Into the Fire

by Patrick Hester

  No sound reached my ears, but suddenly, the shape reared up, arms flailing. It fell but stopped short of hitting the ground. Ronan appeared behind and lowered it slowly to the ground before motioning for us to come up. Single file, we closed the distance as fast as we could manage.

  I stared at the dead man on the ground. Broad shoulders, well-defined muscles, no neck. Like every other Werewolf I’d seen so far. Kicking his arms out from his body, I saw a silenced machine gun on a strap fall free.

  “Gun,” I whispered. “I wish I had my vest.”

  Mayfair grunted. A quick search came up with three extra clips for the weapon. I pocketed them and grabbed the gun. Three sets of eyes stared at me.

  “What? I know how to use this.” I held it before me.

  “Fine,” Mayfair whispered. “Just don’t point it at me.”

  Ronan cleaned his sword. “We need to get moving. Can you hear the chanting?”

  I couldn’t, and neither could the others.

  “Trust me,” the elf said. “Something has begun.”

  We scrambled the last twenty feet, dropping to our stomachs as we crested the top of the ridge.

  “There,” Ronan whispered.

  Out over the rocks bloomed a circle of stone set in a valley sheltered by high ridgelines on all sides. Large, round metal pans rested on tall legs spaced evenly throughout the valley, each filled with a burning liquid providing a bright orange glow. Outside the circle, a dozen or so men patrolled, each carrying a weapon comparable to the one I’d taken from the dead man. My eyes tracked a yellow haze surrounding them. I knew now it meant they were Werewolves. At the very outside-edge of the circle, the Vampires stood facing in. They had the red glow, same as at the club, though more intense. Inside the circle, ten robed, hooded people chanted around thirteen Wizards lashed to logs driven into the soft ground. The Wizard in the middle had been hung upside down, stripped naked, and, from what I could tell, had been beaten—possibly whipped, given the red slashes standing out against his skin.

  “This stops now,” Mayfair whispered. “How much time do you need?”

  “At least twenty minutes,” Kylie whispered.

  “Will this spot work?” he asked.

  She gave it the once-over, nodding.

  “Okay,” he said. “Ronan, take out as many of the guards as you can. Do it quietly.”

  “I wish I had brought my bow,” he replied. “I will do my best.”

  “All I’ll ever ask,” Mayfair said. “I’m going to circle around, hit them from the other side. We have to stop this ritual. I would love to save each and every person down there, but that can’t be our priority.”

  “Stop the ritual,” I said. “Got it.”

  “You going to be all right here?” he asked me.

  I shared a nervous smile with Kylie. “Yes. Protect Kylie, let her do her thing. Got it.”

  “If it looks like none of us can stop it, I want you to do whatever you can, but only as a last resort. Clear?” he asked.

  “As crystal,” I replied.

  “Twenty minutes,” he said to Kylie. “Then I start whether you’re ready or not.”

  * * *

  Ronan disappeared to the left, Mayfair right, leaving me with my job—protect Kylie. The plan called for her to contact a bunch of dead people, gather them here, and turn them loose to create mayhem. Apparently, this takes a lot of concentration, which is where I came in. I had to keep everyone and everything away from her so she can work her mojo.

  Thinking back to the Ghost, I figured this was a good plan. That thing managed to seriously affect me, keeping me from even moving. Who knew what a group of them could do?

  “Are you sure this is going to work?” I whispered.

  Kylie sat on the ground, lotus style. She had her hands resting palms up on her knees, eyes closed. “It should. These are angry spirits who like to cause trouble. Think of it like kicking a hornet’s nest, then tossing it into a crowd of people. Someone is bound to get stung.”

  The conversation died, so I busied myself checking out the gun I’d appropriated for the occasion, a modified German MP7 with an extended stock, noise suppressor, and oversized clip. Ironically, my vest wouldn’t have done me any good against one of these. They were designed to beat body armor. Not a thing I intended to tell Mayfair.

