by Dorian Dawes
Until this moment, Stanton had been confident in his superiority; the fact that the old woman still stood defiant before him undermined this belief and left him in a state close to panic - panic, but mostly fury.
"You should be dead by now," he said, his voice a low breathy growl.
The phantom woman faded from view, leaving Gloria to stand alone with naught but her candles. She glared silently at him, drawing in as much of her strength as possible. She dared not show it but the spell had weakened her. The other cultists had been mere pawns, local fools who'd been manipulated by their own prejudices and xenophobia into joining this idiotic death-cult. Stanton was unlike them, a true priest of his malevolent god, and clearly a potent spell-caster.
"There was one more powerful than you," Gloria said. "I heard he died, screaming in a burning barn, afflicted by visions of another world. Meddlesome kids, eh?"
Stanton chortled. "That was a bungle, wasn't it? The former high priest of our order, Irizen! He was old and had given too much of himself to our father, Avaroth, and was barely recognizable as human. Hideous foul creature, good riddance. I should thank those little brats once I'm through with you, they earned me a promotion."
"You will not touch them," Gloria said, drawing her fingers through the flames. "I won't allow it!"
She withdrew from the air a crackling whip made of ember and flame. It snapped against the earth, scorching it. She had little magic left, anything greater and she'd do more harm to herself than he possibly could.
"You could give in now. Let him win. Join your husband and child. I'm sure they miss you," a familiar demon whispered into her thoughts. She could feel its icy grip coiling about her brain. Gloria couldn't help but laugh.
Stanton's shoulders stiffened and he took a cautious step back. "Stop laughing. I don't like it."
"Which one of you set the demon on my family?" she said. "The one that drove my daughter and husband to suicide, the one that's been clinging to my shoulders since? I think it's in agony, wanting to be rid of this old bag of bones almost as much as I do. It'd like you to kill me so it can move the fuck on."
Stanton furrowed his brow, his unease apparent. "I've no clue what you're talking about."
She shrugged her shoulders. "Before your time then. Doesn't matter. I've no intention of ever letting you or this thing win."
And, with little warning, she lunged forwards, letting the fiery whip crackle through the air. It made a loud snap as its unnaturally long edge barely touched the tip of Stanton's fingers. He took a nervous step back and cast a quick barrier about himself. Gloria laughed and dispelled it readily with her free hand. Such simple incantations were beneath her.
She managed to coil the whip firmly about his body and wrench him to his knees. Dispelling his barrier had wrested the last bit of magic she had left, but she wouldn't need any more spells to end this miserable sod's existence. Gloria stood over him, pressing his face into the dirt even as the fire slowly spread up his body, torching his robes.
Stanton didn't even give her the pleasure of hearing him scream. He could only whimper as the fire licked the sides of his face. She looked at him, her mouth curling downwards with disgust.
"There'll be more of you," she grunted. "And they'll all meet the same fate, one way or another."
Gloria dispelled her enchantments. The candles, the flames, all vanished. What was left of her victims fell into piles of ash. She wearily returned to the silo to retrieve her cane. Her fingers wrapped around the handle as she turned to survey the damage she'd caused. God, it felt good to let loose once in a while.
Free of the adrenaline, she could finally pay attention to the agitated complaints of her arthritic joints. She placed a hand against her aching back and let out a stream of dissatisfied expletives.
Her eyes caught sharply on a figure emerging from the woods. "You!"
One last gunshot rang out. The back of her head exploded and brain matter splattered against the rusted wall. Gloria Padilla fell to her knees, her leathery finger still pointing at the woods, mouth hung open in revelatory horror.
Warden emerged into the charred field. He cupped his hand to light his cigarette even as her corpse slumped to the ground. He walked slowly, surveying the smoldering remnants of the battlefield with a bemused smirk until he stopped inches in front her bleeding body. A slow stream of black mist rose out her shoulders and vanished.
He hadn't expected that. He'd make note of it for later investigations. At the moment, the task was completed and he saw little to worry about.
