by Karen Chance
It finally stopped, what felt like a lifetime later, because that amount of magic doesn’t just melt away. Leaving John under a solid looking sphere of silver metal when he cautiously lowered his shields. He stared at it. It gleamed back at him. He thumped it—cautiously.
It rang like a bell.
John stared at it some more. Because that . . . wasn’t supposed to happen. His shields had somehow not only protected him, but had cooled the molten metal, all in the space of perhaps a couple of minutes. John thumped it again, just to be sure he wasn’t dreaming, something that . . .
Turned out to be a very bad idea.
The second chime no sooner rang through the street than there was yelling in Cantonese. And the next moment, his metal bubble was being assaulted by something that dented it all over, like the pitted surface of a golf ball. Until one of the somethings broke through, and a spear stabbed down, only missing turning John into shish-kebob by a fraction of an inch.
Anger flooded through him, the way it always did in battle, the way they taught young recruits to avoid because it clouded the brain. But this time, it cleared it, allowing John to be in perfect control of his faculties as he re-engaged his shields and exploded them outward, shattering the metal bubble into a thousand pieces. And sending an explosion of sharp-edged steel flying directly into his attackers.
Chapter Six
T he four men and one woman were vampires, he noticed, when he bounced back to his feet. But not even the undead recover immediately from a shower of lead slamming through their bodies. John used the few seconds he had before they retaliated to assess the situation.
It wasn’t good.
There were still-shielded figures everywhere, many of which were being assaulted as he had been. There were war mages—startlingly few of them—on their feet and defending themselves from a motley crew of vampires, weres and mages who were attacking from all sides. And there were smoking rings where other shields had been, but which had failed under the onslaught of that terrible, combined spell.
John stared at them, and at the things inside them, the huddled, smoking piles of bones or ash that marked where a war mage had fallen.
An icy hand gripped his heart and squeezed, hard enough to make it skip a beat. And then he spotted one of the nearest burning pyres, and it felt like it stopped altogether. A large figure, still mostly intact because his shields must have lasted almost long enough, was crouched inside a spelled coat. It had partly survived, too, with pieces of burnt leather curled up on the once strong back, but the general shape was intact. It had provided additional protection to the mage, once his shield dome collapsed, but not enough.
Not nearly enough.
John couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from the burnt face, which was no longer recognizable. Yet the body itself, seared in place with one knee bent, like a knight on an ancient tomb, was the correct size and what was left of his skin was the right color. Caleb, John tried to say, but no words came out.
Until a vampire leapt for another huddled figure, one whose shield had just failed, leaving the badly injured man attempting to crawl away over smoking hot streets.
John literally saw red. He wasn’t sure if the tide of fury slamming through him had just burst half of the blood vessels in his eyes, or if it was the spell that tore out of him that distorted his vision, but it didn’t matter. A tongue of fire leapt from the whip he’d materialized in one shielded hand, slashed across the street and wrapped itself around the vampire’s head.
And ripped it off.
The now fiery head went bouncing down the street, and half the attackers—the vampire half—turned to stare at him. But only for a split second. Then they were coming, all of them, including the five with metal shards sticking out of their bodies who were trying to jump him from behind.
The fire whip expanded in length and breadth as he whipped it around his head, taking out his nearest attackers and then tearing down the street like a comet. The few war mages on their feet hit the pavement. Those who could, raised shields again. Those who couldn’t used their coats for protection, staring at him over the lapels, as if suddenly waking from a dream to find themselves in a nightmare.
Some even tried to come to his aide.
He didn’t need it.
“Stay down!” he rasped, and slung the great band of fire sideways across the street, catching a dozen figures halfway through a leap, and sending them crashing to the ground—
With their smoke blackened bodies severed neatly in two.
The sparks shed by the giant lash had caught even more, throwing the whole street into a panic, because there was nothing vampires hated more than fire.
What a pity, John thought grimly.
It was his favorite spell.
The whip slammed back the other way, catching another group of the creatures, who somehow stayed intact long enough to be smashed into the burnt and blackened side of a building, where they disintegrated into a mass of burning chunks. And then again and again, but not catching as many this time, because they were turning, they were running, they were fleeing the scene—
Or maybe, John thought, they were just getting out of the way.
Because what looked like every vampire in the world suddenly started pouring off the tops of the four and five story buildings surrounding the street, a dark wave of them like a living waterfall. John dropped the whip and threw up a shield, but felt the pull of their collective attempt to drain him nonetheless. With all that power directed at him, he was surprised they hadn’t managed it already.
But it wouldn’t be long.
He needed more fire, and he needed it now.
John screamed with effort, the power he was suddenly channeling feeling like it would burn him alive. But it didn’t; somehow it didn’t. And it worked.
The flood of reinforcements hit the smoking street just in time to meet another wave of newcomers, pouring out of the three portals he had just opened in the air all around them. Fire imps—and yes, Caleb, he thought grimly, that was what they were called—poured forth from one of the nastier hell regions. The small, blackened bodies, like hardened lava, spewed in all directions, short and squat, but surprisingly thick and heavy, and armed with two-inch-long talons they didn’t need, because their touch was enough.