  Pushing those depressing thoughts aside, I decided to do a quick patrol of our little area. We were sheltered by rocks to the north, trees on the west, and bushes on the south and east. Making my way around the entire area only took a couple of minutes, but I did it anyway. The pain in my chest had continued to subside, and adrenaline had me feeling aware and alert. We weren’t using any light, so my eyes adjusted to the dark well enough to tell the difference between a bush and a rock. I hoped that also extended to Werewolves.

  Fifteen minutes left to go. Great.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

  I turned at the sound of Kylie’s voice, only to feel something smash into the back of my head. Falling to my knees, stars swirled in the dirt.

  “What?” I slurred. “Kylie … run.”

  “They only wanted Jack,” Kylie said. “He promised me I wouldn’t have to be here.”

  A Kylie-shaped shadow reared her black bag up above me. She brought it down so fast, I couldn’t raise my hands to stop her. My face hit the dirt, breath gone. Stars swirled into darkness.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “… You bitch,” I mumbled.

  Opening my eyes hurt. Everything hurt. The world was spinning. Again.

  Goddammit!

  Pushing myself to my knees slowly, no sounds reached my ears. No sign of Kylie, the MP7 or my 9 mm.

  “Bitch,” I said again. How long had I been out? Sitting up, I tried to breathe.

  Chanting somewhere. Scrambling on my knees, I crawled up the ridge until I could see out, over, and down onto the circle below. The colors of magic swirled around like a tempest.

  Then Jack Mayfair slid down the ridge opposite me, walking stick raised before him like a sword. Blue Fire lashed out, striking the Vampires lined up in front of him. In the distance, I heard the distinctive sound of automatic gunfire. Ronan fighting the Werewolves.

  What now? rasped a voice in my ear.

  Spinning, I fully expected to see a Vampire standing over me, but there was no one there. I scanned the darkness. Thunder cracked above me, causing me to jump. When I looked back at the darkness, everything had changed. The landscape wasn’t filled with shadows—it had become a kaleidoscope of color.

  The ground held a deep, dark green with hints and swirls of blue and red. The trees radiated red waves; the bushes were surprisingly blue. Heat welled up inside of me alongside a coldness I’d never known before.

  You can push magic out from you or use what is already all around you, rasped the voice. Do what must be done. No hesitation.

  Pain lanced through my brain. There was nothing to do but scream.

  I opened my eyes again, unaware I’d shut them. I stood on the lip of the ridge. Below, Mayfair fought alone, Fire swirling around him in a wall to keep the remaining Vampires at bay, but not for much longer. The ritual continued, the robed people chanting, arms raised above them. The Wizards being crucified, their bodies rigid, strained against their bonds as if something had ahold of them and tried to pull them forward.

  Spirit rose from their chests reluctantly, flowing into Nevil. His face contorted, mouth wide in a soundless scream.

  Something told me the rift would begin forming soon.

  Lightning, rasped the voice. A pattern appeared before me, like a chain of DNA, only spinning.

  My hand moved. The darkness fled. Lightning shot from my fingertips, arcing down. The Vampire closest to me shrieked as the lightning touched it. I had no idea how I did it, but the lightning bounced from the first to the second Vampire, then the third. In the blink of my eye, I had five of them linked. A push, a pulse of will, and they exploded.

  Mayfair wasted
no time. The wall of Fire swirling around him suddenly expanded, taking two more Vampires out in a blaze of glory. The rest fled back from him, trailed by a dozen fireballs.

  Remove the Fire like so, rasped the voice. A web, white as snow, covered the floor of the valley. It snared all the heat, swept it up into the night sky.

  Again my hand moved. I could feel the heat, the Fire, in the sands and rocks below me. The web formed, drawing the heat like a magnet, and I yanked at the air. A funnel of heat spiraled up, sucking the Fire from the stone, earth, sand and rocks. Ice crystals blanketed the ground, the temperature dropped in a rush.

  Pain shot though my head again, worse than ever before. I staggered back and fell to my knees. Blood dripped onto the ground before me. My blood. I had a faint memory flutter around and fade away before I could grab hold.

  Focus, said the voice.

