Summoned Chaos

by Joshua Roots

  “Well then, let’s kill the bastards.”

  I smiled. “I’ve always liked you, old man.”

  The Wizard grinned. “Just don’t get in my line of fire.”

  “Literally.”

  We exited the room. “So, where to?”

  I scanned the hall.

  I pointed to my right with the Glock. “The Mimics tore up the offices in this hallway, so my guess is they are heading that way.”

  Pell darkened.

  “What?”

  “Come.”

  He took off faster than I’d thought him capable. We jogged down the corridor, made a right, and pushed through a set of double door into a large conference room. Briefcases, laptops, tablets, phones and a wide assortment of papers were strewn about the room. The rich, leather chairs were ripped to shreds. Claw marks covered the long, wooden table. The smell of scorched flesh and fresh blood still lingered in the air.

  “Damn,” Pell said, moving around the chairs and kneeling next to the body of a young man in an expensive suit. Blood pooled beneath him, pumping from the deep gouges carved into his chest and neck.

  Pell placed his hands over the wounds, but no Healing Spell in the universe would bring color back to the young man’s ashen face or sight to his unseeing eyes.

  I stared at the kid, feeling sick with rage. His outfit screamed “Normal,” but there was only one way for me to be sure. I reached out with my senses, but the body didn’t radiate with the slow dispersal of Skill. All I felt was the cold void of death.

  Normal or Skilled, my anger over his death bubbled beneath the surface, begging for release. The emotion would certainly give me a boost, but it would destabilize my spell-making ability unless I got it under control. I gritted my teeth, struggling to reshape my rage from a wild, unstable inferno into a single, scorching flame.

  When we found the surviving Mimics, that surgical precision would mean the difference between targeted kills and unleashed hell that might harm innocent bystanders.

  “What was he doing here?” I asked as I slowly bottled the fury building within me.

  Pell removed his hands from the victim, wiping the blood off his palms. “Council meeting,”

  “This late?”

  “Details later, Marcus.” He rose slowly to his feet. “Let’s deal with the Mimics first, okay?”

  “Trust me.” I double-checked the last spare magazine clipped to my thigh-holster. “I am all about dealing with them.”

  “Easy,” Pell warned. “I can sense the storm building within you.”

  Wisps of stray fury still nipped at the back of my mind. “I got it.”

  Pell frowned. “Okay, but the —”

  A scream on the other side of the door at the back of the conference room startled both of us. Pell rushed to it, yanking it open with surprising speed.

  The anteroom was small with stark, white lights that illuminated it like daylight. Three more bodies rested just inside the entrance.

  The two humans in suits, a matronly brunette and an older man with gray hair, were in similar condition to the young man in the conference room. Pell didn’t bother checking them.

  The third body was a Mimic whose head was located on the other side of the chamber.

  At the back of the room, however, a pair of Skilled was doing everything in their power to keep the remaining five Mimics from killing a group of Normals. To the left was a Mage named Thetra that I’d seen around HQ from time to time but never really spoken to. To the right, and most surprising, Elder Devon.

  I stared, unable to process the sight of an Elder giving a beat-down to the enemy.

  Elders weaved red tape, not spells. The closest they came to combat was fighting the aging process.

  Pell raced to help Thetra who was dealing with three Mimics. She spun her glowing staff like a black-belt, slamming the gnarled top against the temple of the nearest enemy. There was a sickening crunch and the Mimic howled as it dropped to the floor. Pell raised his hands, yanked electricity from the surrounding lights, and drove an open palm against the fallen Mimic’s torso. Screams exploded from the injured beast and the room was immediately filled with the scent of burnt flesh.

  While Pell and Thetra engaged their surviving Mimics, I recovered from my shock and sprinted toward the pair attacking Elder Devon.

  The old man was holding his own, driving the beasts back one at a time with various Air and Electricity Spells. But with only one hand. The other hung limply at his side and he winced every time he moved.

