by Kevin Lucia
“What are you doing?”
He etched frantic symbols. “Magic! Pisses me off, but I’ve no other choice!”
“Magic? Why the hell didn’t you use it before?”
He scribbled a hexagram. “I only know the basics: wards, second sight and such. Plus … I’m not very good at it!”
“Will it work?”
“Every home has a protective aura. That’s why some beings can’t come in uninvited. Can’t pass through the aura. Wards taps into that aura. This should work.” He paused, then drew another symbol. “I hope so, anyway.”
“You hope so?!”
“I’m certain it will. Probably!”
Finished, he sat back and checked his work. It cut things razor close, but if he forgot something, he’d never have another chance. Hexagrams in three cardinal directions: north, south, east. Interspersed between them were two pentagrams. At the north: a hasty caricature of the Tanara’ri. Encompassing everything, a Sumerian Binding Triangle. It was all there. Crude, sloppy, but it’d have to do.
He rose, drew his Pritchard from its sheath, and faced north. As a Tanara’ri lunged, he gripped cold, naked steel. With a jerk, he slashed the tender meat of his palm. It burned, but he used the pain to focus his will. He closed his eyes, breathed … and time slowed. He blocked out the cries of the surging Hive, focused on Therese, sought the essence imbued in this place she called home.
The monster crossed the threshold. Hiram held his hand over the salt and squeezed blood into the half-circle. “Eteru, nisiqtu, ENIR!”
Shafts of white fire flowed around the chalk semi-circle, extended to the ceiling, snaring the Tanara’ri mid-leap. A sour, burnt odor filled the room. The creature writhed and screeched.
Hiram scooped up the bag of salt and faced the glowing barrier. “Exuro, exussum … Girru kadingir!”
He hurled salt at the white fire, which transformed the expanding crystals into waves of silvery-blue flames. The Tanara’ri twitched once and exploded. The white inferno surged down the hall and incinerated everything in its path. Tanara’ri—adult, gestating, young— vaporized. It reached the length of the hall before it stopped. Everything burned, purified by white fire. Hordes of Abyss-spawn screamed beyond the flames.
A magical backlash slammed Hiram in the chest and knocked him to the floor. Breathless, he rose onto his elbows and whistled. “Kali’s tit! How the hell did I do that?”
Therese looped an arm under his, pulled him to his knees. “I thought you said you weren’t any good?”
He shook his head. Weakness assaulted him, and his heart thudded sluggishly. “I’m … not. That spell’s generic, designed to use any household aura. We owe those flames to you.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” he gestured around the room, “I imagine this is where you paint? Where you’ve been channeling your visions from the Veil?”
A pause, then a reluctant, “Yes.”
He nodded. “Makes sense. The Veil abounds here, makes tossing magic around like throwing a match into a gas tank.”
“How long do we have?”
He shook his head. “Not long. Even with all that power, the fire is fading.” He nodded down the hall. The blue-white flames had weakened. “Before long, they’ll crowd and press against the barrier, wear it down. I don’t have the strength to keep recasting the spell.”
“We need to find that talisman, right?” Therese’s head jerked around, eyes searching. “What would it look like?” She moved away from him. “How will we know when …”
He grabbed her arm, gently but firmly. “Therese … that’s all changed.”
She stared at him. “Why?”
He paused, not wanting to voice it, though he knew he had to. “Therese, I don’t think any one thing in this room caused the confluence. It was channeled through here, yes … but not with a talisman.”
Therese shook her head. “What? Are you saying these beasts came through here? Through my home?”
“Not necessarily. Given the power available here, and someone who knew what they were doing, they could’ve opened the door here, then ushered them through the Veil anywhere they wanted.” He paused. “There were medallions, Therese—sent to each girl as a marker, I believe. Whoever did this most likely directed the confluential energies at the medallions.”
“A medallion.” A sorrowful expression drained Therese’s face. “I got one—horrible thing—in the mail. Reggie thought it was a gift from a secret lover …”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, God. The medallion … he kept it, because I wouldn’t touch it!”