  “Easy for the creepy disembodied voice in my head to say,” I muttered. “Mind telling me who you are and how you’re doing this?”

  A hiss behind me before the voice could answer.

  I spun to find Bitchy the Vampire crouched on the rocks. Her arms were spread out, easily twice the length they should’ve been, fingers extended and tipped with claws. Her face contorted, jaw dropping to her knees, thousands of little black teeth forming in rows. She roared.

  Wind. The pattern appeared.

  I pushed my hand out, wind rushing forward, solidifying at the last moment and slamming into her. With a jerk, she flew backwards into the air.

  Lightning.

  I remembered that pattern, and the lightning arced, striking her in the chest. In my mind, I imagined two patterns. One was the wind, holding her aloft in the air. The second, the lightning, shooting through and around her, popping her skin, melting it, causing the black mass inside to bubble and burst.

  Her eyes went wide. Then she exploded in a mist of red.

  A sound shook the ground beneath me.

  I scrambled back to the edge, sure this bellow had to be the rift opening. We’d failed.

  The end of the world had begun.

  * * *

  Never have I been so glad to be wrong.

  Below me, the world hadn’t ended.

  Vladymir had lost his mind.

  The sound coming out of him was unlike anything I have ever heard. Part bellow, part howl, part screech, it hurt my ears the longer it went on. His body contorted, shifting from shape to shape, undulating like a giant mass of viscous black liquid. I could see his face appearing and disappearing over and over.

  Break the circle, whispered the voice. Do it now.

  Mayfair, locked in some sort of duel with one of the robed Wizards performing the ritual, couldn’t act. Flows of magic danced back and forth between them, but it didn’t seem to be stopping the rest of them. The victims were still rigid, Nevil still locked in a frozen scream.

  The voice was right. I had to do something.

  Footsteps behind me. Lots of them.

  They’ve found you—jump!

  I went up and over the edge.

  For a moment there, I had this sensation of free fall before my feet hit sand and I started to slide. That lasted a couple of seconds, and then my boot snagged on a rock, forward momentum flipped me, and I started rolling. I didn’t stop until I hit the stone circle.

  Get up!

  I couldn’t breathe. My chest had become a constricted mess, and my body had a whole laundry list of new complaints vying for my attention.

  Shouting roused me. Rolling over, I pushed myself up, standing on unsteady legs. Werewolves ran at me, four of them dressed in dark colors. Without hesitation, I raised my hand. The pattern for Fire was right there, ready to go. Instead of seeing them blasted, pain seared through my eyes.

  I screamed, clutching my head. Warm blood slid down my face, settling on my lips before moving on down my chin. The coppery taste of it touched my tongue.

  A blow to my stomach sent me to my knees. All the breath left me, and I couldn’t catch another one. A line of pain sliced across my chest.

  “Well, well, what have we here, boys?”

  I knew the voice.

  The pain in my head was so intense that I had to will my eyes open with all I had.

  Number Two stood in front of me—probably the one who’d punched me. The others gathered in a circle around me.

  “Looks like a snack to me!” another voice said, followed by laughter.

  Time to let him go. If you want to live.

  “Let who go?” I muttered.

  “What’s that?” Number Two said, following it up by slapping me hard across the face. “Not so lippy now, are you?”

  The yellow haze surrounding him, surrounding all of them, grew stronger. Their bodies were blurring, quickly followed by the sound of bones snapping and popping.

  I’ve cut the cord. It’s up to you now.

  “What’s up to—”

  The sound coming out of my mouth matched Vladymir’s in pitch and pain. Every muscle went rigid. A wind whipped down the sides of the bowl-shaped valley, forcing the Werewolves to cross elongated arms over their half-human faces. That same wind swirled around me, lifting me, arms and legs spread-eagled, head back. I could feel the heat burning inside of me, bubbling like lava, the pressure building.

  I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, could only scream as my vision blurred, became this all-encompassing, bright white light.

  It burned my eyes, but I couldn’t turn away.

  A new voice reached my ears, one I didn’t know.

