Hexed

by Kevin Hearne

  “Shadowy figures,” the Morrigan had said. I’d do battle with shadowy figures. Well, one of the figures wasn’t human; it had a distinctly demonic aura. I realized that, where they were located, they probably would have had shelter from both the RPGs we launched and a very good chance of taking cover from the grenades I’d tossed if they heard them clatter on the floor. I crouched low, took a deep breath, and kept Fragarach in front of me as I stepped into the gunk, depending on Leif to follow.

  There were broken, bloody bodies on the floor, withered arms and knobby knees twisted unnaturally; all their glamour was gone in death. I would count them later. There were ten figures ahead that I could see, grouped in a loose circle, some of them seated on the floor chanting something in low tones, and nearly all of them showing the telltale signs of hell. As soon as I processed that, it set me to sprinting: The seated ones were in the midst of a ritual and the others were guarding them, because they were close to completing it. I had no idea who their target was, but I didn’t want anyone on our side to die because I exercised undue caution.

  I hurriedly cast camouflage on myself, remembering that they hadn’t been able to see through it during the war. After that, my thinking self practically disappeared and I became an extension of my endocrine system.

  One of the standing figures—a female silhouette—had an automatic weapon of some sort and heard me coming across the rubble. She sprayed a dozen rounds or so in my general direction; I saw the muzzle flashes at the same time that the slugs knocked me back on my ass, gasping for breath and counting my lucky stars that my neighbor was an arms dealer. She saw Leif coming next and turned the gun on him, but bullets bothered him about as much as bee stings, and many of them pinged off his steel breastplate anyway. I’d let him worry about the guards; it was the seated figures in the ritual that had to die right now.

  I got up on my knees, gripped Fragarach’s hilt in both hands, raised it over my head, then threw it at the nearest skull in sight. It flew true, crunching messily through the back of the head and out the witch’s mouth before the guard halted its progress through her pate. Leif decapitated the machine gunner almost simultaneously and was amputating another guardian’s arm at the elbow when a small piece of hell busted loose.

  Halting a demonic ritual in progress is usually disastrous for those involved, and so it was for the hexen. Instead of completing the hex intended for Malina or some other Sister of the Three Auroras, the two remaining witches—one of them on her back with her legs spread wide—were instantly immolated in the consuming flames they’d been trying to summon. Out of those flames rose a very large demon ram, bigger than those we’d seen on the second floor. It was laughing heartily, because we’d caught him in flagrante delicto and the death of the witches had unbound him, setting him free on this plane. Everyone, including Leif, stopped what they were doing to see what he would do. The ram regarded us evenly for a moment—he wasn’t fooled by my camouflage—and decided he had no desire to take us on; there was so much more fun to be had elsewhere, with people who couldn’t fight him. He turned his head north and lowered it as he charged, punching yet another hole in the glass wall and plunging into the street below, extending his hooves as he fell to absorb the shock in his powerful haunches.

  Such an escape attempt was precisely what the Polish coven was waiting for. I scrambled to the edge to look below; Malina had stationed herself at the northwest corner, and though she had seen that Bogumila was under assault at the northeast corner, she hadn’t abandoned her post, lest something like the ram get away.

  She attacked it fiercely, and all the faster so that she could run to help Bogumila. She shouted something indistinct in Polish, shot her empty right hand up into the air, and seemed to pull out of it a sort of red neon whip. She cracked it expertly before slinging it around the ram’s legs as it tried to disappear into the night. The ram bellowed and gasped fire as it fell onto the asphalt of Pecos Road, but Malina wasn’t finished. With another exclamation in Polish, she snapped the whip handle all the way down to the ground, sending a massive sine wave along its length. When it reached the ram’s legs, the wave tossed it shrieking up into the air by its feet, as if it weighed no more than a hummingbird. Malina flicked her wrist and let the whip handle go, and it spiraled up, following the ram, until it wrapped itself crushingly around the creature like a constrictor. The ram bleated desperately for a heartbeat before it exploded above the street in an impressive corona of orange and green fire.

