by Andrew Dudek
Dallas shook his head and leaned his bulk forward. Earl and Rob were leaning against the walls of the conference room. Krissy, Madison, and Amy sat at the table, watching and listening. “It goes on to say,” the wizard added, “that Cerberus hasn’t been seen on this plane of existence in hundreds of years.”
Amy slid the book across the table and flipped the page. All of her open wounds were covered with watertight bandages, which meant none of her blood was exposed to the air. That wouldn’t make it impossible for the hellhound to find her, but it would slow it down. She stopped, her face even paler than before and said, “Wait. The Professor had this thing.” Spinning the book around, she pointed at an illustration of a chain wrapped around a thick oak tree. The chain branched off at the end into three wide loops.
“The Leash of Cerberus,” Dallas said. “ ‘Believed to grant control of the dread beast to any mortal with sufficient power to wield it,’ yada yada yada.”
“And the Professor has it?”
Amy nodded. “She had it wrapped around her arm when we did the spell.”
I pursed my lips and rubbed my jaw. Wonderful. So we officially had our big bad. Professor Strain was the one driving everything—including the murder of the three girls in the graveyard—and the one we needed to stop. Of course, I doubted we could do that without going through Cerberus first. I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of fighting the hellhound again. I could always contact London for help, but that would be showing weakness. In the supernatural world—and the Round Table exists very much in that world—showing weakness is a good way to get yourself exsanguinated. I wouldn’t request help unless there was no other option. The problem was I was having a hard time thinking up another choice.
As if on cue, Dallas dropped a duffel bag on the oak table. He pulled out a small collection of medallions. Each was dull gray metal with a murky white crystal in the center.
Amy grabbed one and examined it. “Iron, with a crunchy, salty center?” she asked.
Dallas nodded.
“Nice.” Seeing the look of confusion on Krissy’s face, she added, “Iron and salt are purifiers. Demons are physical manifestations of harmful magical energy, so theoretically they wouldn’t be able to touch someone who’s holding one of these.”
“You ever use this model?” I asked.
Dallas shook his head. “Not against something on this scale, but I once had a hellhound on my trail, and they stopped that cold.”
I forced a grin. “Good enough. Okay, team, I have a plan. Let’s go play dogcatcher.”
Near midnight, Amy Vernon and I stood alone in a withered field in the Hudson Valley. Stars shone overhead, but there were no lights on in the farmhouse at the other end of the sandy grass, so I assumed it was abandoned, at least for the night.
The night was hot and weighty with summer’s humid dying spasms. Still, Amy shivered and rubbed her upper arms. Her eyes looked black, like a vampire’s, but I told myself it was a trick of the light. She rubbed her hands together, sending up a shower of pink sparks. They fell to the ground and she rubbed them out with the toe of the sneaker she’d borrowed from Madison. She noticed me watching and smiled.
“Sorry. Sometimes when I get anxious I build up a little energy and need to let it out. I think it’s the venom. I shouldn’t want it so much, but it makes me feel stronger. You know?”
I nodded, my hand drifting to the hilt of my sword. A surge of power rolled through my arm. Yeah. I understood.
“You’re sure your friend knows what he’s doing?” Amy asked, her finger running along the edge of the medallion. “This thing will work?”
“Dallas is a good wizard,” I said.
She didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow at my noncommittal tone. “Best I can hope for, right? I got myself into this mess.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” I murmured.
She took a deep breath and nodded. “Alright. Give it to me.”
I drew May’s sword from the sheath strapped across my back, flipped it around so I was holding it by the thin blade, and offered the hilt. Amy took it, then traded sword for the iron-salt medallion. Then, without so much as a wince, she cut her left palm. Blood raced along the pinky-thin blade like a roller coaster going up a hill, and kept going, shooting past Amy’s hair and zooming into the dark sky. We watched it, but only for a fraction of a second before it was lost among the stars.
“That’s unsettling,” Amy said. She looked like she needed to puke.
