Monsters, Book Two: Hour of the Dragon

by Heather Killough-Walden

  “And in the meantime?” Siobhan asked, no doubt thinking about what waited for them back in the Phantom Realm. It was too many souls to deal with at once. And it also meant that at that very moment, there was a disastrous event going down in the mortal realm. It had been caused by something inhuman, and hence required inhuman intervention. It needed healers, cleaners, and inhuman ambassadors who worked in the guise of humans in the field of first response, such as in the police force, firefighting, and emergency medical services.

  “In the meantime, we suck it up and get to work,” said Katrielle. But she didn’t say it unkindly, only with determined resolution. “Get help with the anime currently waiting in your realm, Thanatos. There are a few sovereigns who can venture there. Take them with you right now and deal with it together.” She turned to the others at the table and stood, taking a deep breath before she went on.

  “The rest of you, locate the source of this airline disaster, make your contacts, and inform the appropriate warden leaders.” She glanced out the window again, and that frown was back. “I have a feeling it’s close by.”

  “It is,” said Adelaide suddenly. She was staring at the top of the table though, her gaze distant. “I can feel it, so it must be nearby. Probably in the same state.” She turned to her husband and whispered, “I think a vision is coming.”

  When a vision came to Adelaide, or to any seer really, it tended to be rather violent. Because of this, spells had been developed that took a bit of the ferocity out of them, and those spells had been transferred to objects, as spells often were. The spell-object transference made it so much easier to always have what a magic user needed on-hand. Such as transport spells, healing spells, invisibility, and especially protective wards.

  But Adelaide might not have been wearing hers at the moment. They’d all been called in spur-of-the-moment.

  Katrielle nodded, clearly realizing the meeting needed to come to an end quickly. “When you have a location, send as many people to the scene as necessary to keep it clean, and do it fast. We need to Band-aid the situation before it can spread. As far as Maze is concerned, I want you to work on preparing spells that can protect at least our minds from falling victim to the growing chaos.” She shrugged and held up her hands. “All we can do right now is put out the fires as they start. Keep your eyes peeled for that first flammable spark in the days to come.” She nodded at Diana Chroi. “And maybe if we’re careful, we can keep the forest from burning down.”

  Chapter Five – Two weeks later, Unknown location

  Randall took a step back, making sure to place his leather-soled shoe in a dry spot, and surveyed his work. It wasn’t bad. Better than his last work, which had been better than the one before that. He was improving. Though the fact that he had to work at this at all rather than simply enjoy the perfect original ranged from infuriating to enraging, depending on the hour of the day.

  Still, he was ever the optimist. He smiled hopefully and addressed his subject. “Only a few more scores, I think.” He placed his art tool on the large cardboard box that waited, still sealed, on the table beside him. Red ran from the blade into the cardboard like ink from a leaky pen, but he ignored it. Instead, he ran an equally red-stained hand through his thick blond hair, leaving a messy streak. When he realized he’d done so, he glanced from his hand to the tool and then the box, and he swore softly.

  Then he sighed with weariness before pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off an oncoming headache. “Of course after that it will take a few weeks for you to heal before we can see what else, if anything, needs to be done.”

  His latest subject began crying again. He was becoming accustomed to the pattern. There were different kinds of crying, he’d learned; the deep-down, utterly hopeless sobs normally started up whenever he deigned to speak to his art works. He really needed to remember not to make conversation with the canvases. They were just too sensitive.

  “Now don’t start that again,” he warned, placing his hands on his hips. “You’ll stuff up your nose, and then you won’t have any air holes left to breathe through. You haven’t shown that you can keep from screaming in my ear while I’m working, so I’m afraid I can’t remove the gag.” He shook his head when the sobbing continued. “You want to breathe, don’t you?”

  If anything, the crying intensified. It wasn’t a good sign. One of his past subjects had actually passed out from just such a thing, but then he guessed that was what he got for choosing canvases with small noses. He was trying so hard to recreate the original to perfection, far too focused on making it exact.

  He sighed again, his shoulders drooping a little beneath the weight of his seemingly impossible task. Maybe it was impossible. Maybe he was trying to do something that simply could not be done. After all, that was why he’d fallen in love with the original… she had been perfect. She was an unfathomable design, strong and beautiful despite the odds she had faced.

  He grabbed his tool from atop the box and wiped it off with a fresh towel, tossing the old and soaked towel in a half-full bucket. “Now, now,” he admonished softly. “We really do need to finish this up before you lose too much blood.” He leaned over his subject, heartily attempting to ignore the increased volume of her protests behind her gag. At least she couldn’t move while he carefully swiped his arm left and right, digging in at one point, and nicking out at another. Those end parts were the ones that would have hurt if he hadn’t given her medication to prevent it. He wasn’t interested in causing his canvases unnecessary pain.

  He simply had to do what he had to do.

  The girl stopped moving. Randall tilted his head to glance at her beneath a stray lock of his own stained hair. She had passed out. Whether it was from lack of oxygen or fear he was necessarily causing because she could see him work, he couldn’t be certain. But he was grateful for it. The noise had been starting to piss him off.

