The Dead Pools

by Michael Hesse

  Ramirez made to step forward, but Thomas held him back. “Most of the fighting was on the northern and western sides,” he said, “but something doesn’t feel right.”

  Stevens swept his carbine in a half circle. “Nothing feels right about this.”

  “It’s been too easy,” Thomas agreed. From far back on the beach there was a shout and a crash of steel and then another roar that shook the ground.

  “Hasty decisions get you killed,” Thomas muttered to himself as he bent to examine the ground. Switching his Beretta from his left to his right, Thomas traced a series of bent glyphs just above the sand. At first nothing happened, but as I looked more closely, I could see lines of inky dark slowly spreading like black lace crawling above the sand.

  It moved steadily until it encountered something ten feet from the door. The lace flowed around the obstruction like water encountering an unexpected rock in a rushing stream. Yet unlike a river, it did not flow back into its original course. Instead it edged steadily northwards until it finally came to rest against the side of the house.

  “Well that’s your answer,” Thomas said pointing to the lace. “The sand directly in front of the door has been trapped.”

  “What about further up?” Mac asked, “Another wing perhaps?”

  Thomas glanced back as another roar shook the ground. It seemed a little further away, but it was difficult to know for sure. Sound plays funny by the water.

  “No,” he shook his head. “The east wing was the public face. We’d have my parent’s own wards to worry about there. This is something my uncles left and as skilled as they are, my father was truly gifted.” Thomas shuddered at some private memory and then pointed back to the sand. “Better that we confront this here and now. I fear our time is running short.”

  A shout and another roar added urgency to Thomas’s words. This time there was no doubt. Both were closer.

  “Nunez, around the back,” Mac shouted. “Find cover and see if you can poke some holes in that thing. Give us time.”

  Nunez nodded and then ran towards the back of the house. I don’t know how Mac does it, choosing who stays and who goes. I couldn’t bear that weight. Mac whispered, “God be with you son,” as Nunez disappeared into the gathering night.

  I turned back after adding my own blessing only to find Thomas standing before the trapped sand with his sword in hand. The long blade glittered in the dark, swirling with cool energies as if a fog bank had been folded and worked into its current shape. Before I could move to stop him, Thomas stepped forward and drove the blade deep into the center of his Uncle’s trap.

  A technicolor storm exploded beneath the sand in a mad riot of seething energy. Purple lightnings flashed across fiery orange blooms and seething clouds of sickly green swept over the hellish landscape. Thomas stood in the midst of it all, driving his sword deeper into the fury of the maelstrom locked beneath his feet. Crystalline geysers of crackling energy erupted, briefly towering above the house before impotently crashing to the ground.

  Thomas staggered and fell to one knee, but he wouldn’t release the blade. He drove the sword deeper into the sand, twisting it as he sought the heart of the spell. Rivulets of blood ran from the corners of his mouth as a bell tolled beneath his feet. Once, twice, three times it sounded, each strike weaker like the fluttering of a dying heart, before fading to silence. The light show went with it. Its fury spent, it drained away into the sand like rain drying after a summer’s storm.

  For a moment no one moved as if each of us were afraid that we’d shatter the sudden stillness and coax back the fury of the storm. The silence only lasted a second. From somewhere to my left there was another clash of steel and then the flat retort of Nunez’s rifle. Three shots, evenly spaced and after each a howl of pain. It was enough to get us moving again.

  Ramirez was the first and closest, running across the sand to scoop Thomas up by his armpits and drag him to his feet. I was next and close enough to see the shake in his hands as he carefully replaced the blade. “Spell breaker?” I asked.

  “Of a sort,” Thomas nodded. “Ill Season was forged under different laws. There’s not much terrestrial magick that can withstand her touch.”

  “Talk later,” Mac shouted from the rear. “We’re running out of time.”

  Ramirez pointed to the ironwood door, “You got a key? ‘Cause I’m damned sure that trap would’ve been laid on the inside if it were unlocked.”