His phone rang. Right on cue. Extra-planar entities had a penchant for punctuality.
Warden answered promptly. "Hi. Both of them are dead. Stanton and Padilla. She won't be around to interfere and the Maleficarum will be leaderless for a time, just like you wanted."
A hissing voice greeted him from the other end of the line. "And what of the professor?"
Warden grinned. "All he holds dear has been threatened, and we've murdered his mentor, so what do you think? He'll be a nervous wreck, more unstable now than he's ever been. Shouldn't take too much prodding to tip him over the edge, bring out the animal again."
"We are almost primed for the great coming, and Oakridge will burn." The voice let out a giddy stream of noises so inhuman that even one so desensitized as Warden found it wholly unnerving. He thought it might be laughter, but he wasn't sure. He didn't ask.
"Do you have it, what's been promised?" Warden's voice came out, hopeful and breathy.
He could feel the thing on the other line, feel its smug superiority and disdain. "You will see your son again, though you may come to regret it."
"Keep your tentacles to yourself," Warden growled. He slammed the disconnect button more forcefully than he should have. His bottom lip quivered as he shoved the phone back into his pocket.
Warden's furrowed his brows, fingers shaking as he took another long drag of his cigarette. His eyes fixed on Gloria's lifeless body. He thought about how frightening she looked even in death, fingers curled and eyes permanently caught in an accusatory stare. If she could come back to life right now, she'd rip his throat out.
Warden turned his back on her, unable to meet her cold, unforgiving gaze.
* * *
Little mention had been made of the charred field by the old Blackerly silo in the past two weeks, or of the good thirty citizens of Wakefield who'd seemingly vanished. There was the usual commotion of gossip and rumors, particularly over noteworthy disappearances such as the dean of Stithyan University as well as several local police officers. But of course, life goes on as normal and the citizens of Wakefield had long grown used to looking the other way when strange things occurred. It allowed the Maleficarum to come in behind the carnage and sweep away the ashes left by yet another failure, to retreat once more into the shadows of society and plan their next move unhindered.
Bartleby returned to the silo the next morning to search for Gloria, to see if she'd survived. There was no sign of her or her body, only cinders and ash to tell the story of her battle. The Maleficarum did not take prisoners, and it was unlikely she'd duck into hiding without contacting him first, so he felt safe to assume her death.
The understanding of her absence did not truly settle until he had driven a mile into the woods, away from the site. It shattered him and he had to pull over on the side of the dirt road, unable to see through the cascading tears. She was gone: his mentor, his friend. Gloria had been his longest ally in this fight against the dark conspiracies that enshrouded this island. He didn't even have a body to bury or mourn, and wouldn't even learn how she died. His final memory of her would forever be a fleeting glance out the rear-view mirror through a wall of flame. That stung the most.
Sobbing loudly, he banged a fist against the dashboard. He let out a noise like that of a wounded animal; a painful, ugly cry. He tore his glasses from his face and wiped his tears against the sleeve of his tweed jacket.
Several minutes passed as he allowed the grief t
o run through him. He'd become far too accustomed to death, but there'd been part of him always convinced that Gloria was immortal. She could never die. She was too powerful, too necessary to him.
Bartleby regained his composure and rested the glasses back onto his face. The fact remained that Gloria was dead, but the Maleficarum had not come for them. The hag had won. It was comforting enough to let him smile again, however weakly.
* * *
Dayabir brushed his fingers along the dusty display cabinets within the rooms of the Wakefield Historical Society building. His thoughts drifted back to first stepping foot onto the wooden floorboards and gaping with awe at every collected relic from Harbinger Island's sordid and colorful history. That was before his eyes had been opened to the true horrors of the world around him. It felt like another life, another Dayabir who had walked the creaking floorboards, and that it'd been far longer than a mere month and a half.
Justin stood in the doorway, watching the mournful expression on Dayabir's face as he perused the shelves. "You okay?"