  The ram’s doom fell at our eye level, three stories up, and I heard shocked gasps behind me at this demonstration of Malina’s power. I laughed, looking back at the remaining German witches, and said to them in their language, “I can’t believe you started shit with her when you had only one fancy trick in your bag. She can pull exploding hell-whips out of the fucking air.” I’d always suspected Malina’s coven had serious mojo up their fancy designer sleeves, but until now they’d never had the chance to show it. The rotten apples in their bunch had been faced with werewolves at Tony Cabin, and nothing they could have pulled out of the air would have helped against the Tempe Pack, unless it was silver.

  The hexen appeared unsure of where my voice was coming from, so I spared one more fleeting glance for Bogumila and Rabbi Yosef before finishing up what we’d come to do. The rabbi’s beard looked significantly larger than it had before, moving with much more animation as well, but Bogumila’s purple whorl of protection seemed to be keeping her safe for the moment.

  I have heard people in weight-loss programs say that the last five pounds are always the hardest to lose. It turns out, in one of life’s enigmas that vex the wise and white-bearded, that the last five witches are also always the hardest to kill.

  While I was worrying about someone else’s ass besides my own, one of the witches snuck up on me and delivered a sucker punch to my jaw, in the fashion of Pantera’s album cover for Vulgar Display of Power. Clearly, my camouflage had been compromised. I lost several teeth and tasted blood in my mouth as my head hit the glass and I dropped to the floor. I was treated to a couple of vicious kicks to the abdomen before I had time to fully appreciate the pain in my skull and assess the damage done. The flak jacket probably saved me from broken ribs, because the impacts were loud enough to remind me of the sound effects in Shaw Brothers’ films. My vision swam as I took a frenzied glance up at my assailant. Her face might as well have been one of those little yellow signs people used to put in their cars; hers said DEMON ON BOARD. Red glowing eyes and hot dung breath steamed visibly and promised there would be no light banter while she tried to slay me. She got another kick in while I turned off the pain in my head and ramped up my speed, a quickening of neuromuscular function I always used to keep up with Leif in our sparring sessions. It didn’t leave much magic in my bear charm, but I hoped it would get me out of the spot I was in.

  As she aimed another kick at my head, I set my arms underneath me and whipped my foot around to sweep her plant foot from under her. I leapt up and fought off a spell of dizziness as she collapsed, howling. I backpedaled to the west as she scrambled to her feet, and I took the few seconds I’d bought to assess the new tactical situation.

  These five hexen were still months away from squeezing a demon child through their pelvis, but apparently they were now enjoying all the perks associated with carrying a casting ram to term—abilities awakened, perhaps, by the abrupt deaths of their brethren. They had increased strength and speed, senses that could penetrate my camouflage, and a newfound talent for throwing hellfire. The other four were busy hurling angry orange balls of it at Leif, and he cringed away from them instinctively, retreating back east, unable to recall or trust in the face of so much flame that the talisman I’d given him should render him fireproof.

  Fragarach was still lodged in the brain of a dead witch, and if I was allowed the time, I could have created a binding between the leather on the hilt and the skin of my palm, causing it to fly to my hand in one of those sweet Skywalker moves. My att
acker, however, had no intention of affording me the opportunity. She charged at me with a cry of apeshit rage, her hands extended and her fingers transforming visibly into blackened claws. Said claws raked at my belly, and I was glad I’d stepped back instead of counting on my flak vest to stop them, because they caught the first couple of layers of it and shredded it as if it were no more substantial than crepe paper. I’d hate to see what they’d do to intestines—especially mine.

  I couldn’t counter weapons like that with nothing but my bare hands available. She wasn’t wearing leather like many of the others; her clothes were all synthetic fibers, dead and removed from nature, so I couldn’t pull or push her around with any bindings. My best option was to get out of her way and hope I could retrieve my sword.

  She circled around to the center, though, cutting me off. The west end of the building loomed at my back, and a dangerous drop yawned to my left now as I pulled even with the broken glass wall through which the demon ram had plunged. The witch lunged at me, grinning evilly. She took a swipe at my head that forced me to dance back toward the window ledge, then another that I ducked under before scooting to the right, heading for the west wall. She was quick enough to shoot out a foot and catch me square on my bloodied left ear, though, and the detonation of pain sent me reeling into the corner. Through a ringing and buzzing haze, I dimly heard her cackling; apparently she had me where she wanted me—on the ground with nowhere to go.