Their touch was death, at least to creatures as flammable as old newspaper.
The initial wave of the vampire attack paused, not understanding what they were seeing. Not until the imps leapt onto the advance guard, and their blackened skins flashed molten red and gold, as the fire part of their name came into play. And realization dawned.
Vampires screamed and immolated, or turned and tried to flee if they were back far enough, creating a breakwater of smoke and burning flesh and churning, screaming bodies around John. And quickly, almost faster than he could see, the rest of the creatures spun about, almost as if coordinated. They scrambled up and over the buildings a lot less elegantly than the way they’d arrived, their—in some cases—still flaming bodies disappearing into the night.
Leaving just the enemy mages behind.
There weren’t nearly as many of them—the crowd looked to have been mostly vampires—but they’d had time to figure out a strategy whilst John was dealing with their allies. The huge blue shield he’d seen earlier had reappeared, glimmering at the end of the street, with the mages clustered behind it. And this time, without all the vamps in the way, John realized something: it wasn’t being generated by them at all.
The thick, blue-white wall was enormous, filling the full width of the road and, based on the distortion of the figures behind it, at least four feet thick. John stared at it, caught between awe and disbelief. Because nobody had that kind of power—
Except for people living on a ley link sink, he realized.
And then the wall started to move.
For half a second, John watched blankly as the thick shield flowed over burnt cobblestones and the blackened bricks of the buildings on either side. I
t looked like a wall of light, moving slowly but inexorably forward. But it may as well have been a steamroller.
John saw a peddler’s cart be flattened, along with its array of shiny fake jewelry, which fused with the soft, heated stones of the road to become a permanent part of the alley. He saw a streetlamp be taken down as if its metal pole was made out of paper. He saw a trashcan get knocked over and rolled in front of the spell for a moment, before it caught on a body and they were both flattened underneath.
Then he was moving, and shouting orders at the war mages still standing—the handful who appeared to have broken the enthrallment—to catch those who were still under and who were walking toward the light. “Get them back! Get them back!”
They tried, but the enthralled mages were fighting them, even the one with a smoking, cooked arm hanging uselessly by his side. Or the one missing half a face. Or the one with the back of his coat burnt out, the magical cloth desperately trying to mend the damage, even while the white top of a spine peaked through the fibers.
But in their enthralled state, they didn’t feel the pain, unlike their more clear-headed brothers and sisters.
Who were losing.
And that was before something happened in the street behind him.
John was facing away from it, but he saw the horror spread over the faces of his comrades and spun around. He heard a roaring in his ears, felt his eyes try to focus on what looked like a sea of blue, and then he jumped. Back out of the way, barely in time, as another wall rumbled over the stones where he’d just been standing.
He tripped over a body, and barely managed to stay on his feet, while the new wall of light shimmered across the corpse of a fallen were. It sucked him under, ground him down, and spat out something on the other side that in no way resembled human flesh—or any other kind. The roaring in John’s ears got louder, or maybe that was the sound of his people, gasping in horror and looking to him for a miracle.
Which was ironic, considering the only one on offer.
“I’m sending you to hell,” he told a tall, balding mage he’d seen around a few times, but whose name he didn’t know.
The man didn’t react, other than to stare blindly at the wall. “Aren’t—aren’t we already there?”
John struck him, hard enough to send his head whipping around. And then grabbed his shoulders when he blinked and shook him until some semblance of life came back into those eyes. “I’m sending you to the hell region known as the Shadowland,” he said harshly. “To the court of the demon lord Rosier—"
“A—a demon lord?” The man looked more confused than angry, and John couldn’t tell if that was because this was so outside his experience, or if he was simply addle pated from the spell.
And then another mage ran up.
“Sir!” The young, dark haired man actually took the time to salute. John would have belted him, too—what the hell were they teaching them these days—but the boy seemed to have a head on his shoulders. “What do we do when we get there, sir?”
“You’ll need to find Rosier’s court. I can’t send you there directly—there are wards around it to prevent that—but I’ll get you as close as I can. But watch yourself. The Shadowland is dangerous—”
The young man nodded, his eyes wide. “My father used to buy potions there. He’d never let me go.”
“Well, you’re going now,” John said grimly, and saw the boy swallow. “Watch out for yourselves, and for those still fighting the spell—”
“W-what happened?” The first mage asked, and yes, he was still half under.
“You were enthralled,” John told him sharply. “Guard against it happening again!”
“Enthralled?” the man looked offended. “I can’t be enthralled—”
“Yes, sir!” the young mage said, and to his credit, he barely flinched when a new portal erupted in the street behind him.
The effort almost sent John to his knees. Opening a portal was always difficult, but opening one large enough for this many people to pass through, without it destabilizing and killing them all partway, was not the work of one man. Unless, of course, said man was half demon and the target of the portal was the hell regions. His power was stronger there, and as soon as the connection was made, he felt a familiar surge.
But not enough.
Not close to enough.
