by Tim Waggoner
“I still stand!” Adamantine said.
As if in response to her words, a white light began to emanate from Wyld’s body, growing stronger and more intense until the cat-woman’s form was completely obscured by the energy. Then, so swiftly that Geoffrey almost wasn’t able to detect it, the energy contracted into a sphere roughly the size of a soccer ball and shot toward Adamantine. It struck her in the chest, but instead of knocking her down, the sphere vanished, as if her body had absorbed it. Wyld’s corpse was gone, and no sign remained that the cat-woman had ever existed, not even any splatters of blood on the asphalt.
Adamantine’s eyes glowed a bright blue-white for an instant—even brighter than they did when she was angry—and when the glow diminished, Geoffrey saw that she no longer was bleeding from her nose and ears. In fact, all traces of her silvery blood were gone.
He wasn’t sure what had happened, but it looked like Adamantine had killed Wyld and somehow absorbed the other god. Had she absorbed her power too?
Wyld’s five followers, some of them wiping tears from their eyes, stepped into the street and walked toward Adamantine. When they reached her, three fell to their knees—two men and one woman—and bowed their heads. Two others—an elderly woman and a young man barely out of his teens—remained standing.
“Mistress,” the three who knelt said in unison, voices hushed and reverent.
Adamantine looked at the two still standing. She stepped past their kneeling comrades until she stood directly before them.
“What of you two?” she asked. “Will you pledge yourselves to me as well?”
The older woman and younger man looked at each other, then turned to face Adamantine. Both looked scared—tears trickled down the man’s cheeks—but they shook their heads nevertheless.
“We belong to Wyld,” the woman said. “And we always will.”
“Y-yes,” the man said softly, the word little more than a sob.
“I appreciate your devotion,” Adamantine said. “As well as your honesty. Rest now.”
Her gauntleted hand flashed through the air, and the man and woman collapsed to the ground, heads nearly severed, blood pouring from their ravaged throats onto the street.
Adamantine returned to the kneeling men and woman, blood dripping from the fingers of her gauntlet. She gazed down upon the trio, as if trying to decide what to do with them. A spark of electricity glimmered in her eyes, and for a moment Geoffrey feared she might kill them as well. But then she stepped forward and without bothering to clean her gauntleted hand, placed it on their heads one at a time. When she was finished, she commanded them to rise and follow her. They did so without speaking, hair matted with the blood of their dead companions.
Adamantine returned to where Geoffrey stood on the sidewalk, spear in hand and new followers in tow. The two gods no longer battled in the street, but none of the cars moved. Many of the drivers were too injured from Wyld’s sonic attack to drive, but others stared at the two bodies lying in the street, mouths agape, as if unable to believe what they’d just witnessed.
At that moment, Wyld’s spear began to glow with the same white light that had consumed her body. Adamantine trained her gaze upon the spear and frowned in concentration. A few seconds later, the light dimmed and was gone, leaving the spear intact. Adamantine smiled and nodded once in satisfaction. Geoffrey thought there was something different about her, but he wasn’t sure what it was. It had nothing to do with her appearance; she looked exactly the same as when he’d first encountered her. She projected a stronger presence now and waves of power emanated from her with almost physical force. She seemed more real, more there. And she was glorious.
Adamantine smiled. “I think I’ll keep it,” she said, nodding to the spear. “It shall serve as a reminder of my first victory.”
“But far from your last,” he said, and smiled back at his god. The three new followers stood back several feet, gazes lowered, as if afraid of Adamantine. Geoffrey didn’t blame them.
“The Apotheosis has begun, Geoffrey,” Adamantine said. “Do you know what that word means?”
He searched his memory but came up empty. “No, my lady.”
“It’s the process of being elevated to a divine state. New gods for a new age are being born, Geoffrey, but only one of us will survive to become permanent.”
He remembered what Adamantine and Wyld had said before their battle: In the end there shall be One.
She continued.
