by Alisha Basso
I gasped, grabbed desperately for my own imagery of water and cloth. Stampeding steers threw plumes of dirt. I scoured grit from my eyes, coughed dust.
I didn’t know what was happening, but I did know her imagery supplanting mine couldn’t be good news.
A combat mage would’ve known what to do, but I’d only had basic coursework. I did the worst thing I could—I fought my water over her dirt, pictured my threads instead of her cattle. Her images wavered and I pressed harder. I put my whole self behind my images, forcing a tapestry of magic over her.
Francie’s laughter slashed—just as ghostly cattle tore through my mental cloth. I managed to scream, “Rafe!” before pain ripped my calm center. Mad steers rammed my barrier like bovine shot. I screamed in white-hot agony.
Don’t fight it, Amaia. Rafe’s mental voice saved me. Fighting only makes it worse. Adapt her imagery for your use. I’ll help.
“Your power,” I gasped. “Too broad-gauged.” Ants, falling from his palm, screaming…
Working Venus enhanced our connection. I can feed a bit of power to you, to the limit of your physical body. He appeared on the ethereal, knelt next to me, and stroked my head.
Energy surged through me. My pain disappeared.
Use her imagery.
I’d learned my imagery from the best in the land. It had never not worked before. I hesitated to change it.
But facts, like my bruised body, said otherwise, and when facts don’t fit theory, change the theory.
I couldn’t instantly embrace her imagery, but I could combine it with mine. Cattle plus cloth—rodeo.
Rafe’s energy renewing me, I sprang to my feet, unfurling my tapestry magic as a thousand bright red capes. I flung them out, sending them soaring to distract the leading edge of the stampede.
They fell short. At the center, steers turned and dust roiled, but advance ranks thundered on.
More power. I needed more power to contain all her Venus magic. I cast around for a well, but the Great Plains of Francie’s mental landscape was barren and dry.
Use this. Rafe stood before me, a man-tall primitive spear in his hand, point down. He raised it high, then stabbed it sharply into the rugged ground.
A brief rumble, and oil burst into the sky. It was the remnants of humanity’s joy. Even with Armageddon looming there were a few pockets of hope, and Rafe had somehow managed to tap one. Black, glistening, humanity’s last hope showered enthusiastically for a few moments before falling back into a bubbling pool.
I dipped a finger into the oil, found it slick and hard to use. I managed to spin up long viscous threads, weaving them into a net as quickly as I could. I sopped up the pool, all of it, even digging oily dirt. I had to fight the sticky strands, pulling them like taffy to make the net as big as possible.
Francie cried out. The main force of her climax had arrived.
Hoping against hope it was enough, I cast that net of hope with every bit of strength I had left. Her orgasm burst just as I cast.
Her cattle hit my net, ramming every thread. I felt it like blows inside my physical body. My net started to tear. I grabbed it with one hand while I dug in the dirt for more magic, any magic—and came up with not oil but blood. I’d dug up a piece of my life. I stared at it, at my life pooling red in my hand.
Another wave of cattle hit. My net tore.
My life energy was the only thing I had left. Fine, doing it. I dumped my handful of life into the net. The strands thickened, wove back together, strengthened. With them strengthened my determination to give it my all to win.
Her Venus contractions punched me, wave after wave of cattle hitting. My life was part of the net so I not only felt it, I lived it. Opening my physical eyes, I saw bruises blooming on my skin like plum flowers. Sweat trickled down my hairline and my breaths started to come in gasps. As the herd stampeded my ethereal self, my physical arms streaked red with burst blood vessels. My very skin was about to split and my organs burst and I couldn’t contain her any more.
It had happened in seconds. Rafe was just yanking Francie’s physical body off Wenkermann. He tore her off and practically threw her across the room.
She hit the door next to me. The magic pummeling my barrier abruptly stopped.
I cautiously released my expanded consciousness, but I’d held it too long. Like muscles suddenly giving, my concentration broke and my magic retracted with a snap. I blinked, dazed.
Next to me Francie rolled to her side, curling up with a moan.
A click told me Rafe was unlocking Wenkermann’s manacles.
It was over.
