by Marie Castle
I frowned. This sounded like more than missing money. The cold, hard knot forming in the pit of my stomach echoed my thoughts.
I could’ve walked away. They weren’t aware of my presence, and I was ill-prepared for this fight. Every instinct I had said go. Everything my family had taught me about picking my battles seconded that. But there comes a time in life when you have to do the wrong thing for all the right reasons.
Or maybe I was just in the mood to do something really, really stupid.
Usually the criminals I’m hired to retrieve at least do me the courtesy of waiting until I announce something cliché like “Reach for the sky” before fighting. I’ve been told that I have a deceptively innocent face and that my five feet five stature is not intimidating. But I’ve always thought it was my sweet, Southern drawl that did it. As my Nana says, “A pretty face and charming disposition go a long way to disarming a man.” Although, come to think of it, I’ve never determined whether or not I was supposed to take that literally. Whatever the cause, most don’t believe I’m there for them…until a knife pressed to their ribs drives home the point.
But I guess my mystery man and Bob were in a hurry, because I’d barely stepped into the open when Bob said, “Someone’s here.” The distorted man’s hooded head jerked in my direction. I had a moment to note that I had been wrong. The cloak was real and not part of the illusion. Then I was dodging as Bob—who I was beginning to think deserved a more villainous name—threw a ball of black-magic at me. I skidded behind a heavily laden shelf, and the ball whooshed by with a dark chill, narrowly missing my ear. My enspelled earrings sparked, reacting to its magic.
I moved again, ducking behind a crate of nails just as another ball flew past, smashing into a stack of timber behind me. Wood sizzled, smelling of acid rot as black-magic consumed the planks. I raised my head then quickly dropped again. I didn’t need my eyes to locate Bob. His evil aura and revolting smell were strong enough to paint a bull’s-eye at midnight. But with his distortion amulet, my mystery man could be anywhere—a sniper waiting for a chance to pull the black-magic trigger.
Or not.
Movement on my right drew my attention. The distorted man was slowly and confidently walking out with the briefcase. On my left, Bob was forming another of those deadly balls. I shuddered. Bob Rainey had the same sadistically happy expression he’d worn when playing with the rats. The distorted man said, “Meet me, Sarkoph, when this is done, but take another body. That one has outlived its usefulness.” He stepped into the sunshine streaming through a high window. Again, I glimpsed a gnarled, twisted face, but this time, sharp, red-brown teeth and black lifeless eyes were also discernable. He turned back to say more, and his features were once again like that of the hooded reaper, only blackness where a face should’ve been. “And leave no trace of this one. We are too close now for mistakes. Fail, and I’ll make sure your true master, not that bitch you serve, executes your punishment.”
Bob or Sarkoph or whoever he was (well, I had wanted a more villainous name) simply said, “It shall be done, my lord Nicodemus.” He spat out the title.
Wait, did he say dispose of? I was suddenly furious, my previous caution washed away. It would take more than a stiff-limbed accountant with demonic powers to finish me. And if they thought anything less, they were in for a surprise. Mr. Monkey-Suit and his fake hair were about to find out that I was descended from a long line of ass-kickers.
My breathing slowed. I focused on the fire flowing through my veins. I’d promised my mother never to call the flames outside of our family home. It wasn’t a power witches had. It wasn’t even a power guardians had. My mother had said if the wrong person found out, there’d be hell to pay.
However, things change. My mom wasn’t around to care about a promise made years ago. And even if she were, Evie Delacy had been the one to teach me that sometimes to survive you had to break the rules. This was a matter of survival. There would be no containing a demon-possessed body. One way or another, Bob Rainey’s dark rider had to go.
Two orbs then a slight pause looked to be this thing called Sarkoph’s pattern. With only seconds before the next attack, I came out blazing, literally. I threw a ball of bright green earth-magic at the distorted man. It clipped his shoulder, eliciting a muffled curse. Then he was gone, fleeing into the brightness of a spring day. The door closed with a click. And Sarkoph and I were alone in the half-light.