I offered her a bandage, which she accepted and wrapped around her hand. She held out the sword to me.
I shook my head. “Keep it. I have a feeling you’re gonna need it.” Then I drew my own sword and together we stood in the quiet darkness, waiting for it to be broken with the sound of barking.
It didn't take long. Maybe five minutes after the blood message had gone off, Cerberus appeared at the end of the field. The grass, already brown and crisp from months of summer drought, burned under its paws as the hellhound stalked forward. Slowly, heads lowered and fangs exposed, the monstrous beast advanced. When it was ten feet away, all three heads burst out in an explosion of thunderous barking, and the dog pounced.
It stopped in midair.
Cerberus hit the ground in a heap, all four legs scrambling for purchase in the dirt. It sprang to its feet and lunged, jaws snapping. Spittle flew through the air. Once more it stopped as if it had run into a Plexiglass door. I pulled Dallas’s medallion from under my shirt and held it in front of me. The flaming eyes shone brighter for a moment, casting shadows of its snouts to the ground at my feet. It snarled.
I grimaced. The charms had worked like…well, like charms. Cerberus couldn’t touch us. Well, it couldn’t touch me, and I guessed Amy was protected under the bubble afforded by my medallion. Two of the hellhound’s heads glared at me and my charm, but the third was stating warily at the swords.
“That’s right, puppy dog!” I waved my sword in its faces. Cerberus shrunk back, a frightened puppy. “You can’t harm us and we’re not afraid of you.” I leaned forward, forcing the dog to take a step back. “We need to talk to your master. So give her a message and then go chase rabbits. Tell her we’re waiting right here.”
All three heads growled, but the dog continued to backpedal. By the time it reached the edge of the farmer’s field, it had vanished.
I let out my breath and looked at Amy. She was shaking. “You okay?”
“I managed not to piss myself,” she said. “A moral victory.”
“Nerves of steel,” I said.”
She snorted. “Right. I wish I had some of those the first time I saw that thing.” She shook her head. “I left her there to die. Sage. Her real name was Heather, I think. I don’t even know her last name.”
“Collins,” I said. “Heather Collins.”
“Then I left Heather Collins there to die. She was still alive when I teleported out.”
“You can’t blame yourself,” I said.
“Why not? I knew more about magic than those other three put together. And, I was already involved with Stefanie, so I knew about the Dark Side of the Force. I knew the Professor wasn't setting up some benign bonding ritual. I could have interrupted it. I could have…stopped her. I could have saved those girls. I should have.”
“So why didn’t you?”
She brushed the fringy hair from her eyes. “I wanted to see where it was going. I…I think I’m addicted to power. I thought…I don’t know, I thought maybe the spell could make me even more powerful. If I got strong enough, I thought I might be able to break Stefanie’s hold on me. I had no idea it would be this bad.”
Amy Vernon looked at the ground and cried.
I put my arm around her shoulders in a gentle hug. She returned the gesture even more tightly, wrapping both of her arms around my chest, face buried in my shoulder. She smelled of sweat and blood and fear and sex and grime, but for all of that there was something intoxicating about the aroma.
“Hey,” I told her, �
��this isn’t your fault, okay?”
“No,” a female voice said, “it’s mine.”
I released Amy and spun: the newcomer’s voice had come from behind me. I raised my sword into a defensive posture—held diagonally across the body.
The woman stood about ten feet away, arms folded across her chest. She was almost my height, almost six feet tall. Her shoulders were broad, like someone who’s spent a lot of time swimming. She wore a black robe, with the hood down around her shoulders.
And she looked just like Mayena Strain.
Chapter 17
Well, not exactly like May. She had the same sun-kissed skin, broad shoulder, and gray eyes, but she was taller than my ex. Her hair was longer than May’s had ever been, hanging to the small of her back in dark waves. She held a length of wood, about the size of a baseball bat in one hand. A silver chain wrapped around her arm, three iron loops scraping in the dead grass.
