Strange Magic

by Justin Gustainis

  Libby got no useful emanations from any of the apartments on that level. As they climbed the stairs to the next floor, Peters asked her, “What do we do if you get a hit—or whatever you call it—at one of these places? Knock on the door and ask for Kayla?”

  “Well, we could always call the police. I could explain to them that I’m a witch and that I’m getting psychic vibrations from—”

  “Okay, okay—you already made your point.”

  “The sense of unease I experienced while doing the map search could mean any number of things. Maybe she’s developed a crack habit or hooked up with an abusive boyfriend. On the other hand, it could mean she’s in imminent danger of death. There’s only one way to find out for certain.”

  “Go in and get her.”

  “Score one for the man from the CIA.”

  “I haven’t been with the Company for a long time. That was literally, a lifetime ago.”

  “I know, but I thought calling you ‘the man from Hell’ might sound rude.”

  “You got any thoughts as to—”

  “Quiet.”

  They had just passed apartment 311. Libby turned back, softly walked to the door, and placed both hands flat against its surface. She stood like that for several seconds, eyes closed in concentration.

  Then she turned to Peters and said, “This is the one, and whatever danger she’s in is worse than a drug habit—a lot worse. We have got to get in there right now.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “HOLY MOTHER OF God,” Sturbridge said softly. Morris wasn’t sure if that was a reaction to the ghouls’ physical appearance, or their unexpected number, or both.

  Morris had seen ghouls before, and this bunch was consistent with his past experience. They were vaguely humanoid—unsurprising, since ghouls had once been human, before being infected by the virus bacillus ghoulianas. The most common means of infection was the bite of another ghoul, although most ghouls lacked the self-control to stop knawing on a human after just one bite. Good thing, too—or the world would be ass-deep in ghouls by now.

  The creatures were hairless, with skin that hung limply from their naked bodies and sunken eyes that seemed to glow in the light of the campfire. Their teeth looked sharp and mean, while their fingers ended in claws that were long and slightly curved. As they stared at what they doubtless regarded as their dinner, the seven ghouls made intermittent sounds that were somewhere between a hiss and a growl.

  “Two, you said, Quincey. Two—maybe three.” Sturbridge sounded like he was on the edge of panic.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Morris said. “You ready with that flame thrower?”

  “Yeah, all set to go. I just hope it’ll be enough.”

  “It will be,” Morris said with a bravado he did not feel. “Okay then. Stand where you are. Make them come to you. When they get within range, fry the motherfuckers.”

  “What’re you gonna do?”

  “Keep them from getting behind you.”

  Morris gripped the hilt of the saber with both hands and brought the weapon up to shoulder height, unconsciously imitating the ready position of the samurai.

  As if on command, the ghouls surged forward. They had apparently never seen a flamethrower before, because they made no effort to avoid Sturbridge as he aimed the nozzle at one and squeezed the trigger. A gout of flame shot out to engulf the nearest ghoul, who staggered back, making a high-pitched sound which might have been a scream.

  The first ghoul to reach Morris hesitated, its eyes on the cavalry saber. Morris faked with his head and shoulders as if he were about to move to the right. The ghoul took a sideways step in that direction and Morris swung the saber hard. The sharp, heavy blade cut right through the thing’s spinal column and severed the head, which went spinning out into the dark beyond the campfire’s reach. A moment later, the obscene-looking body collapsed to the ground.

  Two down, five left to go, Morris thought. With his peripheral vision, he saw the flamethrower give a second belch of fire that turned another ghoul into a tower of writhing, screaming flame.

  Two more ghouls came at Morris. Having seen what he’d just done to their comrade, they separated and approached warily, their vicious claws slashing the air even before they were close enough to do any damage.

  Morris knew that the last thing he and Sturbridge could afford was a protracted battle that the ghouls might win, or, at best, slink away from. In the latter case, Morris and Sturbridge would have to find the survivors all over again, and even ghouls weren’t stupid enough to walk into the same trap twice. No—it had to end here, and quickly.