From the corner of my eye I saw Sarkoph prepare his throw. Pulling on my innate magic, I twisted, letting the forbidden fire run down my black and silver whip. The flying leather coiled around his hand, and I pulled. His magic flew right, splattering with a loud boom on something metallic. Ears ringing, I barely heard Sarkoph’s pained cry as fire seared his wrist. Who knew the dead could feel pain?
I certainly hadn’t, but it was useful information. I might not be able to destroy his body, but I could make it a highly uncomfortable residence. A little voice in my head said that was a bad idea. But I wasn’t listening. It was the best idea I had, so it would have to do. I felt the pain in my own arm. Blood dripped warm and slick from where his last shot had grazed me. Though small, the cut felt like it was simultaneously being melted and frozen. Magic that corrupt was poisonous, even to the one wielding it. The wound needed to be cleansed soon, or things would get nasty.
I needed this fight to end…and quickly. I looked at Sarkoph. It hadn’t occurred to him that I was within reaching distance. I needed to act before that fact smacked us both in the face. This close, his cologne, eau de decay, was horrific, making the urge to gag mind-blowing. And his appearance didn’t help. Bob’s facial muscles were loose, jowls sagging, all visible skin a purplish white. Even if I hadn’t crashed the party, the spirit would’ve needed to abandon his body soon.
Sarkoph was trying to pry my whip from his wrist, but as long as I kept my flames steady, he couldn’t get a good grip without scorching his fingers. But controlling my fire was difficult, another reason to hurry. I dug deep, pulling fire into my left hand.
I was about to do something really dumb…and really, really stinky.
Stepping forward, I dragged Bob’s smelly, rotting corpse closer, dry heaving as we came nose to nose. His eyes widened, hands rising to stop me, but I was already shoving fire straight into his chest. Sarkoph’s eyes rolled back. His nails dug into my forearms, his magic-coated fingertips scorching my skin before his grip slackened and his hands fell away. For a second, my flames danced on his chest. I kept pushing, willing them to go deeper. The spirit resisted. His body sagged, his weight pulling on my whip. Then the resistance slipped away. Like a ship gliding through water, the fire pushed into and through him, forcing the possessing entity out.
With a surge, the wall I’d been pushing against simply dissolved, and I nearly fell on top of Bob’s corpse, managing at the last moment to throw myself backward. I landed on my ass in the sawdust and sat there for a second, disbelieving what I’d done. Then I jumped up. Confused, I found myself suddenly standing over an unmoving, lifeless, decaying lump with a very pissed-off mass of darkness hissing and hovering above it.
There wasn’t a curse word big enough for this.
I’d never used my fire against something living or, in Sarkoph’s case, something dead but with a body capable of independent thought. (I wouldn’t say intelligent. He had, after all, stolen from the Vamps.) It shouldn’t have worked like this—exorcism was not one of my powers—but the magic had heeded my request…just not in the manner I’d expected.
Using my fire, I quickly drew three of the four protection wards. They shimmered red in the air. Against a full blast of black-magic, three wards wouldn’t hold as well as four, but they’d have to do. I wasn’t about to turn my back to draw the last corner. Hopefully, with my fire’s boost, they’d keep me from being possessed until I could banish this demon. And I was sure now that he was a demon or, at the least, one of their lower-level cousins. A bodiless spirit, Sarkoph’s true power came through possession,
meaning he was vulnerable until he made himself a new host by forcing someone’s soul out. Unfortunately, I was now the most convenient Motel 6.
Time. I needed some to think of a banishment. “So, tell me, why didn’t you run?” I asked, slowly dragging my feet through the floor’s sawdust. I wasn’t really expecting a reply, just hoping to occupy the spirit while it tried to process my question. No way was Aunt Helena going to believe this. “That was an awful lot of money. You could be on a beach somewhere, sipping margaritas.”
Only the oldest spirits could speak outside a body, so I was surprised when the darkness that was Sarkoph did, his deep grating words barely understandable. “Know…runner come…always send powerful ones.” The dark mass vibrated, expanding and contracting with each word. Tendrils of demonic power began to test my wards. I kept moving. “Make runner mine. Money good…body better. This one…smells.”