“That’s what you mean, right?” Her voice was harsh and hoarse, as if from years of smoking. “It’s my fault those children are dead?” She stalked through the dead meadow like a lioness, the chains furrowing the dry soil. Cerberus crouched near the edge of the field, all three heads lowered and all six ears flattened.
“Well, if the knife fits,” I said.
The woman laughed. “We haven’t been properly introduced. Though I believe you know my sister: Mayena Strain.”
“It’s funny,” I said, pointing my sword at her, “May never mentioned she had a sister who was a Grim Reaper groupie.”
She laughed. “I can see what my sister saw in you. You’re funny.” She swept forward effortlessly as if she were riding a wave until she was within an arm’s reach of my sword. Her gray eyes landed on Amy, glittering with menace. “Not very intelligent, though. Don’t you know I’ve been looking for this girl?”
“I knew it,” I said. “But I wanted to meet the psycho who slaughters people to feed her new pet.”
One of Cerberus’ heads perked up. It showed me its teeth.
“Dave. You don’t mind if I call you Dave? We’re practically family.” She walked around me. I pivoted, keeping her in front of me. Amy stayed facing Cerberus—we’d planned for the possibility that the Professor would try to get me to look away from the hellhound, if it moved Amy would let me know. “I saw you once, you know. The day you took my baby sister away from her home to join your crusade.”
“I didn’t make May do anything,” I said. “She wanted to join the Table.”
“Oh, I know.” That dangerous smile again. “No foolish sword-swinger like yourself could ever make a Strain woman do anything she didn’t want to do. My name’s Aprilena. April Strain.”
“So what is this?” I asked. “Punishing me for taking your sister away from you? ‘Cause I have news for you: she’s left. She’s teaching at a magic school in San Francisco.”
April Strain laughed. “How self-centered. I’m well aware of what my sister’s doing—I’ve followed her career quite closely. No, Dave, this has nothing to do with you.” She pointed over her shoulder at the three-headed dog, which was pacing impatiently. “This is about power.” She raised the chain-wrapped arm. “So is this. All of it is about gaining power.”
“O-o-okay. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know. You share a limitation with the rest of the Round Table: you don’t see the big picture. I assume you’ve placed this one under your protection?” Staring, now, at Amy.
“You’re not taking her tonight.”
April sighed. “Then you’re in my way.”
I know a threat when I hear one. My sword came up into an offensive position, aiming for the witch’s chest. April leapt back, graceful as a dancer, and the chain unraveled from her arm. She moved her arm like she was cracking a bullwhip and the ends snapped over my head. April smiled, and it looked like so much like the grin May sometimes wore into battle that I hesitated. April snapped her arm again. The chain wrapped around the blade of my sword and April jerked her arm back, sending the sword whooshing to the grass.
Amy lunged forward, waving May’s sword in a wide arc. Clumsy. April dodged two attacks and shouted, “Now!” Cerberus appeared in the fray, teeth flashing like hundreds of knives. Amy slashed at a muscular shoulder, the steel cutting a thin line in the fur. The dog howled, but the pained screams died in its throats.
First of all, Amy was using the sword wrong. Each sword is fashioned to be used in a particular style. May had favored lots of fast, acrobatic strikes: she was a fencer, not a brawler. Even more important, the sword was missing the jewel in the hilt. The magic gem is what gives the sword most of its power, and without it, it was no more powerful than normal steel. Cerberus, seeming to realize that Amy’s weapon wasn’t as powerful as mine, lunged at her.
And ran right into my knife.
I stabbed the hellhound in the leg, just below the left front knee. It snarled and staggered back to stand on three paws, three heads snapping impotently. April was on me in a flash, her chain-whip sailing through the air. It slammed into my back, splitting fabric and skin. I grunted and limped away, picking up my sword.
The witch stood several yards away—well out of my reach, but well within range of the chain-whip. I charged, swinging my sword at her neck. She whipped me. Tiny metal links wrapped around my arm once, twice, three times. My forearm completely covered, April’s eyes sparkled as she tightened her grip on the handle.