  Devon spotted me and jerked his head to the right. I shifted my aim, leveling the Glock at the indicated Mimic. Unfortunately, the Normals were too close to my target for me to safely open fire, so I switched my pistol to my other hand and drew my sword. The cold, blue steel glinted and I felt for the nearest element. Electricity from the lights and wall sockets rushed to me when I called. My blade exploded with white light as the energy ignited the runes. I took a long step, swung the sword behind me, and brought it down on the Mimic with all my might.

  The metal sliced through the torso like warm tofu, sparks igniting flesh upon contact. The creature screamed in agony and spun, lashing out with a leg. The long, taloned foot caught me in the chest and I was thrown backward into a wall. I braced just in time, minimizing the force of the impact and allowing me to maintain my grip on both weapons. The Mimic turned, wobbling as it struggled to come after me.

  Devon raised a hand to launch a spell at the injured beast, but the second Mimic darted sideways. It crashed into the old man, driving them both the ground.

  Fear for the Elder kicked open the door to the rage I’d bottled earlier.

  The boiling storm flooded out of me, filling my senses with raw, unfiltered energy. It was intoxicating, sensual, and terrifying, all wrapped up into one. Rather than fight it, I allowed it to consume me.

  Then I unleashed hell.

  Lightning bolts arced from my sword to the wounded Mimic in front of me, blasting it across the room. It struck the far wall with titanic force as the deadly energy cooked the beast. The skin went from yellow to a charred black while paint vaporized and drywall melted. The creature shrieked, but its cries of agony were silenced when it slumped dead to the floor.

  My sword humming like a power station, I hurled myself with a boost of Skill and a shout of unrestrained fury at the Mimic attacking Devon. The creature spun just in time to have its head lopped off. The electricity dancing on my blade immediately cauterized the wound. The body wavered before flopping onto Devon.

  Still seething with rage-fueled power, I charged Pell and Thetra’s Mimics.

  One of the creatures yelped as I wrapped my arms around it, lifted it off its feet, and carried it into the wall. I lost my grip on both weapons as we collided, but I felt the grim satisfaction of justice when something snapped inside the sickly, yellow body of my prey. The creature screamed in pain, but I silenced it by driving my fist into its flat, sallow face.

  Long, spindly arms rose to block another punch, but I swatted them aside. I closed my hands around the creature’s head like a vise, then, with a scream of my own, I bashed its skull against the wall with all my might. The beast cried out, its terror filling me with power and joy.

  Again it shrieked, again I drove it into the wall.

  Energy, pure and simple, came at me in wave after wave.

  This beast had killed.

  It deserved the death I would give it. But it would earn its punishment.

  And I was the one to provide it.

  The inferno raged within me, charging every muscle in my body. The power begged for release and my heart sang as I obliged. Over and over I pounded the creature’s skull. Each impact was music, passion and pleasure all wrapped into one.

  The Mimic went limp. Death was near and I needed to feel it. Needed to serve it.

  I released the creature. It slumped to the floor.

  Laughter erupted from me as I raised my foot. I stomped the bloody skull once, twice.

&
nbsp; Then something crashed into me from behind.

  My face bounced off the cracked drywall. Blood poured down my shirt as the cartilage in my nose popped.

  I spun, ready to kill my attacker.

  Another blow, this time to my temple, stunned me. Pain exploded in my head while the emotional hurricane inside me sputtered and died.

  The haze faded andBlinking through the stars in my vision, I saw Thetra’s piercing blue eyes glaring at me. She held her staff defensively as we stared at one another.

  Then the exhaustion of using so much Skill overwhelmed me. My knees buckled and I stumbled backward into the wall, sliding to the floor next to the Mimic.

  “Easy, Shifter,” Thetra said, lowering her staff. “The situation is under control now.”

  My head swam as I gazed about the room. The final Mimic was nothing more than a crumpled heap of charred bones.