  Thomas shook off my helping hand and pressed his palm against the rough wood. “I am the key.”

  The door shuddered as hidden bolts withdrew, a moment later it swung easily on hidden hinges. Thomas pulled it completely open and quickly ushered us inside.

  The room beyond was set up as a library or study. Books crowded the floor to ceiling shelves, though it was difficult to read the titles in the dim light. A large painting of a withered landscape hung above a carved walnut desk. Thomas passed quickly through the room, weaving his way in between a table and overstuffed chairs that looked perfect for reading. He urged us onward from the opposite doorway.

  “Come on,” he said. “We don’t have time to dawdle. He wouldn’t have kept it here.”

  “Kept what,” I snapped as I banged my shin against a small table, sending it crashing to the floor.

  “The book I need.”

  I stopped suddenly and swung back pointing toward the bulging shelves. “There are thousands of books here. How can you be sure it’s not hidden among them?”

  “It’s not that type of book,” Thomas replied. “It wouldn’t be stuffed in with the grimoires and histories. Father would have kept it in his studio.”

  “Unless he took it with him,” I said.

  Thomas stopped for only a moment, glancing back at the painting above his father’s desk. “He didn’t have time,” he said before stepping out into the hallway leaving the rest of us no choice but to follow.

  The deeper we moved into the house; the more cautious Thomas became. By the time we’d cleared the south wing, he was pausing every few feet to test the air. “Something’s not right,” he muttered.

  I clapped his shoulder, thinking I understood. The rooms we’d cleared had once been grand, but now were choked with smashed furniture, broken statuary, and glittering shards of crystal that crunched under foot. Bullet holes pockmarked the walls and even the thick carpet of dust couldn’t obscure the dark stains that lay underneath. His childhood home had become a battlefield, something that would disturb anyone.

  “It’s not that,” he replied, “I expected this. We should have come across a dozen traps by now, not counting the ones my parents disabled for the party, but there’s been nothing.”

  “Perhaps they faded if they weren’t attended,” Stevens suggested.

  “Maybe that’s it,” Thomas said. “Or maybe my uncles wanted me to get this far.”

  “The trap outside was substantial,” Ramirez pointed out.

  “True, but I can’t help feeling that we’re being manipulated. If my uncles never found the book they could be waiting for my discovery.”

  Another roar outside the house cut off any further discussion. We were nearly out of time.

  “Nothing to do, but find out,” Thomas said. “Stay close to me and shoot anything that moves.”

  “Like I needed to be told that,” Ramirez grinned.

  We followed Thomas through an archway and into an enormous central room that looked more like the lobby of a European hotel. Small clumps of couches and plush chairs were scattered about to encourage private conversations, although the screening plants had long since withered and died. I couldn’t imagine how it must have felt to live and play here as a child. There would have been a thousand places to explore and hide and knowing Thomas he would have found them all.

  We passed quickly through the room and then stopped before a wide staircase that led to the upper floors. If we were going to find another trap, it would be here.

  “Can you detect anything?” I asked.
>
  Thomas shook his head. “It wouldn’t matter if I tried,” he explained. “Father’s studio is up there, just past the bedrooms at the end of the hall. His sorcery permeates every square inch, even the air is full of it.”

  “Impossible,” Mac said. “It’s been what, fifteen years? How could his spells keep such resonance without reapplication?”

  “Have you seen my father’s paintings?” Thomas asked. “They’re self-sustaining. My father’s forgotten more sorcery than most of us ever learned and it’s strong enough to mask anything lying under it. No, we’ll have to do this the hard way.”

  Once again, he drew Ill Season from the sheath strapped to his back and touched the gray sword’s blade to the bottom step. Encountering no resistance, he flicked it to the step above and then set his weight upon the first step. We continued tapping and testing and then stepping up onto the cleared stair until we were half way up the flight. This is where we’d place a trap if we’d done it, just far enough that if you’re testing the stairs, you’d get complacent and skip a step.