“We fight one-on-one to the death, with the victor absorbing the power of the vanquished. The more battles we win, the more strength we acquire, until finally only the two most powerful remain. And whoever wins that battle claims the power of all the gods born during the Apotheosis and gains the ultimate prize: immortality.”
She looked off into the distance then, electricity sparking in her eyes.
“That prize will be mine, Geoffrey, and I’ll do whatever it takes to claim it.”
Of that, he had no doubt. He thought of Jimmy and of the man and woman lying dead in the street. When the Apotheosis was finished, he wondered, would there be anyone left alive in Corinth—god or human—besides Adamantine? Or would she stride alone through streets filled with blood, the last god standing?
The electric light in her eyes dimmed, and she turned to Geoffrey.
“Now that I have won my first victory, it is time to take the next step.”
“Which is?”
“Isn’t it obvious? A temple must be built in my name.”
Geoffrey looked at Adamantine’s three new “recruits.”
“I think we’re going to need a larger workforce.”
FOUR
Sam and Dean got into Corinth a little after 10 PM. Both brothers wore their FBI suits, their standard cover when embarking on an investigation. The suits, and the false IDs that accompanied them, usually worked wonders with local law enforcement, who were only too happy to have a couple of federal agents’ assistance with whatever bizarre events were occurring in their town. Dean reached up and tugged at his shirt collar, trying to loosen it. He hated wearing suits—ties most of all—but the clothes were as useful in their own way as holy water and silver bullets, and for that reason alone he tolerated them. But he was always glad when an investigation was underway and he and Sam could get back into their normal clothes.
The outskirts of Corinth didn’t look like anything special. Suburban neighborhoods, some higher up on the economic ladder than others, but similar enough for the most part. A thin layer of snow covered lawns, and a number of houses were decorated for the holiday season. Blinking lights hanging from roofs, Christmas trees placed before front windows, inflatable snowmen and Santas standing in front yards. But there were other less-recognizable decorations as well. One house had long strips of black cloth hanging from the large oak in the front, while another had a mound of rocks in the driveway topped by what looked like an animal skull of some kind, a raccoon maybe, or an opossum. And one house they passed had strange symbols, none of which either Sam or Dean recognized, painted on it in a variety of colors.
Dean turned to look at Sam.
“Maybe the town’s having a decorating contest,” he said. “First prize goes to the ugliest-looking house.”
Sam smiled at the joke. “Whatever’s going on here, it’s widespread.”
“Think the whole town is affected?”
Sam shrugged. “No way to tell for sure, but I’d guess not. Most of the decorations we’re seeing are normal for this time of year.”
“True.”
Usually when the brothers investigated a case, only a few people were affected. Supernatural predators were careful to conceal their activities to avoid attracting the attention of hunters. This was why they tended to live in out-of-the-way places and tried to limit their killings as much as possible. Because of this, Sam and Dean were normally able to locate and nullify a supernatural presence before it had a chance to spread, like an infection. But some supernatural creatures weren
’t as cautious as others, or it was their nature to spread their evil as fast and far as they could. Dean hated cases like the latter. Not only was it more difficult to pinpoint the source of the problem, too many innocent people were affected, and the brothers could never save all of them. And from what they’d seen of Corinth so far, it looked like that was exactly the kind of situation they were going to be dealing with here.
Terrific, he thought.
Without realizing he did so, Dean scratched idly at the Mark, as if it were beginning to irritate his skin.
The Winchesters continued to drive toward the center of town, passing more oddly decorated houses as they went. Dean had been a hunter for the better part of his life, and it took a lot to creep him out. But there was something about these houses that did the job. Part of it was the number of them, part was their sheer strangeness, but he supposed the biggest part was that, despite their odd appearances, all the houses looked quiet and peaceful on the outside. But he couldn’t help wondering what was happening on the inside. Whatever it was, he had no doubt it was bad. The question was how bad?
“Look at that,” Sam said.