I rose unsteadily, bracing myself against the wall. When my head stopped spinning I hobbled to Rafe’s side. “Are you okay?”
“For now. We must still rebalance the effects of her sacrifices.”
I remembered the pictures in the living room, the heavy feeling of wrongness. “Without her working against us, it’ll be easier.”
“Yes.” He glanced at me, stopped, his eyes widening. He snarled, “What did she do to you?”
My arms were riddled with angry red lines, and I knew my face must be a roadmap. “It looks worse that it is.”
“You need to rest.”
“Let’s finish this first. I’ll rest better when I know we’re back to normal.”
“I’d rather…but as you wish.”
As Rafe moved to free Wenkermann from the leg fetters I felt almost jubilant. My jinni cared enough about me to respect my wishes. Maybe not love, but it was a long way up from being a mere ant.
Wenkermann sat up, rubbing his wrists. “That bitch.” He straightened his glasses. “She tricked me, almost killed me.”
“You’ll be okay now Chief. Rest.” Catching movement from where Francie lay, I added, “I’ll go secure Frankiestein.”
Before I could turn, Wenkermann caught my shoulder, fingers biting painfully into my abused skin. He had grateful tears in his eyes. “You saved me. Damn it, Jones, you saved my life.”
“You’re welcome. I hope you believe me now about the Mayan Doom.”
It was small and petty and rebounded on the Murphy scale without any help from karma. A ripple of such strength hit me that, even not being on the mental plane, I stumbled.
Rafe’s head snapped up. “Damn it. She’s—”
“Still I call to you, nightmare gods.” Francie’s voice echoed like death from the living room. She’d slipped past us while we were concentrating on Wenkermann.
“Here I am, your servant. Home in on my voice, my being. Come to me. Come.”
Chapter Nine
“We have to stop her!” I spun toward the living room.
Wenkermann grabbed my arm. “It’s destructive magic, Jones. She needs a blood sacrifice to finish it. But we’re all in here so who’s she going to kill? She can’t complete the spell.”
That should have reassured me but didn’t. “The sooner she’s locked up the better I’ll like it.”
“I’ll do it.” Rafe was already moving, heading for the living room. Wenkermann called after him but Rafe didn’t even slow.
Swearing, Wenkermann jumped off the bed. His legs buckled, leftover from the shackling. Or, glancing at him, remnants of one hell of an orgasm. No wonder Francie’s Venus magic had been so strong. Her almost-climax had been reinforced by Wenkermann’s complete one. Probably how she’d recovered so quickly too.
I yearned to get out there and help Rafe, but Wenkermann needed me. I harnessed my chafing and put a shoulder under the Chief’s arm. We hobbled into the living room together.
“Don’t even try it.” Francie, wild-eyed, slashed the air side to side with her knife, like a moving shield in front of her. “You’re fast, but I just put a Prick spell on the blade. It’ll carve any flesh other than mine that gets close enough to cut, the most magical it can find. And since you now know about it, doing it will count as a self-sacrifice. How much more power do you think my spell will get from spilled jinn blood?”
A magically fast
Prick spell, the only way to counter a magically fast being. Augmented with powerful jinn blood, her spell wouldn’t just call the nightmare gods—it would compel them to come. Acid churned in my gut. Rafe couldn’t stop her physically this time, couldn’t risk a cut or even a scratch.
I turned to Wenkermann. “Rafe’s out. What can you and I do?”
“Why do anything?” The Chief sounded remarkably calm, but he was a first class combat mage, cooler under fire than I’d ever be. “We’re most vulnerable at midnight, right? All we have to do is wait ten minutes for midnight to pass. Once the Ball drops and nothing happens, the public will think that Armageddon’s not coming. Fear disappears. Without that fear, she can’t tear a way for the nightmare gods no matter how much blood she spills.”
“Nice going, boss.” Francie glared at Wenkermann. “Thanks for sharing.”
He was right. I’d rather have her trussed up but we had her boxed. As long as she didn’t escape or call another magically besotted apprentice, we should be fine.
Then why was my gut spilling acid?
