the shaft as it had been in the cubicle, and he couldn’t see any sign of light filtering in through a crack in the ground-floor doors. Probably means the lights are off up there too. Maybe in the whole house. That was great—he had no idea where flashlights were kept, and the only candles he knew of were back down in the workroom. He wished again that he’d asked Desmond to teach him a light spell, but right now he didn’t have time to dwell on what he couldn’t do. He had to get upstairs.
Another levitation spell took him up until he brushed against the ceiling—apparently the lift only extended as far as the ground floor, and didn’t reach the upper parts of the house. He held the spell steady and felt around until he found the crack between the ground-floor doors, then shoved them open as he had down below. It was harder this time—not only did he not have anything to brace against, but he had to hold his concentration on the spell to keep from plummeting down while simultaneously pushing on the doors. By the time he stepped out into the hallway, he was puffing with exertion again, and sweat trickled down his back. Quickly, he shifted to magical sight to scan the area.
He spotted it an instant before it was upon him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
If it hadn’t been for all the drills Alastair had done with Desmond, conjuring faster and faster shields to stop surprise beanbag attacks, it would have gotten him. As it was, he got a brief, flashing impression of something vaguely humanoid but with too-long arms and legs and a gaping, tooth-filled mouth leaping at him from halfway down the hallway. The thing itself was as pitch-black as its surroundings, but a jagged aura glowed red around it. It moved in utter silence.
Alastair acted without thought, the pattern coming to his mind instantly as he’d been taught. A glowing shield sprang up between them, lighting up the area perhaps a foot or two in front. The creature slammed into it, its raking claws digging shallow furrows that sent blasts of painful feedback straight into Alastair’s brain. He winced and staggered back, but didn’t drop the shield.
Think! Alastair pressed himself against the wall, panting and terrified, as the creature came in for another shot. He couldn’t just stand here and let it pound on the shield until it came down or his concentration failed. If he was going to get out of here, he’d have to come up with another plan. But how could he attack it? He couldn’t hit it with his fists, and Desmond hadn’t taught him any offensive spells. His mind raced over his limited repertoire: Invisibility won’t fool it. Neither will disregarding. Levitation won’t help. Telekinesis—
That was it! The thing had to be solid to attack him, which meant it might be vulnerable to physical attacks.
It sliced at the shield again, its claws long and pointed. The barrier’s bright glow flared and began to
fade, sending another spike of pain into Alastair’s head. It had to be now!
In the shield’s faint illumination, his gaze fell on a heavy marble statuette on a table across the hall, off to the creature’s right side. He’d only have one chance at this.
Doing it just as he’d practiced, he held the shield while forming the second pattern in his mind. He gripped the statuette and flung it with all his strength at the creature’s head.
Direct hit!
If the thing had been human, the missile would have impacted with a satisfying, melonlike thunk. Instead, it smacked into the creature with no sound at all. For an agonizing second, Alastair thought he’d missed.
Then the thing shrieked, a high, keening sound that sliced through Alastair like a whole room full of children running their fingers down blackboards at the same time. He cringed backward, almost losing his grip on the shield, as the weird jagged aura around the creature split, fragmented, and changed into something more liquid and indistinct. The shadowy form flowed off and disappeared into the darkness.
For a moment, all Alastair could do was stay where he was, slumped against the wall, panting as his heart thudded in rhythm with the pounding in his head. He swiped his hand across his forehead and it came away soaked with sweat, and he tasted the faint, familiar tang of blood.
But it was gone, at least for now. Had he hurt it? Scared it off? He didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. He was sure it wouldn’t be gone long. He’d have to find the others and get them back to the workroom before it did.
He wished he had a real weapon. Apparently the thing could be hurt while in physical form, and while he had no combat experience beyond getting beaten up by bullies a couple times when he was younger, having something he could use to fight back without expending magical energy would be welcome. The problem was, he couldn’t think of anything like that. Not in the dark, anyway. Trying to find a knife in the kitchen would be next to impossible and take far too long, and he couldn’t remember seeing any old swords or other weapons hanging on the walls anywhere, even if he could spot them in the darkness. If only he had some kind of magical weapon—
Wait!
He didn’t take his meals in the formal dining room very often, since Desmond was usually busy and he preferred grabbing something quick in the kitchen. But the few times he had eaten there, he’d seen it hanging on the wall across from him. Now, he pictured the strange-looking object—halfway between a spear point and a dagger, and made of some weird, multicolored metal—and remembered the glow he’d seen around it when he’d looked with magical sight.
He had no idea what it was for or if it had any additional powers, but it had to be better than nothing. If nothing else, its glow meant he’d be able to find it in the dark.
The dining room was off the great room, between where he was now and the staff’s quarters on the other side of the house. If he hurried, he might be able to make it before the creature decided to have another go at him.
If it hadn’t already changed targets and decided to go after the others instead.
A chill shuddered through him as another thought occurred to him: since the lights had gone out, one or more of the staff might have already ventured out of their rooms to find the source of the problem. He’d counted on finding them in their quarters—if they spread out and ended up all over the mansion, he’d never find them all before the creature did.
If only he had a way to get hold of Desmond! He had to find Kerrick—if anyone would know where Caventhorne’s master had gone, it would be him.