Dayabir turned and shrugged his shoulders. "All right, I guess. These floors need to be swept."
Justin sighed and crossed the distance between them. He pulled his boyfriend into a tight hug. "You miss her."
Dayabir nodded, his eyes watering. "She was a neat old lady. I don't think I've ever had a friend quite like her."
Justin held him for as long as he needed. Dayabir relaxed in his arms, gripping him tightly. They swayed in soft, gentle motions; watched over by tattered parchment and dry, dusty artifacts.
They held hands and walked between the shelves while Dayabir explained between sniffles the various bits of lore and history behind each display. He even pulled Justin into the darker corners hidden from the viewing public, where the more dangerous and forbidden secrets were kept. Gloria had let him in on a host of truths she'd uncovered regarding the occult conspiracies of Harbinger Island, and he was all too eager to share them with his lover.
After about an hour of this, Justin asked him, "What's going to happen to this place?"
Dayabir shrugged his shoulders. "It'll probably get seized. Go to the bank or something, or whatever happens to these types of places."
Justin frowned. "I don't think Gloria would like that."
Dayabir froze, staring at a crate full of occult remnants, the outsides bound in protective runes and sigils. He laid a palm flat against the crate. How many of these rituals had he helped Gloria perform? It all felt so routine now. "She wouldn't like it at all," he murmured.
"Have you heard from Bartleby? Any thoughts on … well, what happened to you?"
Dayabir shrugged. "The Creator is an all-pervading spirit and exists in all creation; it is timeless, universal, and there is no hate in it. Bartleby thinks that maybe my faith and my magic intertwined for that moment."
"You're something amazing, you know that?" Justin smiled. "Your devotion to your faith, it's pretty cool."
"I will remember this next time you choose to remind me what a massive dork I am."
"I never said they were mutually exclusive!"
They left shortly after, Dayabir locking the door behind them. Justin opened the passenger side door of Gloria's old station wagon and then froze. His hand hung, lingering on the edge of the door handle, while his eyes remained fixed on the Black Goat Woods beyond. His eyes narrowed and he almost felt his heart stop.
Dayabir held his door open still, attempting to follow Justin's gaze. "What is it?"
"It's nothing," Justin said. He gave his lover a smile. "I get spooked more easily these days."
"With good reason," Dayabir said glumly.
Justin kept the truth a secret. He kept the fake smile up for as long as he could, though still made furtive glances out the window back towards the woods. He kept thinking he had seen the battered figure of Rhamal, permanently trapped in human form, watching him from the darkness of the trees. He turned and gave Dayabir a loving kiss and then smiling went to buckle his seatbelt.
In his heart, he was panicking.
* * *
Veronika and Kara had returned to the old Blackerly house together. Following that terrible evening, the house felt stripped of all its negative energy and malefic power. It was an empty shell with nothing left but the memories they carried over the threshold.
Kara stepped across the grimy bathroom tile to stare blankly at the rusting bathtub. It still hurt to look at it, to remember being cold and scared and wrapped in barbed wire. The pain had dulled somewhat, no longer as fresh and real as the day the trauma had first occurred. Veronika slid her hand into hers.
"You okay, Kara-bear?"
Kara nodded. "Yeah. Just thinking. Feeling kind of lucky to be alive. Well … not lucky. You had a lot to do with that."
Veronika shook her head. "Nuh-uh. I got my ass handed to me. Remember?"
Kara teasingly pulled Veronika out of the disgusting bathroom and closed the door on the awful place. "Not according to Professor Prouse."
"What'd he have to say about it?" Veronika giggled.
She kept her hand locked in hers and they swung their arms together as they walked down the hallway. Their laughter felt almost like it was purifying this wretched place.
Kara shrugged her shoulders. "Lot of it was technical meta-occult bullshit I don't understand, but apparently your poisons are arcane in nature, wearing down defenses both physical and magical."
"I know how my own spells work, Kara. Doesn't explain how I contributed." Veronika rolled her eyes.