  “Marcus?” someone asked. I glanced up and saw a horrified look on Wizard Pell’s face.

  I followed his gaze to the corpse next to me. The creature was still alive, although just barely, and obviously in pain. Its chest rattled as it breathed while blood poured from its skull. It stared at me, tears leaking from its dull, gray eyes. They trickled down its ruined face, dropping into the pool of blood beneath the broken body.

  Bile filled my throat as my head spun.

  I rolled over and heaved, emptying everything in my stomach. I retched again, then closed my eyes and tried to calm the terror that was pounding in my chest. I’d killed lots of paranormal creatures over the years.

  This time, however, I’d enjoyed it.

  Chapter Four

  The Accidental Hero

  “Better?” Mick asked.

  I sipped the ice water cautiously. “Yeah. My hand is still pretty sore.” I flexed my fingers. The white scars, reminders of a previous battle, ached twice as much as normal thanks to the pounding I’d given the Mimic. “And my head is killing me. Again.”

  Concern filled his face. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I’m fine.” The words came out quick and harsh.

  Whether or not he was going to say anything, I’d never know because the door to Elder Devon’s office opened. A pretty young Witch popped her head out.

  “The Elder will see you now.”

  Mick gave me a thumbs-up, then winced and placed a hand over his knife injury. He caught me staring. “I’m fine. Go have another helping of debrief.”

  “You don’t have to wait for me.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it. I’m going to go check on Elsa.”

  I chuckled, grateful for something light to focus on rather than the Skill hangover eating my insides. He patted my shoulder, then headed down the hall while I followed the Witch into the Elder’s office.

  For a man of Devon’s lofty position, his chambers were smaller than I expected.

  One of only thirteen Elders, he was a member of the elite echelon of the Delwinn Council that governed the Skilled. Unlike the hundred-some-odd basic council members, Elders were elected for life and tended to be the most powerful and political of all the ruling members. As a group they also had final authority on every matter. Granted, they usually left the day-to-day crap to the rest of the Council, opting to maintain their focus on the Really Big Stuff like wars, treaties and pay raises for themselves.

  Most of the Skilled community walked on eggshells around the Elders because they were as secretive as they were powerful. Not a lot of people knew what went on behind their closed doors, but there were rumors that they had a hand in every aspect of Skilled politics. Things like negotiating land rights with the paranormals and determining which spells were considered “dark magic” and which were “boring goody-two-shoes magic.”

  Personally, Elders were barely more than an annoying blip on my radar.

  Part of that was because I’d interacted with a handful of them over the years at the family Homestead. Not only was the large mansion home to a huge vault full of horribly powerful magical weapons, but Dad was one of the most senior members of the Delwinn Council. Elders tended to pop by quite often for tea or to try and figure out how to rid Nature of one of the countless items we kept locked away. Having grown up around them, their rank didn’t intimidate me.

  The other part was because the Elders represented everything that was wrong with our governing body. The old farts were obsessed with tradition rather than modernization. Oh sure, they’d pushed for the Reformation, but they were much more comfortable carrying a staff than a cell phone.

  Remembering our past was one thing. Wearing wool robes in the sweltering heat of September was another.

  The Witch presented me to the Elder, who thanked her. As she left, he offered me a seat in one of the high-backed leather chairs in front of his desk. The cushioning was thick and my sore muscles smiled as the chair enveloped me in a rich, buttery hug.

  Devon looked better than he had two hours earlier. His beard was combed back into its normal, silky gray and his eyebrows were teased into submission. His still favored his bad arm, but he didn’t wince like before. The bruising under his left eye was a pale yellow rather than the deep purple normally associated with getting your ass kicked by a paranormal thug. I knew for a fact that Mick was the only Healer still around, but he’d been so busy with the other injured—including me—that he couldn’t have tended to the Elder.

  The old man had fixed his own wounds and done so like a pro. It made me only slightly nervous to be in the presence of someone so powerful they had mastered both the Healing and Summoning branches of training.