And my arm caught fire.
Nothing seemed to be physically wrong, but you couldn’t tell that from the pain. I felt the screams rumble in my throat, but I couldn’t hear myself. The links of the chain didn’t look any different, didn’t so much as change color, but invisible flames were consuming my arm all the same. I fell to the ground, the sword dropping from my useless fingers, trying to pry the white-hot chain from my arm. I could sort of hear, like a radio with the volume on near-mute, Amy scream, April laugh, and Cerberus howl in triumph. I didn’t care about any of that. The fire was too hot.
Bang!
As abruptly as it had started, the fire was gone. I lay on my side, staring at the skin on my arm. It was maybe a little reddened, like a bad sunburn. The sounds of the fight had quieted. The smell of burned skin and hair filled the night, but it was accompanied by another acrid scent: cordite. Someone had fired a gun.
Yay, I thought through the haze of pain. I mumbled, “I love it when a plan comes together.”
At the end of the field, three people were advancing. The tallest of the three, with the longsword in his hand was Rob Haney. The shorter-but-heavier, barehanded, was Dallas. And the third figure, longhaired and holding a pistol, was Krissy. Hidden somewhere in the small clump of trees, was the man who’d fired: Earl James, the marine and the Round Table’s resident sniper.
Cerberus rushed across the field, barking madly, to meet the newcomers. Rob slashed with the longsword. The blade cut into the dog’s chest. It yelped, but it was only a flesh wound. Dallas’s hands snapped up and blue discs of translucent light appeared stretched between his fingers. The hellhound froze.
Krissy ran ahead and helped me to my feet. I nodded my thanks and checked on Amy. She was crouched near a clump of dried grass, my knife in one hand (I didn’t even remember dropping it) and May’s sword in the other.
April was lying on the ground, clutching at the mess of blood and muscle that was all that remained of her right knee.
“That was a round from a U.S. military-issue rifle,” I said, my teeth clenched against the pain. “And there’s more where that came from.” There was a flashing of light from the trees: Earl clicking his flashlight, letting April know he was still in position.
April’s eyes were clouded with pain, but she shook her head. “This isn’t over.”
She vanished. Just like that, she was gone. Cerberus’ barking faded away and a moment later, Earl shouted an all-clear.
When I was sure it was safe, I collapsed. Laying in the grass, I looked up at Krissy. “Tell E
arl that was a great shot,” I mumbled.
“I will,” Krissy said.
“Good job, team,” I said. After that, I don’t remember much of anything for a while.
I dreamed about April. Sort of. I don’t know if it was because of the pain in my arm, or my exposure to demon magic, but it was one of the most vivid dreams I ever had. More of a memory, really—the memory of the first time I met May.
It had been almost ten years before.
No one feels happy quite like an eighteen-year old. Especially one who’s recently found his place in life. Everything was amazing. Everything was great. I lived on a cursed pirate ship, with fascinating people, and I carried a magic sword. Especially the sword. I was still getting used to the weight on my hip, but I’d only had it for a month. I knew I’d get used to it. And now, here I was, going on a mission with Bill. Bill Foster! The man who’d saved me from a bloody, violent death. Because of him, I could look forward to a life that was…well, okay, probably still bloody and violent, but at least it would mean something.
I looked over my shoulder as we crested the snowy hill. Guinevere, the giant man o’ war, floated in a small, icy lake like a rubber ducky the size of a condor. As I watched, the ship sank beneath surface. In moments, it was gone, and the ice was un-cracking, knitting itself back together like the three-masted ship had never been there.
“C’mon,” Bill said. “We got a lotta miles to hike.” The man who had been my father’s best friend was built like a linebacker, as tall as some of the nearby saplings, with shoulders wider than some cars. Even the wooly black beard on his pale chin seemed enormous.
We were, both of us, dressed for the weather: puffy white parkas that made us look like marshmallows and thick, fur-lined gloves. Bill had on a heavy knit cap as well. Not me, though. I wanted to look tough and unfazed by the cold.