  Flames engulfed me, billowing sheets of it like hellish laundry waving in a dry wind, and I began to laugh too, as I struggled painfully to my feet in the midst of it. It was hot, no doubt, but my amulet protected me. I centered myself—quite a trick with my brains scrambled as they were—and peered through the fire at my target. She was only five feet away, her hands throwing fire and a demonic rictus painted on her face. I shuffled closer, set my left foot carefully—and winced at the bullet wound in my thigh—then I lashed out with a textbook karate kick to her gut, right where the demon grew in her center of gravity. She staggered back, snarling, and her hands quit gushing flame. She didn’t go down but instead stood still for a few seconds, dumbfounded that I didn’t look the least bit crispy or melty by now. I slid to my right, heading in the direction of my sword, and by the time she finally processed that, I already had a decent lead. Just as she tensed to spring after me, however, a familiar red hellwhip sailed through the open glass wall and wrapped itself around her hips. It yanked her screaming from the building, and I didn’t bother to go over and watch; I knew that Malina would finish her off, and there were still four more hexen to worry about.

  They were giving Leif all he could handle—probably more, to be fair. He’d run away from their hellfire all the way around the building, circling the great hole in the floor where he’d thrown the golem’s head, and now, as I pulled Fragarach out of the witch’s skull with a loud schluck, the hexen had tacked about to come at him from several angles. Hellfire blazed at Leif from four different directions, and this time he could not dodge it. His inhuman scream ran cold fingers down my spine as I lost sight of him briefly in the conflagration. He came out of it shortly afterward, and while most of him was still untouched, the poufy sleeves of his linen shirt had ignited outside the thin skin of his talisman’s protection. The sleeves were now giving him trouble, as the flames licked up his arms and began to eat away at his pale, undead, and highly combustible flesh. I didn’t see Moralltach in either hand; he must have dropped it somewhere. He ran north, straight toward the massive hole in the wall where a grenade had blown out the glass, and I saw what he intended.

  “No,” I breathed, knowing he couldn’t hear me. “That’s hard-packed clay.” He leapt from the third floor, shrouded in spreading flame, his shriek falling with him to the street below in search of earth to smother the fire. I hoped he’d find some in the landscaping between the building and the street; the fight wasn’t supposed to have driven him to such desperate measures. He’d have to dig through dry, clay-based dirt to quench those flames, and I didn’t like his odds.

  Neither did I like mine. I was one Druid with a possibly fractured jaw, a missing ear, a wounded thigh, and very little magic against four hexen jazzed on demon energies. They turned as one and hissed at me, understanding that I’d eliminated one of their sisters somehow. They looked a whole lot stronger and faster than I felt.

  Well, I thought wryly as I hefted Fragarach and prepared myself for their charge, at least I have my giant, mighty sword.

  Inchoate battle cries erupted from their throats as they sprinted at me from maybe thirty yards away. Klaudia chose that moment to burst through the stairwell door, armed with a silver dagger in her left hand and looking like she’d just had fabulous sex somehow on her way up. She raised her right arm above her head—a gesture that seemed to precede most of the spells her coven cast in combat—and said, “Zorya Vechernyaya chroń mnie od zł a.” The immediate effect was a cone of purple light sheathing her form, much like Bogumila’s, but perhaps a bit more solid looking. The charging hexen pulled up and redirected their attention to Klaudia, whom they recognized as one of their old enemies. Two of them let loose with hellfire that bloomed from their arms like time-lapse orchids, and Klaudia calmly ignored them as it washed up against the purple light and found no passage through. The other two kept coming with a physical attack, and those received her special attention.