  Taking one hand away from the saber’s handle, Morris grabbed the ultra-powerful flashlight that was clipped to his belt. He flicked it on and gave one of the ghouls a three second blast right in its sunken eyes. The ghoul cried out and took a step back, temporarily blinded.

  Morris tried to give the same treatment to his buddy, but this one was pretty smart, for a ghoul. It quickly raised the back of one hand to its eyes and blocked out most of Morris’s flashlight beam. Of course, covering your eyes with a hand means you still can’t see what’s going on. Morris took advantage of that with a quick step forward to deliver a one-handed downward slash with the saber that bisected the ghoul’s skull as neatly as a watermelon at a Fourth of July picnic.

  But when Morris tried to pull the blade back out, he found it was stuck in the ghoul’s cranial cavity. After a quick glance left to make sure that the other ghoul was still night-blind, Morris yanked hard, bringing the saber, and the stumbling, dying ghoul it was still attached to, right toward himself.

  With their bodies practically touching, the odor coming from the ghoul was almost enough to make Morris vomit. But he was still able to use his right knee to deliver a vicious shot to the creature’s lower abdomen while still keeping a tight grip on the saber. The force of this nasty shot to the gut propelled the ghoul backward as Morris, with strength born of desperation, wrenched the saber free.

  So another ghoul was out of the fight, either dead or dying. Morris was starting to feel cautiously optimistic about his chances for survival—right up until the moment when Sturbridge screamed, “Quincey! The motherfucker went out!”

  Chapter Twelve

  PETERS TOOK A step back and looked dubiously at the door of apartment 311. “Kicking one of those things in—it’s a lot harder than it looks on TV,” he said, “and I haven’t got my lock picks with me, either.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Libby said. “Just be ready to go in fast.”

  Peters nodded. Pulling the Kimber from his waistband, he thumbed the hammer back as quietly as he could. He looked up and down the hall, but could see no one stirring. Most of the tenants were probably still stuck in rush hour traffic.

  Libby touched her wand to the door handle and said something in a language that Peters didn’t recognize. A moment later, there was a soft click as the lock disengaged and the door swung open a couple of inches.

  Libby glanced toward Peters, took in a deep breath, and slowly pushed the door wide open. She stepped through and immediately took a pace to the right so that Peters could follow her into what looked like a spacious living room, although with most of the furniture pushed back against the walls.

  The sight that greeted them was something out of a bad horror movie—the kind you watch late on a Saturday night because you’re bored and the stuff on all the other channels is even worse.

  For starters, there were the hooded figures, dressed in long gray robes that stopped being fashionable about 1538—four men who had been chanting softly until Libby and Peters interrupted them. The four had turned toward the door and were looking at their visitors with a mixture of surprise and rage.

  Most of the other elements from a cheap Hammer Films knockoff were present, as well: pentagram drawn on the hardwood floor—check; candles burning at each point of said pentagram—check; naked girl, (presumably the missing Kayla Holloway) suitably gagged to keep the screaming down, tied over the penta
gram so that her hands, feet, and head each touched one of its points—check; some kind of sickly-sweet incense burning in a brazier—check; oh, and don’t forget the knife that one of the cowled men was holding—long, with an intricately curved blade that would be useless for slicing bread but just about perfect for plunging into the heart of the aforementioned naked girl, whose eyes above the gag were bulging in terror. It appeared as if the man with the knife had been just about to employ it for its intended purpose when Libby and Peters unexpectedly joined the party.

  The knife wielder pushed his cowl back, revealing a bald, burly man with thick eyebrows who bore a passing resemblance to former B-movie star Tor Johnson. He pointed the knife at the two intruders and screamed, “Kill them both! Now!”

  Peters raised the Kimber, adopting a two-handed combat shooting stance. “I wouldn’t do that, if I was you,” he said.

  But the men, who appeared unarmed, paid the gun no heed—Peters might just as well have been pointing his finger at them. They headed toward Peters and Libby like NFL linebackers intent on sacking a particularly arrogant quarterback.