  “Next time, perhaps we’ll give the anesthesia a try after all,” he told himself as he straightened and put aside his tool again. He’d shied away from it originally because it only increased the chances of his canvases not making it through the art process. But this was becoming insufferable. “There. That’s good for now. You’ll need to replenish yourself before we can go on anyway.” She didn’t answer because she couldn’t, and he shrugged.

  “Okay, let’s drape the painting, shall we?” Randall turned and grabbed the cardboard box of supplies he’d ordered online and tried to open it. Despite the fact that it was soaked red in several areas, the tape nonetheless stuck strong. He rolled his eyes, reaching for his blade once more. “Of course,” he said with a rueful smile and shake of his head. He expertly swiped the box cutter down the tape to slice it open, at last using the tool for what it had originally been intended. Then he unflapped the box’s wings to reveal bulk bandages, cartons and tubes of antiseptic, and small brown bottles of pineapple extract pills.

  He smiled to himself. “Bromelain,” he beamed, lifting the bottle to show his sleeping subject. “It’ll help you heal faster and make the scars a touch thinner.” He tossed the bottle back into the box, turning his attention inward. “That way the scars will also look older.” He rubbed his chin, uncaring of the red smudges he left behind. “The way they should look…. The way they look on her.”

  He was afraid he might be starting to forget what they looked like on her, actually. It took a little longer to conjure them to his mind when he tried now. It had been too long since he’d seen her.

  He wasn’t the only one keeping an eye on her, apparently. And once her make-shift guardians had discovered Randall was tracking her, they’d put a stop to it. She’d filed charges, and that had made things exceedingly difficult for him. But it had gone a step further; the number of people watching over her had increased tenfold. And then she’d disappeared entirely.

  It was a good thing he’d taken plenty of photographs when he had the chance. They were the guide by which he architected the dot-to-dot tapestry of his art works. The misfo
rtune that none of those art works had survived the process to date only served as further proof to him that the original was, well, original. She was unique and fantastically special. She alone was the one he truly wanted.

  “And I can’t find you,” he whispered. His gaze darkened. “Even if I could, I can’t go anywhere near you.” Thanks to the arm-chair ethics professors who’d tried his case and the people watching over her that she wasn’t even aware of.

  “If they’d had their way, I’d be wallowing behind magic-reinforced bars right now,” he said to himself as if he were instead speaking to the subject of his affection. Or dead, was his afterthought. Probably dead. He wouldn’t put it past this particular crowd of would-be saviors. Nor would he put it entirely past Annaleia Faith. She was capable, after all. Given all she had already so clearly endured, he could easily imagine her killing someone else to survive. He experienced a rush of raised hairs along his spine and a nearly uncomfortable flutter in his gut at the thought. He liked the idea.

  It took one killer to know another, he guessed.

  And then a groan from the table drew his attention, pulling him abruptly from his thoughts. “Oh, right,” he muttered. She was bleeding to death as he stood there and daydreamed. He shook his head at his own foolishness and got to work disinfecting and wrapping the wounds. There would be plenty of time for dreaming later.

  *****

  The god of Entropy watched from the shadows as his target busied himself making organized chaos. It was a beautiful thing. He was the perfect subject, the perfect puppet for what Victor needed.

  The human male was so filled with pain that he wanted to make right, so overflowing with desperation, it fed his actions like a bottomless fount. In turn, his actions fed Victor.

  And he was so hungry. He was weak. Escaping Bantariax had nearly destroyed him. The shockwave of his final separating escape had not only mortally wounded Victor, but his jailor. That was the silver lining, he supposed.

  Since finding his way into this corporeal form, Victor had already done so much. Appearing to the sovereigns, making his presence and escape known, beginning the workings of his long-term plan. He’d used most of what little energy he had managed to take with him as he’d fled, and aside from a few appearances here and there to keep his enemies on their toes, Victor was running on empty.

  Now was the time to feed, and not only to feed but to supply himself with a more permanent solution to his hunger. This human here sufficed nicely. He could also utilize the man in other ways. By keeping him close and using him as a middle man, he would be able to come closer to Katrielle. At least in a round about way.

  Ah, Kat…. He smiled to himself. Of all the reprisals he’d visualized dispensing upon the ones who had trapped him, this one was the sweetest. When the time came, Victor would make certain he had enough strength to make her scream before it was over. He wanted cries to pierce every dimension. He wanted to make sure Bantariax heard her.

  Victor would also use the human to further fuel confusion and worry amongst the wardens and their sovereigns. Lead them on a wild goose chase. Point them in the wrong direction. And so on, and so on.

  Grinning, Victor Maze made up his mind and coalesced into a solid being. He stepped out of the shadows of the basement where his subject was diligently working to bind the wounds of his victim with medicine and wrappings.

  The human male stopped what he was doing and froze. His green eyes locked on Victor’s form over the wire of his gold-rimmed glasses.

  “Good evening, Mr. Price. My name is Victor Maze. I know who and what you are and what you’ve done – and I know what it is you want.” He stopped and smiled, then corrected himself. “Or rather, who it is you want. And I can give her to you. I’m here to make you an offer, Mr. Price.” Then, in the style of one of the few human characters he’d ever appreciated, solely due to the amount of entropy the mafia created, he finished with, “I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

  Chapter Six – Damp and empty warehouse in some unnamed US city.

