Dixie and Nguyen glanced behind them. Lucas Knight had knitted himself together, busily wiping the ashes from his body. He glared at the two Daemons.
Major Ransom’s thoughts screamed inside Dixie’s head, You cannot kill!
Shouts of “Bravo” rose from the audience. Applause exploded through the theater as cries of, “He’s the greatest magician of all time,” and “I’ve never seen anything like it before,” rang out. The main curtain, heavy and black, came down, covering the stage from the audience as the thunderous applause continued. The uproar faded as the audience began filing out of the theater.
Knight seemed disoriented, a little wobbly in the knees. His tattered robes were caked with blood, smoke rising from his smoldering body. He staggered toward Dixie and Nguyen with outstretched hands. “Imobili.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The warm wind rustles through my fur, invigorating me and pushing me on. My paws crunch into the gravel as I follow the street down to the first hairpin turn and wait for a sign from the others. After a few moments of silence, I decide to venture on, following the shrubbery along the side of the road with my snout raised, sniffing everything in the air. The full moon bathes Claremont Hill in a shadowy light, and the breeze I enjoyed just a few minutes ago starts playing tricks with my imagination. Shrubs and trees sway like animated creatures.
Without warning, the wind gives up and dies. My heart thumps double-time as I scan the nearby area. It’s graveyard silent, not a hint of another living soul.
The road ahead makes a sharp curve to the right, dipping down and vanishing into the night. I keep low, slinking along the edge of the two-lane highway. After negotiating the blind curve, a voice whispers, “Over here.” It’s Colonel Dayton.
With another sniff, I zero in on his hiding place; a small wooded area a few yards off the road. A hand sticks out from behind a Joshua tree and waves me over.
“What took you so long, Steel?” Dayton asks as I jog toward him. He should know better than to expect an answer. Tina has transformed as well, so I sniff her scent and tuck it in the back of my mind for future reference. She does the same to me; it’s what canines do—nothing personal. I settle into the small group and lie down.
“Good to see you, Adam,” Marco says. I like the way he calls me by my human name even though I’m in canine form. He puts a hand on my back and rubs my fur. His touch feels safe and pleasant, and I automatically arch my back against his fingers. “We haven’t seen anything yet,” he whispers.
As soon as his sentence ends, I hear a twig snap about thirty yards away to the right. My ears perk up. Tina has the same reaction to the noise.
“What is it?” Marco whispers.
I stand up and turn in the general direction of the sound. I don’t pretend to have the skills of an English Pointer and wouldn’t really want to, but any canine can sniff out trouble, especially when trouble’s nearby.
Colonel Dayton, Cutty, and Marco follow my gaze and tighten their grips on their katanas. Cutty trembles, so I nuzzle at his arm to calm him down. He glances at me and winks.
A form appears in the distance. It marches toward us; head held high, arms outstretched. There’s a strong smell of sulfur in the air: Sangre di Real.
Three more figures appear in the distance behind the first. They advance up the hill and the odor of rotten egg grows stronger; I even think the humans smell it. The lead True Blood is probably an advance scout. A solid line of Sangre di Real follows behind him at a distance like a thundering tidal wave
Colonel Dayton turns to our little band of soldiers and nods. He holds his katana in the air and waves it forward—a silent signal to attack.
Tina bolts up and sprints toward the lone True Blood, her dark coat blending in with the shrubbery. I do my best to keep up with her, but she’s super-fast. She jumps at the warrior and latches onto its bicep, growling and biting into the fleshy part of his shoulder with all her might. The True Blood raises his other hand and points it at Tina. She yelps and falls to the ground. I leap at the Daemon’s chest, knocking him onto his back. Tina gets up and chomps down on the same shoulder she’d started with. Wolfhounds are tenacious fighters.
I feel the strength of the Daemon as he struggles, knocking us both aside as if swatting at flies. He raises his hands, and I can only assume he’s about to use some kind of spell against us.