  White magic won’t allow a witch to hurt someone, but it’s great stuff for playing defense. Libby had a spell prepared that would freeze all four men in place for as long as she wished. She was raising her wand to cast it when the bald man, who seemed to be in charge, reared back and threw the ceremonial knife at her. Libby’s magic could have dealt with that, too—but not in the half-second it would take for the knife to leave the man’s hand and reach its intended target, which seemed to be her throat. Libby had fast reflexes, and she was able to get a hand up in time to deflect the flying blade—but it was the hand that was holding her wand. The knife’s impact slashed her fingers and caused the wand to fly halfway across the big room. In pain, bleeding, and without her magic wand, Libby was now powerless to prevent the three men from reaching them.

  Peters, however, was not so impaired. He put a .45 bullet into the head of the nearest man at about fifteen feet, sending blood and brain tissue to splatter the nearest wall. He did the same to the next man at twelve feet, and the third man had almost reached Peters when he receiveda bullet in the chest that passed through the left ventricle of his heart before exiting through the back of the medieval-looking robe. The shot was instantly fatal, but physics is physics. The man’s momentum carried him into Peters, who crashed to the floor with the dying man on top of him. Cursing, Peters pushed the dead weight off himself and came up on one knee, already seeking to acquire the final target. He was lining up the sights just as the bald man produced a gun of his own, a big revolver, and aimed it right at Peters’ face.

  The two men stayed like that for several long seconds, each knowing that to fire was to bring on his own death an instant later.

  Nobody knows how long this Mexican standoff would have continued, but then Libby, pale as a spectre and bleeding freely from her right hand, said softly, “I’ll... I’ll fetch my wand.” She began to move slowly in the direction the wand had taken when it had been knocked from her hand.

  “Hold it right there, bitch,” the bald man growled.

  “Fuck you,” Peters said, his voice tight with tension. “What’re you gonna do, huh? Take the gun off me so you can shoot her? You won’t even live long enough to pull the fucking trigger, asshole.” Without taking his eyes off the man, Peters said, “Go on, Libby. Get your wand. This situation could use a little magic.”

  Before Libby could take another step, the bald man said, “You two Americans?”

  “Yeah,” Peters said. “So what?”

  “So you should know that you just gave your country a good, hard fuck up the ass.”

  Then, in one fluid motion, he opened his mouth wide, stuck the gun barrel in and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Thirteen

  MORRIS TURNED TOWARD Sturbridge, intending to run to his friend’s assistance—but another ghoul stepped out of the darkness and into his path. What’s more, the ghoul Morris had blinded seemed to have recovered and was moving toward him purposefully.

  Morris swung the saber in a wide arc to make the ghouls move back a step and give him some maneuvering room. “Use your light, Dan!” he yelled, without taking his eyes off the two ghouls in front of him. “Blind the fuckers, then use your sword!”

  Goddam flamethrower should have plenty of fuel left. Maybe the ignition switch shorted out, or the hose feeding from the tank got a kink in it—not that it makes much difference now. Goddam fucking shit!

  Morris planned to follow his own advice—the part about blinding the ghouls, anyway. He was raising the four-bulb flashlight to do exactly that when one of the creatures made a sudden lunge toward him, its razor-sharp claws seeking his throat. Morris jumped back, but one foot landed on a patch of loose sand and went out from under him. Morris fell backwards but had enough sense to turn the fall into a roll that would put some space between him and the ghouls.

  Rolling on the ground while holding a razor-sharp saber is tricky work. Morris managed that well enough, and even hung on to the sword—but he lost his flashlight in the process. And as he scrambled desperately to his feet, a sharp pain high up the inside of his right leg told him he’d pulled something in the fall, probably a groin muscle. He had just decided that things couldn’t get much worse, and then he heard Dan Sturbridge scream in terror.

