by Peter Clines
Grandpa and his tall friend ignored her and kept trying to walk through the garage door. The female ex stood in the middle of the driveway as if lost in thought. There was a stringy piece of something caught in her teeth and it flapped up and down as her jaw moved.
Madelyn swung her leg over the bike and edged the kickstand up with her foot. As an afterthought, she reached out and tugged the gate closed. The exes twitched when the latch connected, but none of them made a move toward her. She guided the bike past the dead woman and back down to the street.
She peeled the tape off her sleeve and took another look at the Thomas Guide pages. Just over three hours until Max’s deadline. A lot of the trip into the Valley had been uphill. Hopefully the way back would be faster.
“ARE YOU SURE this is the best way to go, sir?” asked Freedom.
“This is where Josh got away,” said St. George. He gestured at the railing, then nodded across the street to the blood-splattered SUV the prisoner had been shot against.
“That’s not quite what I meant.” The huge captain glanced out at the street. “There’ve been no sightings of Cairax from the south.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Max. He’d pushed up the sleeves of his suit and unbuttoned his shirt to display more of his tattoos. “Like I said, he’s all around the Mount. He saw Josh leave. He’ll see us leave.”
“How can he be all around the Mount at the same time?” said one of the guards.
“Bilocation,” Max said. He shook out his hands while he talked, letting his fingers bounce and snap at the edges of his palm. “It’s not just for saints. A lot of the higher and lower entities can manifest that way.”
The guard’s lips twisted into a frown. “What’s that mean?”
“It means he can be all around the Mount at the same time.”
St. George shifted his hips again. He was used to carrying various pouches and pieces of gear on his belt, but the sword was something different. It swung like a lopsided pendulum and pulled at his waist. Even with his strength, it felt odd.
The weapon they’d settled on had come from one of the old prop houses. Ilya had found it in a barrel with two or three dozen others and—after Max’s halfhearted approval was given—spent an hour putting an edge on the safety-dulled blade. It looked like a classic knight’s sword, with a square crossbar for a guard and wire wrapped tight around the hilt. The pommel was a big wheel of metal with a large ruby in it, although St. George was pretty sure the gemstone was cut glass at best.
It looked like a real sword when he held it in a shaft of sunlight. It felt like a real sword. Hopefully that would be enough.
Stealth stood off to the side. Her cloak had settled around her, and she’d let her hood sink over her head. She said nothing as they made the final preparations.
Max finished his hand exercises and looked at the cloaked woman. “Look,” he said to her, “I know you’re not going to like this, but if something happens … well, don’t come after us. No matter what you hear or see, don’t come out.”
Stealth stiffened beneath her cloak. St. George was sure he was the only one who caught it. “Why not?” she asked.
“We’re either going to stop Cairax or not. If we do, you’ve got no reason to go out past the wards. If we don’t, well …” Max shrugged again. “The walls and wards will give everyone a small degree of protection. Not much, but use them as long as you can.”
Stealth glared at him for a moment. Then she nodded once in assent.
The sorcerer turned to St. George. “How do the runes feel?”
“They itch,” said the hero. Max had painted a series of symbols across St. George’s back and chest with a fat brush he’d found in one of the scenery shops. He hadn’t used regular paint. It was something oily that just smelled wrong. He’d mixed it up while the two heroes had talked with Dr. Connolly. “It feels like a peeling sunburn.”
“Good,” said Max. “That means they’re working. Should give you an hour or two if we’re lucky.” He looked up at the sky. “We should get going. We’ve got half an hour or so until sundown. Maybe an hour till full dark.”
St. George nodded. He exchanged a solemn look with Freedom, then turned to Stealth. He had a sinking feeling this was the last time he was going to see her, and she had her mask on.
“I’ll be back soon,” he told her.
Her head dipped ever so slightly inside her hood. “I am certain you will.”
He waited a moment, wondering if she was going to crack and hug him or something. He thought about hugging her. He thought about pulling her mask up and giving her one last kiss.
But she was cool and professional. She didn’t crack. It would be demoralizing to the guards if she did. So she walled herself off and didn’t give any hint of what they’d shared. She was cold and strong and merciless so no one else had to be. So everyone else could just live.
It was who she was, and it was part of the reason he loved her.
He hoped he survived to tell her.
Max traced one of his tattoos with his finger and looked at St. George. “I can levitate pretty easy, but I’m not fast. How do you want to do this? Piggyback?”
“God, no,” said the hero, turning away from Stealth. He gave a wink to the guards. “If I’m going out to my death I don’t want to look pathetic doing it.”
They all chuckled. The mood rose a little bit.
He focused on the spot between his shoulder blades, floated into the air, and held out his hand. Max grabbed it wrist to wrist. They rose up and floated out past the Big Wall.
The exes below tilted their heads back and followed them through the air. They snapped their jaws open and shut. Their desiccated fingers stretched up to claw at the empty space below Max’s feet.
“A little higher would be nice,” said Max.
“You’ll be fine,” said St. George.