  Thomas was methodical. Despite the time burned he’d check and wait a beat before proceeding to the next. When he slapped the blade down onto the halfway step, we held our collective breath expecting something . . . anything, but it was as inert as the dozens before. After that we moved more quickly, but still checked each one.

  Thomas turned at the top of the flight and hurried down the hall while we scrambled to catch up. We found him standing before an oaken door bound in black iron. Centuries older than the surrounding structure it had been stolen from the studio of Hieronymus Bosch, Thomas proudly proclaimed. “Look at the scarring,” he smirked. “The bastards tried, but they couldn’t get through.”

  Sheathing his blade once more, Thomas wiped at the blood staining his chin and spread it across the door. A deep and terrible moaning flooded the hallway nearly masking the tolling of a bell. “Damn,” Thomas muttered, “that’s where they hid it.”

  A moment later a heavy lock thudded and the door creaked open. “Quickly now, that bell shouldn’t have sounded. My uncles will know we’ve breached the studio.”

  “Took us hours to get here,” Ramirez said. “I think we’ve got time.”

  “Assumptions will get us killed,” Mac snapped. “Ramirez, Stevens, secure the stairs and make sure we’ve got a clear field of fire. I’ll hold the hall. Thorn, go with your friend and be quick about it.”

  Thomas nodded his approval and stepped through the door. I followed close on his heels.

  Dozens of candles flared to life as we stepped across the threshold and they weren’t the bubble bath and honeymoon variety. They were black and purple tallow creations that sizzled and hissed from iron sconces and twisted candelabra scattered about the octagonal room. Workbenches and tables covered with a mad variety of mortars and pestles, beakers, burners, and a riot of glass and copper tubing choked the center of the room, while cluttered shelves climbed the rear walls. Except for the covered canvass resting on a tripod before the massive floor to ceiling windows, the room looked more like an insane chemist’s laboratory than an artist’s studio.

  Thomas turned towards the shelves at the back of the room, frantically searching for his father’s book, but I was drawn to the front. I wasn’t sure what it was at first, but I could feel it, a soft clawing at my mind as if something were seeking my attention. I glanced up startled by movement in the window before I realized it was a reflection. Night had fallen, turning the windows into mirrors in the guttering light, black mirrors reflecting back an endless series of candle flames dancing toward infinity.

  I stepped around the workbenches groaning under their loads of archaic equipment and slipped between the colored splatters staining the hardwood floor. There was something else happening, I could feel it, though I didn’t recognize what it was. Something wasn’t right about the windows. A line of twinkling lights moved between the reflected candle flames. I turned back expecting to see Thomas using a candelabra to peer into the dark recesses of the shelves, but he was empty handed.

  Back to the window and now the lights were a little closer. I counted them; five, six, seven and all moving in a straight line. It can’t be one of the candelabras behind me, too many lights and they twinkled, they didn’t dance like candle flames. Was it some property of the glass, a defect that is drawing the lights together in some sort of optical illusion? I reached out to touch the glass before the alarm bells started to go off in my head.

  I’m standing in a sorcerer’s studio and these windows aren’t windows at all. At least not at night, they’re black mirrors. Scrying mirrors. “Thomas?” His name falls flat on my tongue and I have to start again. “Thomas, did your father spell the windows?”

  “Hmmm?” He didn’t really answer because he’s too focused on his search.

  I tried again. “Thomas,” I barked to break through his concentration. “Did your father spell the windows for scrying?”

  I heard something fall at the back of the room and then Thomas was by my side, peering into the velvet dark. I pointed to the twinkling lights which appeared even closer now, then to the reflections of the flickering flames. They’re not the same. The lights are organized and moving, there’s dimension to them, while the flames only dance.

  Thomas saw it and I watched as understanding bloomed across his brow. This is his father’s studio. He knows how his father might have organized things, how he worked. The pieces fell together like a jigsaw puzzle when the picture suddenly comes into focus.