Escape or aid meant the door. Someone had to cover it. Rafe couldn’t bodily stop her so it was either me or Wenkermann. Since I couldn’t clue the Chief in without tipping off Francie (if she hadn’t thought of calling another sacrifice, I wasn’t going to tell her), that left me.
I caught Rafe’s eye. Keep her busy.
Amaia, what…ah, I see. Rafe’s eyes began to whirl. He turned their full impact on Francie. “Why?”
Her brow wrinkled and her knife slowed. Her gaze was soldered on him. “Why, what?”
I circled toward the door. Ten minutes. In ten minutes this would all be over. I just had to get between her and the door, then be patient.
Ten minutes isn’t that long—unless you’re waiting out a homicidal maniac bent on global destruction.
“Why are you doing this?” Rafe appealed to her with spread hands.
She pointed the knife at him. “What do you think I am, a blabbering idiot?” She shifted the knife to poke directly at me.
I froze a few feet from the door and tried to look innocent.
“She thinks I’m an idiot. But I’m not. It was me who distracted her until it was too late, first siccing Dennis and his demented attempts at Venus on her and then taking a direct hand. I’m the winner here, and I’ll prove it! Come, nightmare gods!”
She flipped the knife in her hand—and impaled herself on the blade.
The sick thwuck of the knife embedding in her abdomen would ring in my ears for the rest of my life. She’d shoved it in so deep, only the hilt showed.
Blood welled immediately, spilled over, became a torrent.
Horrified nausea displaced the acid in my stomach. I kicked aside both. I could not, under any circumstances, allow her to complete the spell. I’d regenerated no more than a spoonful of magic after the bedroom fight, but I raised my hand and sought my peace.
Wenkermann’s meaty paw grabbed me. “Don’t bother. She’s dying.”
I shrieked. “All the more vital to stop her.”
“Let Amaia go,” Rafe growled.
Wenkermann ignored him. “Damn it, Jones. I said she can’t finish it. Leave her alone.” His red face got right in mine.
“You’re wrong.” I wrenched against Wenkermann’s hold, but he was too strong. I reached for my magic. He tightened his grip until he was practically twisting my wrist. The pain popped me out of trance.
Rafe grabbed Wenkermann’s hand, peeled his fingers off me, and spun him away. The Chief stumbled back.
In that instant Francie gasped. Shuddered.
Wheezed, “Come, Lords of Cha—!”
No time for magic, and I couldn’t leap the space between us fast enough to stop her. I was out of options, the world was out of options…except one. I snatched up the nearest throwable thing, one of the stone gargoyles, and winged it at her.
It smacked her in the chest, cutting her off mid-chant. Yeah. Score one for the dying chick.
She gasped. Her eyes, blazing hatred, turned to me.
Then the hatred burned out. Her eyes glazed over and she fell slowly, gracelessly to the floor.
My elation turned to chagrin. I reached mentally for Rafe, automatically seeking comfort. Did I kill her?
Amaia, no. The knife did. But her death released much corrosive magic.
I blinked away tears. She’d needed to be stopped, but death was so final.
“Too late.” Wenkermann’s snarl broke in. “A nearly complete spell, fueled by sacrificial death? It’s enough to finish the call.”
The time on the iron maiden clock, still several minutes short of midnight, said he might be right.
The air thickened and began to stir. The hairs rose on the back of my neck, and I got a sick feeling in my stomach.
“Fucking hell.” A tremor marred Wenkermann’s bull-dog voice. “This is it. The nightmare gods come to destroy us all. We’re dead, as dead as her.” He lurched to where Francie lay slumped. “We’re all dead.”
Hearing that made it real. Despair settled like a sodden blanket over me. Wet, cold, heavy.
I might as well lay down and die now.
Fight it, Amaia. The gods were called but the way isn’t open. Only the nightmares’ ghosts can come through, shadows that are but fear and lies.
“We were destructive. Greedy.” Wenkermann knelt next to Francie’s body, gently touched her ruined abdomen. “We did this to ourselves. We’re evil. This is karma come to take its revenge.”
Shame cried in my chest. He was right. We deserved this. I deserved this.
Amaia, stop. You know that’s not true. Calm yourself, focus. See beyond the fear. Beyond the lies.