Pieces fit together at last. “Ah. That explains the day’s lag in the Binding.”
She covered her face with her hands. “I killed him, then. I killed Reggie.”
“No, not you, Therese. Someone else did this, broke in here, summoned these things. You couldn’t have known. It’s not your fault.”
“How? How did someone break in here; how did I miss it?”
“Whoever did this knew about the faerie scions, something no one knows about. In comparison, breaking in here would’ve been child’s play.”
She gasped. “The night of those other deaths … I wasn’t here! I was at Cassie’s house. When I stumbled in last night … wait.”
“What is it?”
“On the floor, by the window … that rug.” She looked at Hiram. “I rolled it up Thursday morning, wanted to get a frayed corner fixed. I kept tripping on it. Reggie was going to …” She swallowed. “Take it for me. It’s unrolled now. Didn’t notice the other night, because I collapsed right into bed.”
He glanced at the rug, back at her. He limped over to it. Therese followed. For a moment, they just stared. The rug looked worn, innocuous, faded and threadbare. Sure enough, one of its corners frayed upward.
The ward around the door hummed, muffled the Hive’s shrieks.
Hiram peered closer. Red streaks peeked out from under the frayed corner. He tapped it with his shoe and nodded at Therese. He knelt and drew back the rug.
Beneath it were three circles, drawn one within the other, large enough for any man to sit cross-legged. Inscribed across them were numerous, complex symbols, far more intricate than the ones Hiram had just drawn. In the very center, painted in some kind of thick, red paste—dried blood—was a horrifyingly familiar symbol.
A circle cut through with a lightning bolt. On one side, a book and quill. On the other, three dots, representing three crystals.
Hiram looked up, felt hollow in his bones. “This … is a problem.”
“W-what do you mean?”
Quiet stretched between them. Hiram grappled with an unfamiliar sensation: Helplessness. “Therese …” he sagged. “There’s no summoning talisman to destroy. No goblet or charm or dagger. These things weren’t conjured with Dark Magic, they were conjured with the power of the Veil … with your power.” He pointed at the Summoning Circle on the floor. “That’s the sigil of Mab, the same as on your charm.”
She stared at the Circle. “You mean …”
He hated himself for even thinking it. “Yes. For all intents and purposes, you are the conduit.”
She pulled from his grasp and hugged herself, looking at the floor. The protective ward around the door sputtered. Beyond, the shrieks grew louder.
He ran his sliced hand through scraggly hair, unheeding of the bloody streaks left behind. He felt small. “I don’t know what to do.”
Her eyes blazed as she looked at him. “I do.”
His emotions surged, but before he could speak, Therese raised her palm. “Please. There isn’t anything more you can do. I see that now.” Her eyes flashed cobalt blue. Though her voice wavered, it was underscored by an iron regality Hiram found moving and frightening; it reminded him of Mother.
“You have to kill me, Hiram. Eliminate the conduit, right?”
“No.” His head pounded as the ward weakened more, and the Hive’s psychic tendrils leaked through. “There’s got to b
e another way.”
“Hiram, what choice do we have? Do you have? No offense, but you look awful. You can’t do any more.” She paused, her voice cooling. “When the power comes again, I won’t be able to stop it.”
Something tickled in his chest, the things inside him awakening as the Hive’s presence in the room grew stronger. He didn’t want to admit it, but truth hummed in Therese’s words. Still, he shook his head and felt a familiar anger rising inside. “No. You can’t ask me to do this, dammit.” He inspected the Summoning Circle, plying his knowledge for a clue, anything—a catch or loophole. As he scanned symbols he didn’t recognize, he protested, “I’ve never seen anything like this before. How can someone be made into a remote conduit? It’s preposterous!”
“Hiram, please. Me for them. Sound familiar? Balance.”
“NO!” He stalked towards her, jabbing a finger. “No! Don’t believe that Faerie balance shit! It’s just their way of pretending they know more than us, when they don’t know anything!”