"Well I'm repeating it so I can grasp it, okay!" Kara shoved her playfully. "Anyway, Bartleby thinks that without your poisons, he might not have been able to do whatever the fuck he did to Rhamal. That creature's defense would have resisted the spell."
Veronika's eyes widened. "Really? So that man was gambling with us the whole time?"
Kara shrugged. "Guess so. Point is, without you … I'd be dead."
They held each other tightly. Veronika gazed into her eyes and drew her fingers along Kara's cheek. It'd felt like the first real quiet moment they'd had since that night at the party. All the trauma and the horror could wait. All that mattered was this, this touching embrace and the parting of lips.
"We're going to be okay," Veronika whispered.
Kara wanted to cry. "I know."
* * *
Helena hadn't talked much to Bartleby since the incident at the silo, or any of the others for that matter. Justin and Kara had their own issues to sort out and lovers to share them with. She respected that and had no interest intruding upon their relationships. She'd retaliated against the growing tide of loneliness by retreating into her room and rereading all of her favorite books - everything but the Harry Potter series that now sat banished in a stack in her closet. The very idea of magical societies no longer sparked her imagination and now instead filled her with revulsion and horror.
Her mother, Soon-bok, had stopped pestering her to come out of her room after the first week. There'd be occasional attempts, such as a kind 'I love you' memo pasted on the side of a bowl of kimchi stew. The kindness of the gesture wasn't lost on Helena, but facing the world, let alone her family, felt more of a daunting task than she was prepared for. If she left her bedroom at all, it was late in the evening when her brothers and mom had all fallen asleep, and even then it was only to sit in the bathtub, sulking for hours on end.
It was only when her mother had called her name from downstairs, insisting that there were men there specifically to see her, that Helena had chosen to emerge. Of all days, it was a day when she'd somehow felt the urge to climb out of bed before noon, actually fix her hair and put on makeup and look somehow presentable. It was almost like they were waiting for her to be ready for them.
Both men wore black suits and black ties and black sunglasses. One was white, the other of possibly Asian descent. Each had the same grim, stoic expression. Helena might not have agreed to speak with them had they not mentioned the words 'Syracuse' and 'Winterc
hild.'
"Mom? Could we have some privacy?" Helena said, turning to her mother, looking embarrassed and pleading. She saw her mother's bewildered and anxious expression and felt even worse for asking.
Soon-Bok possessed an extraordinary ability. She could mask her true emotions to anyone but those she wanted to see them. The two men saw before them an inviting and hospitable woman. Only Helena saw anxiety, bewilderment, and heartbreak.
"Oh! Yeah, sure. Do you need any tea?" Soon-Bok gestured, allowing the two men inside.
"We're fine," the white man said. "We won't be long."
Soon-Bok departed for the kitchen to put on a kettle anyway. Helena felt sick inside. Another reason for hating all things magical.
She led the men into their living room and was thankful her brothers were both at school that day. Her mom would respect her privacy and wait for the guilt to bring out an honest answer. The boys would only continue to pester her until she had to come up with some fake-ass story to satisfy them.
The men retrieved a folder full of papers. "We represent the Occult Affairs Division branch of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We'd like to speak to you about some things."
Helena raised an eyebrow. "No such division exists. Don't bullshit me, guys."
"My name is Aaron Ying," the other man said. "Here's my ID. We're wholly legitimate. And yes, you're right. According to the general public, the OAD is non-existent, at best some junky radio DJ's conspiracy theory."
"I'm Jeffrey Tombs. Helena Han, we'd like to offer you a position. You have talents and connections that we think might prove useful to our branch, and an internship with us will see you set for just about any career opportunity you could think of."
Helena shook her head. She took the folder from the coffee table and began leafing through it. Everything had an intimidating aura of authenticity. Her hair prickled along the back of her neck, and the stinging sensation of her butterfly familiars all pointed to the indicator; this was all too terrifyingly real. She shuddered, looking over the list of credentials.
