by Paul Sobol
Magician Reborn
Tome Two of the Shadowmage saga
P.J. Sobol
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, my not be reproduced in any form without permission from the author. The scanning uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law.
© 2014 Paul Sobol
Dedicated to my parents Meron and Janet
Chapter One
A scream disturbed the night, and the only person to hear it was Henry Dawson. Almost dropping the half eaten can of baked beans in his hand, Henry stared into the surrounding darkness in the general direction of the noise. The scream was unbearable; filled with anguish, and carried with it a tone of absolute terror. It went on for so long Henry was beginning to doubt it could come from a human throat.
Merciful silence descended.
Over the low chirping of crickets in the surrounding long grass, Henry strained his audible senses in an effort to hear anything else, anything other than the damned bugs that plagued the makeshift campsite. Silently he hoped for any sign that his friend was alright.
John, who had no last name, was also a hitchhiker, and for the past several days they had been travelling in the same direction. The young lad, in his late twenties, was easy to befriend and together they slowly made their way across the country. With little money for expensive motels they often made camp along the side of the road or in a nearby field, and tonight had been no exception.
Having walked a good fifty kilometres without seeing a passing motorist they had decided to stop for the evening. As night slowly gathered they crossed several recently-tilled fields, through a sparse copse, until coming across a large overgrown meadow littered with charred debris. All around were signs of a violent explosion, but judging from the regrowth the catastrophe had occurred some time ago. All that remained of what must have been a large building complex were a few crumbling walls and a lot of blackened, shattered concrete debris.
Despite the ominous feel of the area there was promise of at least a little shelter between the cracked walls, and they won’t wake up soaked in mildew. Eager to settle down for the night a small campfire was built and two tins of baked beans placed nearby to warm up. The two men traded tales of the road as they ate, and after a while John left to relieve himself in the nearby trees.
That was over ten minutes ago.
Henry ran, blindly, through the darkness.
Having boldly chosen to investigate the blood-curdling scream, which he was certain had been made by none other than John, Henry slowly made his way towards the strand of trees his friend had disappeared through. With the feeble light of the camp fire behind, his eyes soon adjusted to the darkness before him, but there was nothing to see between the tree boles except more black.
A faint shuffling, as though feet dragging along the ground, could now be heard not far off, and with growing hope Henry expected to see his friend stumble out of the copse fine albeit a little disorientated. The strange area, coupled with the obscuring blanket of night, could easily turn someone around. And perhaps in the darkness John had come across something frightening but completely harmless, like a scarecrow in a nearby field.
Feeling completely foolish at having imagined anything terrible could happen Henry was about to call out and aid his companion. Perhaps it was the sudden unnatural quietness that enveloped the night, or the moon and stars obscured by a wandering cloud, but whatever noise about to pass beyond his lips died in his throat as a strangled whimper.
Heavy footfalls could be heard over the crunch of dried leaves and twigs, a sound unlikely to have been made by his fellow road traveller who weighed next to nothing. Whatever approached Henry’s position was big and unconcerned about how much noise it made crashing through scrub and brush. With sudden unwelcomed thoughts of bear attacks flashing through his mind’s eye, Henry didn’t want to stay to find out what it was, and with self-preservation clearly taking priority he hastily retreated to the makeshift camp.
Fire. Animals hated fire.
Picking up a burning stick he brandished it against the darkness. No longer with the benefit of night vision Henry could only stare out into the surrounding darkness with growing trepidation. Would his pathetic stick ward off a bear? Maybe a cub, but that was not what approached noisily, with measured, purposeful strides. That’s when Henry saw the eyes.
Twin glowing coals, licked by eternal fire, appeared out of the darkness. The hellish light from those burning orbs partially illuminated a face equally nightmarish in visage – reddish skin, a larger-than-normal mouth filled with pointed teeth, and two horns like polished ebony sprouting from a hairless head.
Although having attended a religious school in his younger days, Henry considered himself primarily an atheist, but when faced with the unbelievable he was suddenly all-too-willing to believe.
With a strangled sob he threw the smouldering stick at the monster, what his catholic teachers would have termed a Demon – a denizen of Hell, Satan’s spawn, the Fallen – and ran not only for his life but also his eternal soul. Perhaps it was the Lord of Darkness Himself, but Henry was too preoccupied with fleeing and living to truly comprehend the religious and philosophical ramifications of tonight’s unholy visitation.
Not wanting to waste precious time looking behind, Henry tried to find his way back to the road. Maybe if he was lucky a passing car would stop and help. As too much oxygen pumped through his brain from excessive exertion, he realised, light-headedly, that he was more than likely doomed. Energy-fuelled adrenalin quickly burned up in his system as the initial shock wore off, replaced by ice-cold dread. The thing that had attacked John was close behind and could be heard crashing through the underbrush with animalistic force, quickly gaining on its intended prey - him.
Several times he had almost been tripped over by unseen roots or rocks, and each time he thanked his lucky stars, but Henry knew running blindly through the darkness his luck would eventually run out. Either that or succumb to fatigue that already clawed its way up his burning leg muscles.
A sudden pain tore through his shoulder and for a brief moment he thought the Demon had finally caught up with him. With a renewed surge of energy, fed by blind panic and absolute terror, he was rewarded with a quick burst of speed.
Dodging around a particularly large tree he found himself in an open field, overgrown with weeds and strewn with piles of debris. Elation turned to utter despair as he was once again in familiar territory. Somehow, in the darkness, he had run in a complete circle. Idiot. Racing around several partially standing crumbling concrete walls Henry, with little energy left for running, was forced to hide amongst the rubble. Silently he prayed the Demon would not find him and take his soul.