I snorted, stifling a sarcastic retort. Smells was a definite understatement, but criticizing the vocabulary of something trying to possess me seemed unwise. I moved further, never turning my back, adding what earth-magic I could to strengthen my defenses, racking my brain for something…anything.
“Think…man dead,” he continued. “Bloods get their stealer…not chase runner.” His dark power clashed with my weakening shield, sparking green and black. I would’ve been worried to hear his plans for me, but adrenaline, pain, and magic were all I could feel. I gritted my teeth, focusing more energy into the wards. Just a few minutes more.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but the Vacancy sign is off. You’ll have to take your stench and bad taste in men’s hair accessories somewhere else.” I’d pitched my taunt, hoping he’d bite, and wasn’t disappointed. But apparently Sarkoph had a quick learning curve, because his words were becoming clearer. Not good. I was sure adapting quickly was listed in Fighting Evil for Dummies as a big no-no.
“You are not…my choice. But I…do much…your body.” Definitely a he. The words might be garbled, but the tone was precise. If this thing could form a face, it would’ve sported a big, lecherous grin. I’d now made a half circle and could see where his previous blasts had landed. I’d once seen a comedian burst a watermelon with a sledgehammer. That had been less messy but likely what would’ve happened to my head if he’d hit me as intended. I shuddered, stopping to push more power into my wards. Sensing my fear, Sarkoph pushed back.
We stood like that in the sunshine, battling with will and magic for what felt like forever but was probably only moments. Or rather, I was standing. The darkness was doing an ominous hover that could’ve put the best yenta to shame. In my mind, the spinning wheels ground to a sudden stop as a memory pulled the brake.
The only banishment I knew was a simple charm we witchy-children were taught while others learned nursery rhymes. When I made it out of this, I promised to read the texts Aunt Helena was always trying to force feed me. Okay, well, I’d probably only skim through half of them, but I’d definitely read at least one—whichever one had the most pictures.
More sparks flew as Sarkoph battered my wards in earnest. I clenched my jaw, squared my shoulders against the rising pain, and took another step. “Didn’t your mama teach you how to treat a lady?” I was talking now more out of instinct than anything else. Certain now that the spirit was male, my natural reaction was to treat him like I would any overbearing man who’d stepped on my toes—with a swift kick in the remember-your-manners shins. And the first lesson of reminding a man about proper etiquette was to mention his mama. Though, as his next words came, I thought that lesson might not apply here.
“I ate…the one who birthed me.”
I shivered at its emotionless tone and slowly dragged onward. “That was a mental image I could’ve done without.” My hands moved, drawing power from the earth like shimmering, green droplets of water that hung briefly in the air before flowing into my body.
Sarkoph didn’t appear to rotate, but I felt him watching me, his confusion almost palatable. He rumbled, “Worry not small one…I will treat your body…with great care. Give unto me…and your death will hold little pain.” He drew the last words out, but I only half-noticed, barely listening as I began the spell. For extra insurance, I pulled more magic from the earth. Streaks of green power flowed like ivy vines over my protections. I called what flames I could. It hurt. I was channeling two magics that shouldn’t have been able to exist side by side. Fire scorched Earth. Earth suffocated Fire. But strangely enough, here I was. It was a unique gift that might just save my life—if it didn’t kill me first.
Soon, there was a massive ball of red fire crisscrossed with bright green lines churning in my hand. The charge of channeling so much magic was exhilarating…and dangerously addictive. In my mind, I saw the image I must present. My bright blue eyes would be glowing. A few raven strands of hair had worked their way free and floated upward in the red and green magical currents now snapping around me. My body felt weightless, only my tiptoes touching the ground. And everything in the room—from the steel shelves, wooden crates, and sawdust-covered floor to the dirty glass windows—everything suddenly seemed brighter, as if the essence of life glowed from within them.
That essence was the truest form of earth-magic. It was akin to the magic of the soul, something white witches were forbidden to harness. I was desperate, but not enough to pay the price such magic required. Well, almost everything glowed. My eyesight receded to the mind’s eye, where the universe’s magical planes become visible in all their glory. As this happened, the building and its contents took a depth and range of spectrum that the human eye cannot comprehend. Everything but Sarkoph became brighter, more beautiful. The demon darkened, becoming a black void that cringed from the light.