The sound of metal slicing through air whizzes over my head. It ends in a “chop” as the Daemon’s head flies off his body and rolls down the hill. Colonel Dayton stands over us, katana at the ready. He guts the creature like a trained Samurai, and shouts at Marco, “Burn him.”
Marco produces a lighter from his pocket and touches it to the headless warrior’s dark cloak. An intense black flame sends us reeling back a step or two. Tina and I watch as Dayton, Marco, and Cutty stomp on the remains of the Daemon, grinding its bones into the dirt.
One down, ninety-nine to go.
Another warrior races up the hill toward us, his arms pointing in our direction. I’ve never experienced the spell of a Daemon before, and never want to again. It starts with a buzzing in the head, feeling like a thousand volts of electricity. Images of Colonel Dayton, Marco, Cutty, and Tina coming under the same spell cross my field of vision as I howl and fall to the dirt.
The Daemon stands over us, a foul grin contorting his already ugly face. His arms come up and I shut my eyes, ready for the worst—thinking about Dixie.
A scream cuts through the night, and my eyes bolt open. A wolfhound has latched onto the Daemon’s throat and blood oozes down its chest. Marco manages to get to his feet. He grabs the katana and punctures the stomach of the creature. The wolfhound releases its hold of the Daemon’s neck, what’s left of it, and Marco finishes the job with little effort. Colonel Dayton joins in, carving through the Daemon’s belly. The wolfhound barks, turns around, and scampers off into the woods.
Cutty pulls a lighter from his pocket. His hands tremble so much it takes him several tries before bringing it to life. He tosses it onto the Daemon’s body and it bursts into flames. Another flash of black fire sends intense heat into the air around us. When it dies down, Marco and Dayton stomp on the bones, grinding them to dust.
Rising, I search for the wolfhound who saved our lives. It’s gone. I thought I caught the scent of the canine—a familiar trace: my sister, Lucy. No time to mull it over. After shaking off the blood covering my fur, I get ready for the next Sangre di Real.
It won’t be much of a wait. At least thirty more True Bloods jog up the hill in formation, coming straight at us.
****
Lucas Knight stretched out his arm, forcing the two Daemons to their knees.
He sauntered toward them as he ran a hand around his neck, soothing the pain of his beheading. His stomach ached where he’d been gutted, and his flesh still smoldered, but all in all he was in fairly decent shape.
“Well,” he coughed, expelling a puff of smoke from his throat. He tried again. “Well, well, well, what have we here? The dark and stormy Charlie Nguyen; feeling a bit under the weather, eh?” He leaned over to take a closer look at Nguyen’s companion. “Ah, if it isn’t Dixie Mulholland.” He ran fingers through strands of her golden hair. “A ray of sunshine to brighten the dark mood.”
Mulholland let out a growl, low and threatening.
Lucas chuckled. “Defiant to the end, eh? Your poor aunty would have been so proud—had she lived. Ah well, such is life. You know, Sunshine, I heard your aunt Rose put up quite a fight. But then you know how tricky those old Daemons are to kill—all the silly rules and what not—chopping and burning, yuck. Personally, I prefer a much more practical approach to the art of murder. Oh sure, I occasionally follow the ancient rituals, but only when I have a particular distaste for my victim—Gorgeous, for example. Couldn’t stand that woman.”
Tears fell from Charlie Nguyen’s eyes, landing on the stage floor.
“Do you weep for Gorgeous or yourself? No need for tears. Your death
will be quick. A simple word, I promise.” He placed a hand on her shoulder and grinned. “Even though you were very naughty tonight. Downright rude, if truth be told. I’m willing to overlook your pathetic attack. The humans loved it. They thought you and Sunshine were part of the act—another glorious Lucas Knight illusion.” He pressed his hands together, as if in prayer, and closed his eyes. “That being said, in order to show my gratitude, I will treat you to a quick death—painful, but quick. You deserve nothing less.” He raised his arm and drew it back over his head. Nguyen’s sobs grew as he shouted the secret word that would end her sniveling and begin her suffering, “Exteritus.”
Nguyen’s weeping continued.
He frowned and glanced at his hand, shaking it a couple of times before aiming it at her again. “Exteritus.”