His brother’s words pulled Dean out of his thoughts. He turned to Sam and saw he was pointing out the windshield. Dean looked in the direction Sam indicated and saw a synagogue. He pulled the Impala over to the curb in front of the synagogue and parked, engine still running. The building looked like it should’ve been part of an elementary school—two stories, simple rectangular construction, pale orange brick, glass doors with chrome handles. The name of the synagogue was spelled out in metal letters bolted to brick above the main entrance: Temple Beth Israel. At least, that’s what Dean thought the name was. Several letters were missing, and those that remained were blackened and twisted. The brick beneath and around the sign was scorched, as if by fire, and chunks of brick were missing, as if they’d been knocked out.
Or blasted out, Dean thought.
There was another sign, this one made of wood and nailed to a post that had been sunk into the front lawn of the temple. Painted in red letters were the words HERALDS OF THE CRIMSON EYE and below it was a crudely rendered representation of an eye.
The brothers looked at the sign for several moments before Dean put the Impala in gear and pulled slowly away from the synagogue. They passed two more churches as they continued toward the center of town. One was a Unitarian church that, according to the letters that had been gouged into the building’s surface, was now called the Hall of Despair, and the other was a mosque called the Corinth Islamic Center, which was covered with thick green vines. A single word was written in green paint on the walkway that led to the center’s entrance: VERDANT.
“This is looking worse all the time, Sammy.”
Dean scratched the Mark again, and this time Sam noticed.
“The Mark bothering you?”
“Huh?” Only then did Dean realize what he was doing. He stopped scratching at his forearm and put his hand back on the steering wheel. “I’m fine.”
But now that Sam had drawn his attention to the Mark, Dean realized that it was itching. Not any worse than a cluster of mosquito bites, but it was damn annoying. It seemed to be getting worse the farther into Corinth they drove, but he told himself it was his imagination. At least, he hoped it was.
At first glance, downtown Corinth looked like a lot of Midwestern towns the brothers had visited over the years, but a second glance quickly revealed its differences. Even though it was after 10 PM and cold, there were still a number of people on the sidewalks. Some were walking, clearly on their way somewhere, but the majority stayed where they were, talking in small groups or standing alone. The groups’ conversations were animated, people speaking loudly, some almost yelling, and waving their hands in broad, angry gestures. Some of the loners stared into the distance, lips moving rapidly, as if they were speaking to themselves or to someone only they were aware of. Others stood with heads bowed and hands clasped, as if they were praying, and some held homemade signs with slogans like SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL GOD and THE END ISN’T HERE—THEY ARE! In addition, a number of downtown businesses had odd decorations in the windows, on the doors, or painted on the outside walls. Dean recognized some of the decorations from seeing them on the houses they’d passed on their way here, but many of them were unfamiliar.
“Looks like the whole damn town’s been taking crazy pills,” Dean said.
The brothers turned a corner and saw that the street ahead was blocked off by a pair of sheriff’s cruisers, their rooftop lights flashing. A paramedic vehicle was parked in the middle of the street, and two more sheriff’s cruisers blocked traffic on the other side.
Dean pulled the Impala to the curb and parked, then he and Sam got out and started walking. A female paramedic stood on the far sidewalk, talking with a man in a sheriff’s uniform. A pair of bodies lay close by, an older woman and a teenage boy, both splattered with copious amounts of blood. One of the deputies was taking pictures of the bodies with a digital camera, recording details of the crime scene.
“Looks like we just missed out on the fun,” Dean said.
Sheriff’s deputies were interviewing witnesses, and two other paramedics tended to a cluster of people at their vehicle. Dean wasn’t sure what had happened to the wounded, but he could see they were bleeding from their ears and noses. There were a dozen cars in the street parked outside the makeshift crime-scene barriers. Some of the drivers sat in their cars, but most were outside, talking with deputies or being treated by paramedics. Their expressions were blank with shock, and more than a few were crying.
“Whatever happened here, it looks like it was nasty,” Dean said.