Soulless.
I didn’t even dare think the term. Such creatures were stories, invented to scare witchy children. I had to focus on the physical. The real. Things I could vanquish in the daylight. As it was, this was going to be close.
Just as my wards fell, I threw my fireball, moving quickly backward. For once, my aim was true. The fire landed on the line I’d painstakingly drawn while dragging my boots through the sawdust. Sarkoph released an unholy screech as the magic followed my command, curving to become a circle. Then the swirling flames flowed upward, becoming a half sphere, completely enclosing his dark mass. Fire was energy, and the energy of my circle arched downward through the concrete, forming a half-unseen but no less impenetrable sphere. The magic called, ringing through me, seeping into my bones.
Oh, yes, Sarkoph was good and fucked.
As I chanted, his screeching increased, the pressure of it so fierce that my nose began to bleed. Hands pressed to my ears, I shouted, feeding my words to the fire. “As Above, So Below. Darkness to Darkness must go.” Sarkoph’s screams became impossibly louder. I continued, knowing the words flowed out, even if I couldn’t hear them. I made it to the next to last line, “We consecrate this land,” then went blank. What were the words? Shit, I couldn’t remember. Maybe it wouldn’t matter. Right. When had I ever been that lucky?
Blood dripping down my lips and chin, I repeated the chant three times. As the words ended, the circle began to shrink, slowly at first, then faster, collapsing inward. I released my vision from the mind’s eye. The magic was becoming too painful to view with such clarity. Even with the limitations of normal sight, it was an eyeball-searing visage. Like a collapsing star, Sarkoph’s darkness drew in on itself, the fire pressing him tighter and tighter.
My hands stayed over my ears, but that didn’t keep them from popping as the air shifted. One by one, the warehouse’s windows slammed shut. The fiery sphere began to rotate, slowly then faster and faster, consuming the building’s oxygen as it burned hotter, then hotter still, nearly blazing white. I stumbled backward, gasping for breath. Heat drew the skin on my face tight. There was a low roaring like a train. This was wrong. So wrong. I’d never been present at a banishing. Few had. But I’d read enough to know this wasn’t how it worked. The circ
le should’ve stayed the same size, transporting the spirit simply and quickly to the Otherworld.
I had a sinking feeling that Sarkoph wasn’t the only one who was fucked.
I backed into a steel shelf. Eyes locked on the sphere, I raised my hands, feeling for something sturdy. There! I grasped the shelving’s supports. My survival instincts screamed, Run! But I stood transfixed.
And within seconds, it was too late.
A new, heavy gravity formed at the sphere’s heart. My feet began sliding as the sawdust was dragged into the flames. The burning sphere’s draw grew exponentially. Bob’s abandoned corpse inched toward the fire.
A sudden gale began as the room’s air was drawn into the sphere. Small whirlwinds whipped my hair and clothes. Despite the circle’s heat, I began to shiver. I attempted to slow my breathing, trying not to hyperventilate in the suddenly oxygen-deprived air. Nails and other bits pinged as they became mini missiles, tossed by the rushing air. There was a flash of pain as something sharp nicked my cheek, passing on its journey to the fiery oblivion. It should’ve hurt more, but everything was beginning to go numb. And that was a very bad thing.
I was going into shock, my limbs weakening with the lack of air. I held on with everything I had. Sarkoph’s earsplitting wails had nearly stopped. But there was the new sound of metal creaking as the heavy shelves bent toward the imploding circle. As if through a dark tunnel, black spots formed on the outer edges of my vision, expanding, coalescing into a whirlpool of darkness with only flames visible at its heart. Knees weak, my sweaty hands bore more and more weight.
Just as Bob’s thousand-dollar shoes slid into the fire, my fingers slipped. I collapsed to the floor, reaching backward. But I was lighter than Bob’s corpse. And within those few seconds, I’d already been pulled several feet. I stared in abject horror at the flaming sphere, now no larger than a beach ball, hovering inches above the ground. That might not sound big enough to eat a man, but that was exactly what it was doing. Inch by inch, it consumed Bob’s body.