Alastair set off at a fast walk down the hallway toward the great room, running his hand lightly along the left-side wall as he went to keep himself oriented. Even though it hurt his head to do it, he kept magical sight running at all times, and glanced over his shoulder periodically to make sure nothing was bearing down on him from the rear. It was exhausting, but there was no alternative. He remembered Desmond’s words during one of their lessons, when he’d warned that learning magic would be painful. You’ll get over it, he told himself. Just suck it up and hurry.
He reached the end of the hall, stopping before he stepped into the wide-open space of the great room. He’d be more vulnerable there, but he’d also have more room to maneuver. He paused a moment to gather energy, taking a quick look around the vast space. He didn’t see any auras—creature or human. If anybody had ventured out of their rooms, it would probably either be to hunt for the fuse box (where would such a thing even be in a house this huge? He didn’t even know where it was at his own place, but assumed it was somewhere in the basement) or merely to come out into the hall to chat with others. He hoped it was true, anyway.
No more time to waste. Out here, he could see a little better due to the faint moonlight filtering in through the windows. He took off at jog toward the dining room, staying close to the wall instead of cutting across the center. His every nerve was on edge as he remained ready to fling up the shield at the first sign of the creature.
He wasn’t sure what made him look up as he drew near the doorway leading to the dining room. Perhaps it was a change in the air, or some kind of instinctive, developing sense of magic around him. Either way, he glanced upward just as he was about to pass through.
The ink-black shadow creature was hurtling toward him, leaping down from one of the heavy beams high up in the great room’s ceiling.
This time, he didn’t even have a chance to get the shield up. He moved without thinking, diving toward the doorway in a desperate attempt to get clear of the creature’s claws. Pain lit up his back and he felt his shirt tear as they raked across him, but his last-second move saved him from the worst of the impact. He rolled, leaped to his feet, and grabbed one of the heavy chairs to put it between himself and the stalking creature, giving him time to get the shield up again. Before the thing could attack once more, he threw himself sideways and ripped the dagger-thing from the wall.
Instantly, he felt it thrum in his hand, as if it had an electrical current running through it. He wasn’t sure if he should somehow activate it, or even if it was the sort of thing he’d need to activate. Keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the creature, he experimentally fed power into the weapon, the same way Desmond had taught him to do when powering a circle.
The blade began to glow brighter. It was still a faint glow, nothing impressive, but the shadow-creature hesitated. It made a growl that Alastair felt more than heard, and its attention (as much as it was possible to tell with a creature that had no proper face) seemed to be fixed on the weapon.
With another growl it went liquid again, flowing into a true shadow on the wall and disappearing around the corner back toward the great room.
Alastair let his breath out, wincing. He could feel something warm trickling down his back and was sure he was bleeding, but the pain wasn’t too bad yet. It didn’t matter if it was, though—he couldn’t stop now. He had a weapon. He had to move.
Impulsively, he gripped the dagger in one hand and, with the other, snatched the tiny shield-thing off the wall as well. He had no idea what it did—it looked comically small to be useful as any kind of protection—but one thing he’d learned all his life was that when you were dealing with magic, things were almost never as they seemed. Maybe it would help him.
He was almost there. All he had to do now was get through the great room and down the opposite hall to the staff’s quarters, and then—
Someone screamed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Alastair didn’t stop to evaluate the situation, or to consider the possibility the creature might be laying a trap for him. Gripping the dagger in one hand and the tiny shield in the other, he pelted out of the dining room in the direction of the scream, which seemed to have come from the doorway at the other side of the great room.
He spotted the slumped figure on the floor before he’d made it halfway acr
oss, but couldn’t identify it from that distance. All he could tell was that the scream had sounded like a man. Kerrick?
He skidded to a halt as he drew closer. The shadowy thing was crouched on top of the fallen figure, digging at it with its wicked claws—claws now soaked in blood.
Oh, gods, no—I’m too late!
“Get away from him!” he yelled, brandishing the dagger. His arm shook and fresh sweat broke out on his forehead as he got a clearer view of its impossibly long limbs, the gaping, fang-filled mouth that took up most of its otherwise featureless face, and the way its edges seemed to shift nauseatingly in and out of focus. It looked like something, not out of his worst nightmare, but out of a nightmare no sane mind could ever conceive of having.
“I’ll have you all…” it whispered, more in Alastair’s mind than in his ears. Its voice sounded like sandpaper scraping against rough rock. It leaped off the figure toward Alastair, claws extended.
He reeled back, tripping over his feet in his haste to get out of the way, and went over. That might have saved his life. With a roar, he slashed upward with the dagger and felt resistance as he crashed to the floor and the creature sailed over his head. Pain spiked through his back where the claws had found him before.
The thing’s shriek of pain this time was even louder and more unsettling than when the statuette had hit it. It landed awkwardly on its side, then leaped up on all fours like an animal and disappeared into shadow again.
More voices were coming from the hall where the staff’s quarters were, getting closer. Alastair scrambled to his feet and hurried over to drop down next to the fallen figure.
He didn’t need the flashlight beam that shined over his shoulder a moment later to show him who it was: the familiar tall, stout form of Samuels, the estate steward, lay before him, his throat ripped and bleeding. He was obviously beyond help. Alastair sagged in shock, barely catching himself before he fell.