He stopped and faced her, nose to nose. “I won’t do it. It’s contrived nonsense.”
Therese didn’t blink. “Hiram, it’s not nonsense. You know it. That’s why you’re so angry.”
“We’ll find another way.”
“How?” she gestured at the flickering ward. “In minutes, the spell will fall. They’ll kill you, and when that happens, I’ll lose control.” Her eyes flashed, cold and remote. “I’ll become a monster, and you won’t be around to stop me.”
Pain shot through his temples, but he refused to yield. “No. I can’t.”
Therese took his face into her hands; they felt burning cold. “Hiram … I’ve been dreaming of this my whole life.” Her eyes flicked to something over his shoulder. “Of course. Now I see.”
He turned, following Therese’s gaze. He froze when he saw it, standing in the corner of her living room. Nothing more than an easel, of course—to be expected in an artist’s home. It stood there, normal as can be, covered by an old drop cloth. When his eyes fell upon it, however, the whole world went away. There was no more Therese, no more Tanara’ri … no more things burrowing in his chest. There was him, the cloaked easel, and nothing else.
“Go, Hiram. See the truth.”
He pulled himself free from Therese’s grip and approached the easel. He barely felt himself moving, scarcely felt the rough texture of the cloth as he pulled it away. The screams outside grew louder. He touched the painting, felt the dry brush strokes. As he traced their lines, understanding blossomed. He turned and looked at Therese with a heavy heart—her face so unlike his Mother’s or Sadie’s, but very much the same. Mab had told him, but he hadn’t wanted to believe. Now he had no choice.
“I’m so sorry, love.”
“Hiram, remember. You promised. The right thing, no matter what.”
He tipped his head and smiled bitterly. “I know, love. I know.” He drew the Webley and fired.
A horrible rose bloomed over her heart. She flew back into the bookshelf, hit and rolled to the floor. Paint bottles, brushes, inks, books, and other trinkets rained down. The last paint jar fell, then silence. He tore his gaze away and tossed the Webley— his father’s gun, the only gun he’d ever trusted, but now the slayer of innocents, two by his own hand—onto the floor next to her.
“Bloody hell.”
First Sadie. Now Therese. Then, under coercion, but now … because he’d no other choice. How many more? Because of him?
He coughed. “Heh. Survey says … none. Not going to be around long enough, see?” And there was a kind of mercy. One even he could accept.
His chest twisted. He gasped and coughed. His eyes hurt, head and heart pounded. He blinked, and the room tilted. He’d run out of time.
He staggered forward, determined to see it through to the end, before the darkness took him. With the protective ward almost gone, the Hive screamed in his mind. He knelt by Therese’s fallen body. Shaking, he slipped his arms under her. He trembled with the strain as he lifted her and stood. Teetering, he thought for a moment he’d drop her.
He closed his eyes. “Dammit. I’m Hiram Grange. This is what I do.”
With another breath came strength. Turning, he squared his shoulders and walked towards the fading ward. He stopped, scuffed a break in the chalk with his toe and whispered, “Palasu.”
The ward dissolved. Cradling Therese close to his chest, he walked through the door and out into cries of hunger and delight.
Hiram shuffled forward. His chest burned. He felt the things wriggling inside him. Soon, they’d rip through his heart. He coughed up blood, spotting Therese’s once-white sweater, now stained with blood and other fluids. He struggled to breathe, then realized with dismay—and some relief —he no longer could.
The hall narrowed. Blackness crept in. The things inside ripped and tore. He coughed up more blood, clotted and thick. It dribbled from his lips and nose. He weaved, almost crumpled against the wall. He dragged himself on.
I … am … Hiram Grange … dammit.
One more step, into the lobby, where the monsters awaited. The Hive thrust itself into his mind, overwhelming his thoughts with their drone.
FEED!
He smiled. They wanted him because of how many he’d killed, but he’d show the slimy bastards. He’d die. That would fix them.