  Thomas didn’t hesitate. He didn’t explain what he knew. He ran for the back of the room and shouted through the door. “Sergeant, get your men back in the house! Company’s coming!”

  Chapter 30

  Shadow Bridge, Thursday 21:00

  Salvatore Sinistra’s Studio

  Beyond the bluster and the bullying, way past the voice that drives you to the depths of your reserves; a good Sergeant acts. Mac didn’t question Thomas. He didn’t hesitate or ask how he knew. Almost before the words were out of his mouth, Mac was shouting down the stairs. “Stevens get Nunez and Bender back inside the house. Ramirez, provide covering fire! We’ve got hostiles coming fast.”

  He waited just long enough to see the scramble at the bottom of the stairs before poking his head inside the studio. “You going to explain what’s going on?” he bellowed.

  Engrossed in his methodical search at the back of the room, Thomas waved Mac towards me. I was still at the window mirrors following the progress of the lights and filled Mac in. “It’s unbelievable Sarge, look here,” I said pointing to the frames around each of the windows. “You’ve got that Hellion script, Theban, and maybe Arabic over here—

  Mac cut me off. “I don’t give a shit how this works,” he said, “tell me what I’m looking at.”

  I pointed to the twinkling lights. They’ve grown larger in the few minutes that have passed. Here and there I could see dim figures around them, wisps and shadows, but identifiable as people. Seven, no eight figures moved around the lights. I don’t know how I could tell, but I knew that they’re close.

  Mac nodded as I explained what we’re seeing. We didn’t understand exactly what we’re looking at or where the window was focused, but we knew that whatever was coming towards us was almost there. At the same time there was a burst of gunfire outside the window and then another, and more of that prehistoric roaring. It shook the house it’s so close.

  Thomas was still searching for his book or whatever it is that he really wanted. I can’t believe that he hasn’t found it yet. He’s cleared nearly three quarters of the shelves and I could tell he’s starting to worry. He’s poked his nose into boxes, felt behind beakers filled with unimaginable substances, and scattered a king’s ransom in jewels across the floor. His hands were darting everywhere, running under the shelves and knocking against the walls. Somewhere there’s got to be a catch or a latch or a rune carved into the wood that will tell him where his father’s book is hidden. The entire
reason we’re here at all is because of that book. The one he knew he could find.

  Glass crashed downstairs and now the sounds of gunfire are louder. Interspersed between the quick bursts I could hear shouts and commands, but the twists and turns of the floor below masked the meaning behind the shouting. Another roar rattled the bottles and boxes on the shelves. Something fell to the floor and crunched under foot.

  The lights in the mirrors were larger, softball sized and growing. I could see hands holding lanterns, but I couldn’t see any faces. It’s like I was looking at one of his father’s paintings, figures moved across a landscape I can’t quite discern. I only caught glimpses of purple soot and flickering flame.

  The sounds of fighting were getting louder. A short buzz saw burst ends with a click and swearing. I knew that sound. It’s the sound of a magazine running dry. Mac turned and sprinted for the door, knocking the covered easel to the floor.

  He didn’t give it a second glance, but something about it caught my eye.

  If you’ve never seen Ssin’s work before then you wouldn’t understand. You can’t photograph his paintings; all that comes out is a grayish smear. It’s not because the work is spelled either, though plenty of magick has gone into their construction. Thomas once told me that’s because the painting comes alive in your mind, as if his father’s true canvas lay somewhere deep beneath your eyes, but that’s not truly it either.

  Salvatore Sinistra painted old style. He crushed gems and pearls, used egg yolks and spider silk infused with night terrors and dead men’s breath. Each of his signature colors was meticulously designed, constructed, and willed into being. You can almost feel the heat from his sunsets or become chilled by his evening frosts. Every painting is a masterpiece, a ritual transformed into two dimensions and laid bare on hand woven canvas.