  Morris risked turning his head in that direction for an instant, and that was long enough for him to see Sturbridge as he broke and ran, stripping off the useless flamethrower on the way. He was headed west, back the way they had come and presumably toward the jeep which was parked a quarter mile away. Sturbridge ran as if all the demons of Hell were after him—and he wasn’t far wrong, either, since one of the ghouls shambled after him to disappear into the darkness. The other ghoul spent a moment staring in the direction his buddy had gone—and then turned, heading straight for Quincey Morris.

  Under these circumstances, Morris thought, running away looked like a very good plan, but the ghouls trying to kill him clearly had other ideas, and every time he tried to take a step, the damaged muscle in his leg reminded him that fast movement was a very bad idea.

  Three against one is pretty crappy odds, even if the three are ghouls. Wonder how fast these fuckers can run? Probably faster than some idiot with a torn groin muscle.

  Morris slashed the air back and forth to keep the three ghouls at bay while part of his mind pondered the ancient Roman practice of falling on your sword. He wasn’t sure exactly how that form of suicide was accomplished, but he did know the Roman gladius was a hell of a lot shorter than the saber he now held, so that avenue of escape was probably denied to him.

  Morris was damned if he was going to let himself be overwhelmed by sheer numbers and eaten alive by these monstrosities—that was just not permissible. He slashed at the ghouls, who stepped back out of range for a moment and then moved in again. Morris was wondering whether he had the gumption to slit his own throat and had just about decided to find out when something appeared behind one of the ghouls he was facing and tore its head off in a single, savage, movement.

  The other two ghouls turned to gape, much as Morris was doing. That same something, moving too fast to be seen clearly in the uncertain light, closed with one of the remaining ghouls briefly and even from ten feet away Morris could hear its spine snap.

  The third ghoul began backing away then, but it didn’t get more than a few yards before being engulfed by the mysterious shape, still moving too fast for Morris to get a clear view, especially this far from the fire. He heard what sounded like the beginning of a scream, but it was quickly cut off—and a few seconds later, Morris understood why, as the ghoul’s head came bouncing out of the darkness to land a few inches from his left foot.

  Morris just stood where he was, the point of his saber touching the ground, as he tried to make some kind of sense out what had just happened. Then a shape was coming slowly toward him out of the dark. Unlike the shambling gait of the ghouls, this one w
alked liked a human. A moment later, Morris saw that human is exactly what it was—or appeared to be.

  Morris’s savior was a man of middle height and average weight, with longish hair parted in the middle and a thin moustache traversing lips that appeared very red in the firelight. He wore dark clothing, a stark contrast to his skin, which was very pale.

  Stopping about fifteen feet away, the man nodded pleasantly. “Good evening, Senõr Morris,” the man said, his Spanish-accented voice a pleasant tenor. “I am Ignacio de la rey Muñoz. It pleases me that you appear uninjured by these... beasts, although I very nearly arrived too late to be of assistance.”

  Morris’s mouth moved a couple of times, but no sound came out. Finally, he managed, “Well, I reckon the first thing I should say under the circumstances is ‘Thank you’—so, gracias, Señor Muñoz. You have saved my life, and perhaps more than my life. Gracias.”

  The man made a slight, graceful gesture. “De nada.”

  “The second thing I need to say is who—or what—the hell are you?”

  Muñoz gave him a tiny smile. “I find it odd that you would ask such a question, Señor. It is well known that you have been acquainted with many of my kind—right before you killed them.”

  The smile broadened to reveal a pair of canine teeth that were longer than the norm, and very sharp-looking.

  Morris’s hand unconsciously tightened around the grip of the saber he still held. He knew what he was facing now.

  Vampire.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE AIR IN apartment 311 was thick with the coppery smell of freshly shed blood. Tendrils of gun smoke hung in the air like ghosts, as if the spirits of the four dead men were already departing the corpses that were strewn across the floor. Libby Chastain, blood dripping from one hand, stared at the body of the baldheaded man, who had just splattered the ceiling and one wall with most of the contents of his skull. “Why... why would he do that? I wasn’t going to kill him! I couldn’t, even if I wanted to—not with magic, anyway.”