They drifted over to the circle burned into the pavement. The shambling dead hid it well from the Big Wall, but from overhead it was easy to see. St. George paused in the air just before it. He looked down at Max. “As soon as we’re over it? Or once we’re past it?”
“Past it. The seal itself is the end of the safe area. He’ll see us, but you should be safe from any level of possession.”
“Should?”
“For a while, anyway,” said Max. “If he wants to kill either of us, he’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.”
“Great.”
They floated a few more feet. A cluster of exes shuffled below them and brought the sound of clicking teeth. One of them stumbled and fell over backward. The others trampled over it, still reaching for the heroes.
“Hang on tight with both hands,” St. George said. “If it comes at us, I’m going to move fast.”
“If it comes at us, you’re going to want me to have a hand free,” said the sorcerer.
St. George took in a deep breath. He glanced over his shoulder at the Big Wall, where Stealth and Freedom stood watching him. The breath hissed out of his nose as black smoke. He tightened his fingers around the sword and swallowed.
They crossed the seal.
Nothing happened.
St. George turned in the air. There were a hundred or so exes in his line of sight, but none of them was streaming blue fire or growing claws and horns. He swung the sword once and it made a whipping noise.
Still nothing.
“So far, so good,” said Max. His free hand was up with the middle and ring fingers folded flat against his palm. A set of devil horns. “Which way are we headed?”
St. George rose another foot or so in the air and headed west.
“And that’s sunset,” said Max twenty minutes later.
They drifted between trees and buildings down La Brea Avenue. It was one of the more urban sections of Los Angeles, and he’d heard it called “Beverly Hills–adjacent” a few times back when people talked about apartment locations for something other than looting. Several lanes wide, a fair number of trees, and a mix of w
arehouse-like stores and small shops. Hard to believe just a few blocks to the east it looked more like a small town than a big city.
“It’s not actually down,” St. George said. “It’s just lower than the buildings. We’ve still got another ten minutes or so.”
“And then it gets even harder to see anything.”
Exes staggered after them, like paupers to a banquet. St. George and Max had collected a large crowd of followers as they flew back and forth across the neighborhood. Some fell behind as others joined the chase. There were sixty or seventy of them at the moment, trailing behind the flying men in a loose fan. They shuffled between cars, dragging against the sides, and added the scraping noise to the sound of their clicking teeth.
St. George panned his eyes across the road again. There were a lot of cars, all covered with dust. It meant lots of places to hide. “Isn’t there some kind of locator spell you can cast or something?”
“Yeah,” said Max, “but gosh-darn-it, I missed that day at Hogwarts.”
“You don’t need to be an ass about it.”
“Sorry. A little tense. I didn’t think it’d take this long to find either of them. Or for Cairax to find us.”
Something moved quick in the corner of St. George’s eye and he heard a sound over the click-clack-click of the exes. He spun and brought the sword up, inhaling hard as he did. He felt the tickle at the back of his throat and realized it was just another zombie, a tall man who had been coming to join the pack. It had stumbled off the sidewalk and fallen against a Mercedes.
He let the breath out slow and smoke twisted from his nose and mouth. He glanced down and saw Max’s outstretched hand was shimmering like a hot sidewalk. The other man sighed and let his fingers relax.
“So,” said St. George, “you thought we’d’ve found them by now?”
“Well, yeah,” Max said. “Cairax wants to get me, so either he was going to keep Josh close until the possession took effect, or he was going to be waiting at the seals to pounce the moment I stepped outside. I’m not really sure what’s going on.”
St. George checked the crowd of exes below them. His eyes flitted down to the tooth on his lapel and came back up. “He should be pretty tough to miss. Long tail, purple hide, ten feet tall.”
Max grunted. “That isn’t what Cairax really looks like, y’know.”
“No?”
“That’s what it looks like when it’s squeezed into my shape, if that makes sense. Sort of like how a filet-o-fish is shaped like a bun, not like a real fish. It’s not natural, it’s just easier to swallow.”
“So it’s going to look different?”
“It’s going to look a bit more pure.”
St. George turned and brought the sword up again. “Interesting choice of words.” The quick movement had been an ex’s shadow this time, stretched out long as the last rays of sunlight slipped between two buildings.
“Just take what you remember and dial it up to eleven,” Max told him.
“It was already at eleven.”
“Then take it to thirteen. More fitting, anyway. Hey, can we take a quick break?”
“What?”
“You’re the super-strong guy who can fly, but I’ve been dragged by one arm for half an hour. My shoulder’s going numb.”
St. George looked around and spotted a flat area on the roof shared by an oversized pet shop and a huge lamp store. He flew over and set Max down. The sorcerer swung his arm in a circle a few times, then rolled his shoulder back and forth.
St. George turned and looked down at the street. The shadows were getting darker. “How long do you need?” he asked Max. “We probably shouldn’t stop for long, right?”
“Just a minute.” He said. He shook his hand out like a pitcher getting ready for a big game. “I’m not going to be much use if my arm doesn’t work.”