I tried. I took a deep breath to focus—and breathed needles. White-hot pain radiated through me. “But the nightmares are coming. Humanity’s destructiveness brought this on! My destructiveness… Can’t you feel them?”
It’s a death spiral, Amaia. You know what that is. You’ve been down it before, when your parents died. Don’t go down it again. Remember the yellow flowers.
The daffodils. Hope.
I backed away from the edge. Backed across crumbling sanity to more solid ground. Hope. Reason. Humanity’s destructiveness hadn’t brought this on—we weren’t purely destructive, and even that mostly wasn’t evil, just stupid.
I breathed again, without needles. “Chief, stop. Think. Bad things happen. Not all of it is our fault. We do good things too.”
“Wrong.” Wenkermann started panting. “We’re evil. We have no choice but pain. The horror of the nightmare gods, oh, the destruction…”
Terror, ice…damn it, no. “Chief, get a hold of yourself! Maybe you’re right, maybe this is the final battle. But if it is, we’re fighting back.”
I reached for my center, formed a bucket to dip from my well.
“We can’t,” he moaned. “We can’t fight.”
The Chief was a powerful wizard and my boss. Even fighting it, even knowing better, his words had impact.
Cold air whirled around me, oppressive, dimming my mind. The bucket darkened, disappeared. I fell from trance. Gasping, I lifted my hand to use my taijitu instead, but I barely made out the tattoo’s blurred outline.
Without power, my courage broke. My hand, too heavy to hold up, fell.
Shapes coalesced around me in the ice of the air, horrible and bizarre. Ethereal only, but foreshadowing real, worse terrors. Scuttling scorpions with giant stingers and hundreds of eyes. Cannons vomiting rivers of blood. Starving zombies shuffling inexorably.
Pestilence. War. Famine. Images from Revelation, driven by terrors even older.
And Death. Above them all stood a skeleton brandishing a bloody scythe. A hail of fire mixed with blood rained down behind it. The skull’s permanent grin was somehow more hideous than even the horrors.
I was so cold now, I couldn’t move, my blood like solid ice. I tried to turn my eyes down, to see my tattoo, to gather my magic, to fight back.
&nb
sp; Nothing happened.
A tear trickled down my cheek…and froze. I couldn’t even lift my hand to wipe it away.
It wasn’t ice freezing me, but fear.
This was the true horror of the nightmare gods. Not hate, not destruction, but fear, fear so terrible I couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Utter terror, making me so frigid I lost my hope, lost my will.
Lost the very things that made me human.
I was physically in Wenkermann’s apartment but my mind and soul were in the grips of shadows and ice. And I wasn’t alone. All humanity writhed alongside me in ethereal anguish, helpless, lost. We shouted and screamed, our voices frozen within inches of our mouths, so that we drifted silent in a tide of nightmares.
The images weren’t real, and yet they were. My physical eyes cracked open, and it was as if the vicious dreamscape had overlaid reality. Wenkermann’s solid walls were a ghostly fishtank of dead and drowning bodies. Hard floor pressed my backside, but my ethereal body was being tossed about by dream waves until I wanted to vomit.
Esther appeared out of the dark swirling water, her red pixie cut distinctive. Amaia, where are we? Are we dead?
I blinked. My friends floated around me in the roiling sea. In the way of nightmares I’d forgotten I even knew Rafe.
Sophie and Olivia appeared, dressed in long white robes. They intoned together, This is the end of the world.
Death’s skeleton rose from the water’s depths, slowly, red liquid cascading through his bones. His feet rose out of the waves, then farther, lifting into the air—standing astride Emma and Mia’s shoulders.
Grinning, Death struck the corpse-filled waters with its scythe. The waves hardened into crusts of earth. I was buried to my waist. I tried to kick out of the dirt, but it was too heavy. I was stuck, helpless. Acid burned up my nerves.
A second strike of the mighty scythe opened a great pit, belching cockroaches and oozing snakes.
Humanity screamed—those still left.
This isn’t real. It’s only a bad dream. I panted it as I reached for Esther. Shrieking, crying, she reached for me.
We were too far from each other. I struggled, trapped, entombed in the dirt. I cried, This isn’t happening but all that came out was a sickly croak.