His heart twisted and he sagged to his knees. Therese rolled from his arms onto the floor. Something surged from his guts. He turned away from Therese and vomited black streams of bile.
Time.
He slumped among the other corpses. The lights winked out, one by one—like huge, old-fashioned but beautiful Christmas tree lights. Father had always complained those ancient things would set the house on fire someday.
Mother had loved them. So had he.
He shook, once. Something tore loose, deep inside. The keening of the hungry Tanara’ri faded. At least he’d fallen facing Therese; he saw nothing but her smooth, peaceful face.
Even that went away. Everything grayed, faded to snow white, then snapped to black. There was a rush of wind.
Hiram Grange died.
Therese stood in her nightmare hall and stared at the door she’d dreamed of her entire life. Its outline glowed with a bluish-white pulse, along with something else she’d never seen there before, etched in blazing white light: the sigil of Mab.
“You don’t have to do this alone. I can show you how to use the power.”
She turned, and once again faced The Chosen One.
“No one will accept you. Not humans, not Faerie, certainly not Mab.” She nodded at the door, cobalt eyes squinting. “Not even Hiram. I’m the only one who can help you. I have generations of experience. I can teach you how to rule.”
Therese glanced at the door. So much light poured from the burning sigil, so much power. “I don’t want to rule,” she whispered.
“But you will. It’s unavoidable. It’s your destiny.”
The door flew open. The whitest light she’d ever seen surged out. It was cold and burning.
The Chosen One gripped her hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here, every step of the way.”
Therese sat up. Power blazed inside her. She knew everything: things as they were, and as they should be. Things were not as they should be. Darkness tainted all. It must be cleansed. Wrongs needed to be made right.
She sensed the dark things around her, things that had destroyed life. She plunged into their thoughts. They convulsed, tentacles snapping as she tore at their minds …
“It’s not enough,” she whispered in an empty voice. “It’s never enough.”
She spread her arms and screamed. Rage filled the lobby, powered by the full tide of the white river, surging from her hands, spreading outward. All dark things vaporized in its wake.
She remembered the mangled corpses. They must be cleansed. She screamed again, but this time it was for them, the lingering dead, as they must’ve screamed. The lobby caught fire. Unnatural blue-white flames ignit
ed the corpses and ruined bodies, cleansing them. Fire danced along the floor and ceiling and walls. It burnt away the stains of darkness.
Other vile things lurked, waiting to feed. She reached into the Hive and destroyed them wherever they were.
It still wasn’t enough. “Hiram,” she murmured.
She grabbed him by the lapels of his tattered, blood-soaked suit and poured the white river into him. “Hiram … come back!”
Power pulsed into him; his arms flopped and legs twitched. Dead eyes opened and irises swelled, but he did not breathe. Wherever he was … would not let go.
“HIRAM!!!!”
She blasted into the air, dragging Hiram’s still lifeless corpse with her. Her power surged and reached a crescendo as she held him close. Throwing her head back, she screamed, releasing it all.
“HIRAMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!”
Everything above the lobby vaporized. As she spun higher, the white fire flowed outward. Therese struggled loose of The Chosen One’s grip long enough to whisper into Hiram’s ear. “P-please. Hiram. Come back! I can’t control it … can’t control her …!”
The Chosen One shoved Therese Fitzgerald aside and bellowed. The world trembled.
Earthquakes rocked California, Zimbabwe and Japan.
A deluge flooded the Sudan. A class five hurricane struck Florida.
Angry snows and hail pummeled Maine, Massachusetts and New Hampshire.
The world spasmed as the white river pulsed out to purify … everything
“Hmmm. Interesting.”
All things considered, Hiram hadn’t expected this. He’d imagined the Abyss differently: madness, pain, fire, even brimstone, not a deserted crossroads surrounded by a dark forest.
“Well. Who would’ve thought hell would be so damned … abstract. I was expecting at the very least legions of the dead with ten-foot flames as backdrops.” He shook his head. “I’m disappointed, quite frankly.”