On the street below, the crowd of exes spread out. Some of them lost track of the two men on the roof and stumbled away. A dozen or so were trapped on the far side of cars, helpless until dumb luck moved them around. They kept their blank eyes on St. George and clawed at the air. Others pushed their way through the lamp store’s broken display windows. The sound of crunching glass made its way up to the roof.
“I don’t suppose there’s a chance the demon just left? Didn’t you say he might just decide you weren’t worth it?”
Max walked to the edge of the roof to stand by St. George. He rolled his shoulder again. “It never works out that way. D’you remember any fairy tales where the devil makes a deal with someone but then never bothers to follow through in the end?”
“Not off the top of my head.”
“There’s a reason for that.” He shook his head. “He’s too pissed to leave. We just need to find him before he finds …”
St. George followed Max’s gaze. Across the street was a small storefront that might have been an art gallery or some kind of showroom, something that looked more East Coast than Los Angeles. He remembered searching it years back and finding nothing useful. The huge picture window had been smashed ages ago, if the leaves on the inside floor were any sign.
Josh stood inside the gallery, watching them. He was just far enough in that they never would’ve seen him if they’d been floating down the center of the street. A deep sigh moved his chest as he locked eyes with St. George.
The man formerly known as Regenerator was tall and broad. His build was solid, despite months in a cell with no food. His white hair almost glowed in the gallery’s dim interior, while his gray eyes were just dark enough to be black in the fading light.
St. George risked looking away for a moment. There were at least sixty exes between the lamp store and the gallery. Too many to have a conversation at street level.
He glanced back. Josh hadn’t moved. He looked tired.
Max shrugged. He put his fists side by side to make a row of tattooed knuckles, then rolled them back-to-back. A few murmurs slipped from his lips as he pushed his fists forward and opened them. He whispered a few more words, closed his eyes, and swung his hands away from each other.
Twin clouds of dust and dry leaves rose up off the street. A few of the cars squealed and lurched in either direction. The exes slid across the pavement as if they were being swept aside. Some of them fell over and kept moving. One of them, a dead woman in shorts and a gory tank top, kept trying to stagger forward even as she was swept back.
Max opened his eyes and looked at the pristine path across the street. “Looks great when you do it with water,” said Max. “Very biblical.”
“You can keep them away?”
Max let his hands drop. “It’ll stay for a while. It only goes side to side, so watch your back.”
The hero stepped off the roof and sailed down to land in the center of the street. His boots tapped the pavement and he took a few steps forward. The white-haired man watched him come.
“Hey, Josh,” St. George said. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a few exes staggering inside the lamp shop. One of them, a dead woman, had already spotted him. It would take a few minutes to reach him.
Josh stepped out of the gallery. He’d found some new clothes that fit him pretty well—a pair of dark slacks with stained cuffs and a rumpled jacket with a pair of bullet holes in one shoulder. He still wore the plain white T-shirt from his imprisonment, soaked with blood from his escape. His feet were still bare, and broken glass crackled under them as he walked. “Coming to talk with me twice in one month,” he said. “I’m starting to feel special.”
“We don’t have a lot of time,” St. George said. “We need to get you back inside.”
“Back in my cell, you mean.” His hands hung at his sides, and the withered hand twitched at the mention of imprisonment. The sleeves were too short for his long arms, and the pale bite was just visible past his wrist.
“Honestly, right now it’s just important we get you back inside the Mount,” said St. George. “Even just inside the Big Wall. We can talk in there.”
&nb
sp; Josh chuckled. “I don’t think Stealth or the others are going to be in a talking mood.”
A few feet away, an ex stumbled toward them and hit Max’s barrier. It swayed for a moment, its jaws gnashing at the air, and then tipped over backward. Its skull hit the pavement with a solid thunk and it went limp.
“I know you’re not too happy with us,” said St. George. “I know you’ve got no reason to go back, but you’ve got to believe me. We have to go and it’ll be quicker if you don’t fight.”
“And if I did fight?”
“Please,” he said, “we really don’t have time. There’s something out here looking for you, and if it finds you … it’s not going to be good for anyone.”
“So?”
St. George took another step toward the man. “Don’t give me ‘so,’ ” he said. “You still care about people, Josh. You’re still one of the good guys at heart.” He nodded at Josh’s pale and shriveled right hand. “You’ve been showing everyone how guilty you feel for years.”
Josh glanced down and shook his head. “You’re too late, George.”
“We can still work something out,” the hero insisted. “Please, just come back with us. We can make everything—”
“No,” said Josh. “You’re too late.” Blue fire sparked in his eyes. His mouth opened in a broad smile made of long, alien tusks. “It found me hours ago. We’ve been waiting for you to come to us.”
Later, as his life drew to a close, St. George would look back on the moment with perfect clarity, each and every detail seared into his mind. Josh’s clothes shredded apart and his entire body turned inside out, twisting along unnatural lines and angles. The hero could see gleaming bones and stringy muscle and glistening organs, all painted with blood. The man’s insides churned along those strange angles, and then they pulled together and were back where they belonged, hidden beneath the flesh.
Not the same flesh, though. This skin was the color of a fresh bruise and stretched drum-tight over a skeleton more than twice the size it had been a moment before.