Nguyen remained on her knees, still blubbering like an idiot, but still very much alive.
“What in Hell’s name?” Knight shifted his glance at Mulholland. She, too, knelt on the stage, but with her arm raised. How had she accomplished that while immobilized? What in Hell’s name, indeed?
Mulholland lifted her head and stared at him. She raised a leg, planting her foot solidly on the ground in front of her, and stood up. Her arm remained stretched out to him, palm up—an aggressive gesture. “You will not harm another living soul.”
In spite of her show of strength, he forced another grin—a sign of supremacy. “And you will shut the hell up, that’s what you will do.” He cleared his throat. “Haven’t you realized by now? I’m no ordinary Daemon—”
“Neither am I,” she said, keeping her hand at arm’s length, marching toward him until she stood in his path.
“This is impossible. I can’t read your thoughts. Why can’t I read your—”
“But I can read yours.” She cocked her head. “You’re afraid of me. Funny, I thought True Bloods feared nothing. Are you really thinking of running away?”
Knight set his jaw and shook his hands in the air, reloading, and leveled them against her once more. “Listen to me very carefully, Sunshine, choose your next words wisely; they will be your last.” With rigid fingers aimed straight at her face, he yelled, “Exteri—”
“Imobili,” Dixie shouted.
He felt his blood slow, his joints harden, and every cell in his body jerked to a stop. He told himself not to panic. He’d never been placed in an immobilizing spell before, and so he investigated the symptoms of the curse the only way he could: from the inside out.
First of all, his brain continued to function and that was a good thing for one as advanced as he, no blubbering for him. He cleared his throat and grunted. He could not form words, but at least some form of communication was possible. And sight remained. He saw the empty theater seats, the beam of the spotlights, and that wretched Daemon, Dixie Mulholland.
She touched the top of Nguyen’s head, releasing her from the Imobili spell at once. The first thing Nguyen moved was her mouth, no surprise there.
“So, the great Lucas Knight, leader of the Sangre di Real, is caught—trapped like a little, teeny, tiny rat.” She straightened and ambled toward him. “How did this happen? Who’s to say?” She turned to Mulholland. “How did this happen?”
“Something he called me: sunshine. Something said during The Sufferings. At first, I thought it a poem, but it’s not. Listen:
“The sunshine has returned,
In truth the secret lies.
The night it must be burned,
In love the body dies.”
“A prophecy.”
“About what?”
“About now.”
Lucas tried to interrupt their ramblings, but all he managed was a snort.
Mulholland pointed at him. “He’s the night, get it? Lucas Knight. And he kept calling me sunshine.”
“Okay, yeah. But what about that other line, the one about the secret lies?”
“He lied to the council about what really happened on Claremont.” She closed her eyes. “I’m in his mind. The truth is he made certain the True Bloods met a quick end. He had every one of them murdered to force the council to send more to avenge their death. Knight wants all the Sangre di Real released, and that was his way of making it happen.”
Lucas grunted, drool sliding out of his mouth and down his chin. It left a snail track from his lips to the stage.
Mulholland turned to him, tapped him on top of the head, and said, “Speak.”
At long last, the words he’d held for so long formed, “Fuck you.”
“Listen to me, Knight. Stop the attack at Claremont—stop it right now or…”
“Or what?”
Mulholland twisted her fingers, balling them into a fist. He felt his insides wrench and constrict. A little boy’s scream flew from his lips as tears rolled down his cheeks. “I can’t”
“What do you mean? You started this you finish it. I suggest you do as I say. You know I can make this exceptionally painful for you. Just how much is entirely up to you.”
“The council agreed to send the True Bloods. I can’t override their decision. Don’t you think I’d stop it if I could? Besides, the battle has already begun.” The immobilization spell was no joke. Mulholland rummaged through his mind—gathering information, verifying his thoughts. He couldn’t stand another minute of this bullshit. Time to use truth to buy some time. “But don’t worry; the True Bloods will be defeated.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s all arranged for them to lose. They’ll be slaughtered on the field of battle.”