  “You say this girl is your sister.” Detective Hendrix James turned the photograph slowly from side to side, tilting it in the sparse light of the room. The photograph was creased at various folding lines and frayed at the edges, clearly frequently used, hence not in the best condition. A single un-covered bulb hung from a similarly naked wire in the ceiling. It was the room’s only décor, and it didn’t offer the best illumination for studying something up-close. But James didn’t need to study anything about this offer up-close to understand it quickly and thoroughly.

  The woman in the photograph was uniquely pretty, with masses of wild reddish-blonde hair and vivid eyes of a color he couldn’t quite place due to the photo’s shoddy condition. She was looking away, smiling and laughing at something or someone outside the photograph. She was also in ultra-clear focus, but on a background that was distinctly out of focus, indicating a great distance between the photographer and his subject. Meaning, whoever had taken the picture had done so without her knowledge.

  “That’s what I told you,” said the man who’d given him the photograph.

  I know that’s what you told me, thought James. Clearly I don’t believe you. If only he could read minds like some of the people he knew.

  “Mr. VanGogh, or whatever your name really is,” James said wearily as he sighed, “I don’t track down women on behalf of their stalkers. You’ll have to take your business elsewhere.”

  The man cocked his head to one side and studied James carefully, but his expression admitted neither surprise nor disappointment. Only intelligence. “Is Henry truly your first name, detective? Or is it perhaps actually Hendrix, and this counter-order of the rather noteworthy nomenclature, not to mention the obviously healthy sense of humor your parents displayed, has caused you to cultivate the truncated version, Henry, out of awkward embarrassment?”

  James said simply, “It’s Mr. James.” He was fairly sure he’d never told the man he was a detective, much less hinted that Henry could be short for what it was short for. He was fast growing uncomfortable with this meeting.

  VanGogh smiled broadly. “If you’re concerned about payment,” he said easily, “I can assure you that you needn’t be.”

  But James wasn’t worried about the money. He had plenty of money. He’d agreed to meet this man for two other reasons. One, if this potential client had been legit, it meant a young woman was missing and the client had been genuinely concerned for her safety. No harm in helping find a lost soul. And two, James had already been tasked by someone else with looking into things like this. Disorderly things, so to speak. Things like men hunting down women.

  The sovereigns had put out what amounted to an APB on criminal activity of a more primordial nature. Stalking, rape, violence, murder – these were primordial. They were man’s most ancient emotions put into action, and those ancient emotions were chaotic by nature, which is why they were currently on sovereign radar. They might be linked to the entropy god. Or chaos god. Or whatever he was.

  James had been hired not by the sovereigns, but by the Nomad herself.

  They were old friends, he and Katrielle. They went way back.

  Kat asked him to investigate and notify her of anything involving women, in particular. She seemed to believe that there was an integral link between the chaos god on the loose and a string of odd and unnatural events, the latest and most gruesome of which were a rash of serial killings taking place in the United States.

  Shit like this required someone “on the inside” who could break down the chain of command and get to the source without raising suspicion. James was that someone because he had strong ties to both the mortal and supernatural worlds.

  He liked to think of himself as a superhero of sorts. His partner on the Force would disagree wholeheartedly of course, but she also liked hazelnut creamer in her coffee, so obviously she was screwed in her adorable head and her opinion didn’t count. Like any good superhero, James maintained two
personas. By day, he was a cop. He had a trusted partner, sans creamer taste but with lots of street smarts, and they both worked within the boundaries of his precinct’s jurisdiction. Under cover of night and often a whole lot of magic, James worked for the sovereigns. In particular, Kat.

  In that capacity, he manifested and substantiated a sort of jack-of-all-trades role. In the sense that “trades” meant most things the Thirteen Realms deemed against their law.

  Through this guise, James was able to proliferate his rather notorious reputation, fake though it was, and supply the higher-ups with the information they needed to keep everyone in line, friend or foe, fae or otherwise.

  “I’m not concerned about the money,” he said simply as he turned and pretended to leave.

  “Very well,” said the man behind him. “Then I trust I can at least count on your silence in this matter.”

  “I was never hired for the job,” James said as he turned the knob on the door and cracked it open. “Therefore, I’ve nothing to be silent about.”

  He had worded his response carefully, well aware that this situation was a volatile one. He wanted to tell the truth, strictly speaking, in case any lie detection magic were at play. Rare, but sometimes that did happen. He also wanted to be able to tell Kat about this guy and the girl in the picture. So, he’d chosen words that relayed the truth but left the door open for him.

  But the fact was, he wanted out. Like, right now.

  There was something wrong here, a bad vibration in the air. It was like a scent, but not a scent, like a ghost scent – there, but unplaceable. Like an itch you couldn’t scratch. Something about the room was even wrong. He hadn’t been able to place it at first, but as he turned to leave, he thought he realized what it was.

  The shadows didn’t match their objects. They were misaligned, just slightly off. Not everyone would notice that kind of thing, but he was a detective, after all. And he had an eye for detail.