  “… losing him! Get a crash cart in here! Now!”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Suddenly, I stood in a church.

  Jesus above me on the cross. The look of mixed sorrow and pain on his face had always made me feel uncomfortable. When it came to ghoulish art, nothing beat Catholic churches. I’d asked a priest once: Why did the depictions of Christ on the cross have to be so … detailed? This earned me an hour-long lecture I won’t repeat here, but suffice to say, it was meant to affect us. I don’t think it had the effect they intended, at least, not with me.

  There was something I’m supposed to be doing, something important. Everything became hazy.

  This church seemed familiar to me—or, at least, parts of it did. I recognized it as being my church, the church my parents dragged us to every Sunday for Mass. Only there were little differences here and there I couldn’t quite understand. Example: the stained glass image of Mary above the right-hand chapel had been replaced with the image of a woman all in white, with long, flowing blonde hair. She had the same pose, though—arms open, palms up as if to invite you into an embrace, but it wasn’t Mary.

  A buzzing noise in my ear made me slap at it, like an insect flying around. It faded as quickly as it came.

  More differences: the basin normally full of holy water held beer and Cheerios. The red carpet beneath my feet shifted from blue to black and back again. The massive chandelier from Banba hung from the rafters above the altar, and I could hear music and the sound of people dancing on the floor above me, though no second floor existed, only those massive wooden beams.

  As I walked down the center aisle between the polished pews, I noticed that the small, gold crucifixes carved and painted on the sides had been replaced with a sword, shield, and crucifix design. The black, leather-bound hymnals were gone too, replaced with large, ancient books sporting the words Le Morte d’Arthur across them in fancy script.

  The worst change?

  The coffin resting right up on the dais beneath the giant Jesus. A simple enough coffin. The wood gleamed in the light. I couldn’t stop walking towards it. Flowers and wreathes formed a wall between us, protecting it, shielding it from the rain. I shook my head. There was no rain, only thunder and lightning. The lid stood open, white, frilly material visible inside. The closer I got, the harder my heart thundered in my chest.

  Then I saw him: Jorge, so pale—

  “Hey, kiddo.”

  I spun to see my f
ather standing there. Not the weak man he’d become with the pale skin and thinning hair. Here, he was in his prime, red hair neatly trimmed, bold chin jutting out with just a hint of stubble. His broad shoulders did not slope, and he stood tall and strong. I cried at the sight of him whole again.

  Falling into his arms, I inhaled deeply, catching the scent of Old Spice and cigars that meant Pop to me.

  He scooped me up in his arms, and I was five years old again, dressed in a blue, flowery dress with my hair in pigtails.

  “Where are we, daddy?” I asked.

  “This place is a little bit me and a little bit you,” he said.

  “Jorge is dead.” My voice was tiny, small. I truly had become five years old again. It didn’t make any sense, but there I was, five years old, and being held in my father’s arms, legs dangling.

  “I know, kid,” he said softly. He balled his hand into a fist, gave me a little bump on the chin. “We talked. He’s good. It’s not your fault.”

  I buried my head in his neck. “Yes it is.”

  He rubbed his hand up and down my back, shushing me as I began to cry.

  “There, there,” he said. “It’s going to be okay. Sam. I don’t have a lot of time, and there’s something you have to see.”

  “What?” I mumbled into his neck.

  “Hey,” he bounced me in his arms. He got a huge grin on his face, his eyes wide. “Is that any way for a Kane to act? We are many things, but shy is not one of them.”

  I giggled. “I’m not shy!”

  Thunder cracked above, and I gripped my daddy’s neck tight. “I’m scared. The Werewolves!”

  “Shh,” he said. “We just need to see the Father. Then you can go.”

  He turned and started walking through the church. I could hear the sound of rain pounding on the roof along with the occasional flash of lightning and crack of thunder. I held tight to his neck despite his being soaking wet. I had my yellow rain slicker on, but it hadn’t kept my hair from getting soaked as we made the mad dash into church from the car.

  “Pop?”

  My daddy turned at the call from my older brother. “Michael! Stay in the car!”