“But, why would you—”
“Oh stop with the goodie-two-shoes. You’re in my mind, you know why. The fight will look legit if you don’t know what you’re looking for. Wolfhounds will die, True Bloods will die, but in the end, the True Bloods will lose, forcing the council’s hand—all the Sangre di Real will be sent to earth.”
“So you’re murdering your own army.”
“Are you deaf? How many times do I have to say it? Yes, I manipulated the council by murdering my own army. Now get out of my mind, and put an end to this damned spell.”
Mulholland frowned and stepped back from him. “I heard you that time.” She raised her hand, twirling a finger in the air, spinning him around 180 degrees. “So did He.”
A small orange glow appeared. Like a stage light, its shutters slowly opened. As the illumination grew, Lucas felt a hand touch his head, releasing him from the immobilization spell. Bowing low to the light, he whispered, “Your majesty, you’ve come to save me.” With a trembling finger, he pointed at Mulholland. “This wretched creature twists my words. She tortured me.”
“Only the beginning.”
The hair on his arms singed as flames licked his body. From the corner of his eye, he spotted silver and yellow lights spark to life then vanish. It was the last thing he saw before his eyeballs burst and the little boy scream returned.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dixie and Charlie Nguyen materialized at Claremont, near the house at the top of the hill. The celebrations in honor of Adam had come to an abrupt end.
A few cheerful voices still came from the back of the house—some chattering, some laughing. Most of the survivors, however, stood near the front of the house, motionless with anxious faces, warning those in the backyard to keep quiet.
In the distance, shrieks mixed with an occasional howl or yip filled the night. Dixie cupped her hands around her mouth. “Adam!”
“Shhh.” Nguyen pushed Dixie aside. “Do you want to get us both killed?”
Dixie ignored the admonishment, turned her back to Nguyen, and scampered down the hill toward the sounds in the woods. “Adam!”
Clouds blew in from the west, covering the full moon and sending Claremont into total darkness. Dixie stumbled over a thicket of undergrowth and fell, face first, into the dirt. She got up, took two steps, and lost her footing again. This is ridiculous.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on the change. In a few seconds, she t
ransformed into a Giant Irish Wolfhound. Her vision improved at once. So did her speed.
Dixie raced down the hill toward the sound of the skirmish, leaping over obstacles invisible to her prior to the change. The beating of paws trampling the ground behind her filled the air, growing louder with each step she took. In a moment, she was surrounded by packs of wolfhounds galloping down the hill toward the battle.
Flashes of light and the cries of war spread across the hillside before her. The rancid smell of death filled the air.
A wolfhound came racing straight at Dixie, followed by a True Blood, his arms flailing in the air. Two wolfhounds pounced over her, attacking the Daemon head on. The wolfhound running away stopped and raced back, jumping onto the pile of canine and Daemon. Not a random attack, the wolfhounds worked together—hunting in packs.
“Colonel Dayton, over here.” The sound of Marco Ramirez’s voice cut through the woods. Dixie turned and sprinted toward the sound.
She caught sight of the two men at the edge of a clearing. Dayton swung a katana, lopping off the head of a True Blood. Marco gutted the creature and Dayton produced a flame, setting the Daemon on fire. They worked as an excellent team.
“Hey, man,” Cutty howled, “there’s another one.”
Dixie turned and saw Cutty, racing alone down the hill toward a True Blood.
Colonel Dayton and Marco looked up from their stomping. “Wait for us. Stand down—stand down.”
The order came too late. Cutty ran into an ambush. Three Sangre di Real surrounded him, immobilized him, and slashed his chest open. He died instantly. Dayton and Marco flew down the hill, katanas raised over their heads, Dixie and three wolfhounds joining them. Dixie and the wolfhounds ripped into the True Blood’s flesh as swords slashed across throats and dug into stomachs. The True Bloods went down hard. Dayton knelt, cradling Cutty’s head in his arms. After a moment, he laid Cutty on the ground, grabbed his sword, and dashed down the hill.
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