  Her languid manner sloughed off, and suddenly she moved with liquid grace, crouching and then pivoting on her right foot as she swept the blade of her dagger across the eyes of the leader. She crossed her left foot in front of her right, then spun on it and leapt around in a sort of Chun-Li move, delivering first a right boot, then a left to the head of the second witch. Both hexen were down inside of two seconds, though I doubted they were dead. Their demon spawn would heal them up in no time.

  Still, I admit that I gawked; I gaped, even. Malina had told me that her coven wasn’t trained for combat, yet Klaudia had just displayed stark evidence to the contrary. But then I thought she must be the exception to the rule; if the dark side of her coven had fought so well at Tony Cabin, more than two werewolves would have perished that night.

  Shaking off my astonishment, I advanced to help, as the two downed hexen clambered to their feet and the flamethrowers were finally registering that nothing was burning inside that purple cone.

  The answer to enemies who heal annoyingly fast is always, always decapitation. That is why swords will never go out of style. Fragarach sang through the neck of one of the flamethrowers, and I added a stab for Junior in the gut before the body fell. That reminded the remaining three that I was still around. Their minds and their jaws became unhinged as they bellowed hot roars of red ass-breath and charged me all at once, forgetting entirely about Klaudia. She hadn’t killed any of them yet, after all, while I’d been responsible for quite a number so far.

  These last three had very little of their humanity left. They were old, old witches, and they’d been selling wee parcels of their souls to hell for so long that nothing but a single forlorn box of humanity was left in what was once a full warehouse. Something else occupied their skins now, something that made their eyes burn in their heads and black claws grow from their fingers.

  I gave ground before the charge, whirling the blade in front of me in a defensive pattern. One, then two of their cursed faces dropped out of my vision, due no doubt to some guerrilla effort of Klaudia’s, but I still had one more to deal with—and she was faster than me.

  Perhaps I’d slowed down. The pain of my injuries was building, for I’d done no real healing to any of them; I’d just continued fighting and probably exacerbated them in the process. The witch lost her left hand to Fragarach in order to get a good shot at me with her right. Her claws tore down through my flak vest at my left shoulder, ripping not only through it but also through my pectoralis muscles. I fell backward and she clung to me on the way down, trying to dig in farther with her nails, attempting to turn the claws up under my rib cage an
d do serious damage to my organs. Her left side, however, was unguarded and vulnerable. I shoved Fragarach sideways through her guts as she straddled me, twisting it madly to make sure the demon felt the blade. She convulsed spastically and vomited blood before her eyes finally cooled and she fell still. On top of me.

  My left arm didn’t want to move. I tried and it hammered me with pain. I used the last of my stored magic to shut it off; I couldn’t think in a cloud of agony. I yanked Fragarach out of the witch—a messy business—then put it down long enough to shove her off me with my right hand. I sat up to see if any hexen were left.

  There weren’t. Klaudia had eviscerated the last two, killing the demon spawn first, and then she’d slashed their throats for good measure. Now that the battle was over, her purple wards were gone and her waifish charisma was back. We were the only living creatures on a floor strewn with bodies, and yet she made it all cool somehow just by standing there. Even covered in blood, her expression had the sleepy, languid sensuality of an underwear model.

  “Thanks for the assist,” I said. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  She shrugged. “Vietnam.”

  “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  She grinned and her eyes sparkled mischievously.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  I shuddered as I came down off my adrenaline high and exhaustion set in. But when we heard a thin scream and the pale lavender glow outside the northeast windows abruptly winked out, we bolted for the stairs and hoped we wouldn’t be too late.

  Chapter 25

  The situation outside was a giant bowl full of gloom and grim. I got around to the north side first, because Klaudia had run around to collect Berta, Roksana, and Kazimiera. I saw no sign of Leif. Bogumila lay dead on the concrete, looking old and terrified in death, and Malina was righteously pissed. My earlier suspicion of the rabbi’s beard now appeared justified, for it exhibited all the qualities one might associate with a distant relative of Cthulhu, with four long, hairy tentacles squirming radially from his jaw, two on either side of his chin. The two on the left were wrapped tightly around Bogumila’s throat, and now they were trying to disentangle themselves from the woman they had strangled to death. The other two were trying to reach Malina, but she was laying down some heavy-duty protection as I approached.