“Bold too,” Sam added. “It happened out in the open, in front of witnesses.”
“It’s easier to gank whatever it is if it doesn’t hide,” Dean said.
“The more reckless it is, the more people will die,” Sam countered.
“There is that,” Dean agreed.
A deputy stood next to one of the cruisers that blocked off the crime scene. Before she could say anything, the brothers displayed their fake FBI IDs, and the woman let them pass.
“Sheriff Deacon’s over there,” she said, pointing to the man standing by the bodies.
Where the hell else would he be? Dean thought. But he thanked the deputy and he and Sam headed toward the sheriff.
The sheriff was in his late thirties, trim, with thick black hair and a mustache to match. A seventies porn star mustache, Dean thought. He wondered how he’d look with one of those. Probably as douchey as this guy, he decided. Like his deputies, the man wore a brown coat over his shirt, the logo for Allan County Sheriff’s Office sewn on the shoulder. The paramedic he was speaking to was a tall woman with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She too wore a coat over her uniform—red-and-white stripes on the shoulder, medical symbol on the left breast—and she kept glancing at the bodies while she spoke with the sheriff.
As the brothers drew closer, Dean could see that the two victims’ throats had been cut so deep their heads had nearly been severed from their bodies. Sometimes it felt to Dean like he and Sam had seen more bodies in their careers than a mortician, but they’d rarely seen wounds this severe.
Sheriff Deacon turned to the Winchesters as they approached, and Sam and Dean displayed their IDs.
“Agents Holly and Valens,” Dean said.
The sheriff arched an eyebrow and smiled.
“You boys forget to bring the Big Bopper with you?” he asked.
The brothers kept their expressions carefully neutral, but inwardly Dean thought, Great. We had to run into an old-time rock-and-roll fan.
When neither brother responded, the sheriff’s smile fell away.
“Guess you’ve heard that one before,” he said.
“Actually,” Sam said, “we haven’t.”
Next time we go with Coheed and Cambria, Dean thought. “What seems to be the trouble, Sheriff?”
“You’re kidding, right?
”
The paramedic standing next to the sheriff looked Sam and Dean over before turning to the sheriff.
“I’m not doing any good here. I’ll go help with the injured drivers.”
“Okay, Gayle. Thanks.”
The woman—who Dean found attractive in an all-business, all-the-time kind of way—nodded and then walked toward the paramedic vehicle without giving either of the brothers a second look.
Dean watched her go and muttered, “I love it when they play hard to get.”
“Excuse me?” the sheriff said.
Sam gave Dean a look, and he cleared his throat. “We’ve gotten word that there have been some strange deaths in your town lately.” Dean nodded toward the bodies. “Case in point.”
“Can you tell us what happened?” Sam asked.
Instead of answering right away, the sheriff told the deputy taking crime-scene photos to go help the others. The man nodded, took one last picture, and then headed off to do as he was told. The sheriff then turned back to Sam and Dean.
“A lot of strange things have been going on in town the last couple weeks,” the sheriff said, “but they’ve gotten worse the last few days. Almost like…” The man trailed off.
“Like what?” Sam prompted.
The sheriff was clearly uncomfortable as he replied, “Like something is coming. And it’s getting closer.”
Dean exchanged glances with his brother. Some humans were more sensitive to the supernatural world than others, and they could sense—even if only on a subconscious level—when unnatural powers were at work around them. Maybe Sheriff Deacon was one of those people.
The sheriff then proceeded to fill them in on what had taken place here—or at least what witnesses claimed had taken place.
When he was finished, Sam asked, “Did anyone see where the silver woman went afterward?”
The sheriff shook his head. “So far, all we know is she walked off and a handful of people followed her. If they’re smart, they got the hell out of town as fast as they could.”
Dean highly doubted that had happened. Whatever was going on in Corinth, it was happening here, and this “Silver Woman” was part of it. She and her followers would stay in Corinth to the bloody end.