“Go!” he yelled. “Now!”
The mass of fire imps hadn’t needed to be told. They’d made straight for it, since their own portals had just been swallowed by the walls encroaching on either side. John shut the trio of smaller portals down, redirecting all of his power to widen the only one that mattered anymore. But it was getting harder.
No, it was getting impossible.
He’d already channeled enough magic tonight for a few dozen men, and while it somehow felt like he still had power to spare, it also felt like it was ripping the tendons from his flesh and the skin from his bones to utilize so much of it. There was a reason the human body only manufactured so much magic at a time, and this was it. God, this was exactly it.
John felt something in his neck pop, his skin crack, his eyes water. And heard the scream that had been boiling in his throat rip out of his mouth, causing a nearby woman—a vendor caught in the crossfire—to shriek. But it also did what his previous command hadn’t. Mages started running through the portal’s mouth, dragging and pushing people along with them, with some carrying their fellows while others crashed through alone.
“I can’t be enthralled,” the older mage kept repeating, yelling to be heard over the powerful whub, whub, whub just ahead. “I’m a war mage! I demand to know—”
John kicked him through the hellmouth, and he kicked him hard.
“You’re not coming.” That was the young mage, from beside him.
“I can’t and hold it open—
“Then I’m not leaving you.”
The boy—no, the man—sounded serious. It almost made up for the fact that he was a fool. “You have to get them through!” John snapped. “Tell Rosier . . .” he paused, because this was difficult, even now. He hated asking his father for anything, but Rosier could protect them and get them back to HQ, and right now, he was the only one who could. “Tell Rosier that Emrys sent you.”
To John’s relief, the young man didn’t ask questions, maybe because there wasn’t time.
“I will. And as soon as we’re back, I’ll send help—”
“No!” John grabbed his arm. Goddamnit! “Tell Jonas: send no one. They’ll simply be enthralled and turn into reinforcements for whoever is behind this! I’ll find out what’s going on and report back. Until then, do not send more men here!”
Again, the young man didn’t ask questions. He just nodded, clear eyed and determined. And saluted again before disappearing into the darkness.
He was the last, at least of those living. John waited a moment for him to clear the other side, then let the portal close with another scream, just because he felt like it. All around him, on the rooflines of the buildings, the vampires had returned, what looked like thousands of them. Some were standing, others had found seats along the ledges, and still more clung to the sides of the buildings, like insects about to pounce.
But none were trying to drain him.
They preferred to wait for the show instead.
Keep waiting, John snarled, gathering the last of his strength, every scrap he had left. And used it all to throw a wind spell at the ground. It was the same one he’d sent at the fey in that vision in Caleb’s office. Only this time, the only person it sent flying was him, up, up, up into the air, high enough to make him dizzy, high enough to make him worried, because if his shields didn’t pop—
And they didn’t.
John had a panicked moment to see the two blue walls crash together below, to see the vamps and weres on the surrounding rooftops gesturing and pointing at the insane mage who thought he could fly, to see the shimmering, golden city spread out below him, where fires were already breaking
out in multiple locations, where hundreds of enthralled war mages had broken into clumps to attack . . . something. And, finally, the harbor far in the distance, as dark and mysterious as the well of power beneath it.
And then he was falling.
Chapter Seven
T he multicolored lights that the sandwich seller had draped across the front of his cart were popping on John’s tongue like bright candy. The smells from the grill were hovering almost visibly in the air above it: hazy peppers, ghostly onions and fat tomatoes still tinged with a blush of red. The slight hiss of rain hitting the cracked sidewalk just beyond the canopy of the little cart was fading in and out, an echoing silence one minute, a rushing torrent the next, so loud that it almost drowned out the beating of his heart.
He was going to die.
Or maybe he already had. He couldn’t feel the scarred wood of the peddler’s countertop under his fingers. He was gripping it hard enough to turn the tips of them white, yet it was like grasping mist, and felt as if they'd fall through at any second. It didn’t seem real, like the hazy street beyond, streaked with headlights. Or the splattering coolness of rain on his trouser legs, one of which protruded from underneath the too-small awning and was slowly getting soaked. Or the cursing demon toiling over his grill, sucking on a fingertip that had brushed the hot surface. Or the woman beside him . . .
Who was bright and vivid and there, rock solid in a way that none of the rest of this was. And who was looking at his sandwich covetously. He slid it over and she all but buried her face in it, because Cassie had learned the hard way to never miss a chance to eat.
He watched her, because it was probably his last chance, and because he found her endlessly fascinating. She'd grown up in a situation not unlike his own, or at least, his own after his father had come to earth to claim him. John had been born in sixth century Wales with little understanding of his peculiar ancestry, just thinking of himself as another magically gifted child, part fey like so many others. But all that changed when a demon lord came to carry him away to a land of enchantment and danger and strange beauty. And creatures who wanted to kill him for supplanting them in the succession, and a father who intended to prostitute him out for whatever advantage that would give him, and a ruling council who had watched this strange hybrid from the beginning and hadn’t liked what they saw.