  And those were just the ones I knew about.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Marcus,” Devon said with a polite smile. “Especially considering the kind of day you’ve had.”

  I shrugged, fighting the exhaustion that threatened to lull me to sleep right there. “I’ve had worse.”

  Devon’s beard twitched slightly. “So I’ve heard.”

  Lacking the energy to do much else, I simply stared at him. The pain thumping in my head didn’t help.

  The Elder leaned forward. “Cutting to the chase, you’ve placed me in a very interesting predicament. On the one hand, you and your rift team are all on probation.”

  I swallowed, fighting the anger that was slowly building in my belly. “A bad order is still a bad order, no matter who issues it.”

  Devon nodded. “I agree wholeheartedly.”

  “What?” I asked, unable to mask my surprise.

  “Warlock Arbent’s willingness to act against Elder Rancin’s order ensured the safety of our reality.”

  My shock slowly spooled into confusion. “Then why were we punished?”

  Devon blinked, obviously unaccustomed to being questioned. “Because you defied an Elder. Before you get angry,” he added, cutting me off, “consider it from our perspective... You and your team were issued orders from the highest level of the Council and you disobeyed them. Yes, it was the right call, but the Elders have to prove to everyone that kind of decision is not without consequence. If we didn’t, what would prevent the next person from ignoring us?”

  I bristled, anger beginning to pump renewed energy into me. “Punishing us only sends the message that you don’t trust your leaders to make tough decisions. What happens if someone needs to challenge a bad order in the future? A lot more people tend to die from lack of action than they do from wrong actions.”

  Devon seemed unfazed by my accusation. “I’m willing to play the odds that most situations won’t wind up like yours did this morning. But that is not the issue at hand,” he added quickly. “You present a unique problem because of who you are. In addition to your probation, you are well-known for the...issues of your past.”

  I clenched my jaw to keep from snapping at the old man. No one needed to point out how cocky I was as a kid or that my overconfidence had convinced me I could handle a professional Summoning Spell.

  The scar on my neck, not to mention the nightmares that haunted me, were
more than enough.

  Nor did anyone need to remind me of my cowardice when I’d walked away from the Skilled community entirely. The powers of the Skilled were like any muscle in the human body. The more you worked out, the stronger you became. But stop using that muscle and it atrophies. When I’d quit my training out of shame for my actions, I’d locked my Skill behind an emotional door. I’d refused all things magical, opting instead to simply let that part of me die. When I then ultimately decided it was time to stop running and return to the Skilled world, I had been weaker than a newborn pup. I’d struggled with training, compensating for my lack of powers by mastering Normal weapons.

  Running away from my problems was easy at fourteen. Admitting I’d never escape them unless I confronted them was harder at twenty.

  Reinserting myself back into the Skilled world after so much time away had been exhausting, both physically and emotionally. I’d stumbled while kids much younger than me excelled—all the while dealing with the judgmental looks and blatant accusations of nepotism from my classmates. I’d spent many night crying tears of frustration into my mother’s shoulder, but I was tenacious, never quitting despite the struggles. Eventually I’d graduated with a commission as a Combat Warlock.

  And was promptly ushered out the door by the Delwinn Council with the request that I never bother them again.

  Not that I minded, of course. The Council was like any red-tape, bureaucratic entity. The members fought for power, undermining each other whenever they could. They seemed more concerned about getting re-elected every eleven years and less concerned about actually running our society efficiently.

  As such, I had been more than happy to let them wallow in their political filth while I went about my business, working freelancer jobs outside of their care or concern.

  That is, until I’d helped create the rifts that we were trying to repair and got assigned to the Council by my father. Ever since, it’d been a tenuous relationship of begrudging dislike between me and the Powers That Be.

  I felt the stares as I walked down the halls and heard the whispers that I wasn’t really one of the Skilled.