Crouched now in the nook between two fallen walls he tried to slow his laboured breathing. Small stones and concrete crunched underfoot nearby. Glancing briefly around the corner Henry could make out the nightmare figure more clearly by the light of the dying camp fire. The ‘Demon’ wasn’t quite what he thought it to be, instead it looked to be transforming into something smaller. It now appeared more human, with two arms and legs and a head, but the proportions were wrong. There was something strange about the naked person’s features - bulging out in odd places - like someone large and heavily muscled was wearing a smaller man’s skin. Because of this the outer layer of skin had split in several places, revealing reddish skin beneath. That was the Dem
on’s true form, now being disguised to walk amongst mankind.
With the transmutation complete, the demon-man looked around, taking in his surroundings. Sniffing the air as though an animal, the demon-man smiled. From his hidden position, Henry watched as the monster walked around the fire, searching for some clue no doubt to his whereabouts.
Wandering close to his position, Henry tried to squeeze himself tighter between the concrete walls and become as still as possible. With eyes tightly shut, a silent prayer on his lips, he didn’t see the massive clawed hand reach down towards his head.
Chapter Two
Detective John Davies covered the body with the white sheet.
It was the fifth one so far, and just like the others it had the killer’s unmistakable signature all over it.
Ignoring the blood that had saturated the worn carpet Detective Davies stepped around the body to get a better look at the crime scene. The room was sparsely furnished, containing a stained double bed and little else, but that was common for this neighbourhood infested with drug addicts and prostitutes.
The only difference between this killing and any other that happened on a regular basis around here was the sheer brutality of the act. If a hooker refused service she usually received a black eye for her troubles. At worst she might get cut up a bit. But on the rare occasions when passions ran high or got out of control they would be discovered in a nearby dumpster.
If the death was drug related, usually from an overdose of whatever shit was being passed around, then it would be put down as an accident. But when someone takes the time to eviscerate their victims and remove their skin it could only be the work of a psychopath.
This particular killer had left a string of bodies over the years, roughly around the same time of year and the victims were all prostitutes. This made them easy prey especially in the poorer neighbourhoods where little protection was afforded them.
Usually the pimps would take care of anyone who threatened their livelihoods, but in a place like this even the pimps weren’t brave enough to venture. Not because of the deaths, but for the past several years the area had become a no-man’s land. A wasteland. Only the dregs of society ended up here when they ran out of options.
Devil’s Playground they called it.
Aptly so considering the weird shit that had been going on recently. A handful of bizarre murders they could handle, but in the past few years there had been reports of other unusual, unexplainable activity.
Detective Davies attributed these phenomena to the mind-destroying drugs that were frequently found on the locals. Someone was most likely using Devil’s Playground as a testing ground for their designer drugs, the most recent of which to hit the streets was particularly nasty.
It was locally known as Walking Death.
The unfortunate user would experience an out-of-body effect and be totally oblivious to what their body was doing. So like a zombie they aimlessly shamble around and get into all sorts of trouble; the worst of which could be falling off a roof or walking in front of traffic. But it doesn’t stop there.
In the past few months there had been several reports of bizarre, even more than usual, behaviour of those who had taken the drug. Some reports even suggested ‘zombie’ users had attacked and eaten several people.
Davies doubted the drug could induce people to acts of cannibalism, but having worked this neighbourhood for a while he had seen some very weird shit. And although it didn’t include people eating other people it was not entirely implausible for the starving masses to turn a bit feral; Devil’s Playground was also noted for having the lowest number of stray cats and dogs.
But cannibalism?
It was either a bad joke or people were getting more messed up on the drugs they were taking. What wasn’t a joke was the mounting number in mysterious deaths. The latest victim having been skinned alive and left for dead, but from the expression on her skinless face it was evident that something more horrendous had happened to her.
Having seen enough he left the room for the forensics team to finish their gruesome job collecting and cataloguing every fibre or particle of dust in the hope the killer had left some part of himself. It seemed unlikely though because the previous murders had come up with nothing resembling usable evidence.
Walking down the rickety stairs Davies was thankful to finally be outside in the fresh air. Making his way past several police vehicles, as well as the coroners van, he crossed the street where another detective was interviewing one of the locals. He recognised Danielle, a long time street walker and drug addict, and was amazed she was still alive. Her type usually didn’t last beyond their thirties. The drugs usually won in the end.
Detective Michael Hunt looked up from writing in his little notebook as Davies approached, a small nod of his head the usual greeting between the two partners. Davies just caught the last bit of Danielle’s answer; something to do with some guy she had hooked up with. Her vague description of the possible suspect narrowed it down to almost two-thirds of the males in the city. Real helpful.
Davies was surprised she could even remember anything at all in her state, looking like she had just shot up in the past few hours. With a slightly disgusted look on his face Hunt let her go once she was finished answering his questions. The two detectives walked a little way off to talk privately.
“Did she say anything useful?”
“Just the usual BS. We did get the vic’s name, Dianne Curtis, 27. A regular on these streets and known to most of the walkers. She used to work for Johnny Slim until about six months ago then decided she was better off going freelance.”
“I’ve heard of Slim Jim. He works out of Roach’s bar, one of the small time dealers not worth the paperwork.”
“Do you think he might have organised something like this? It’s definitely a strong message to his other girls not to think about leaving.”
“No it’s not his style. If he wanted her dead we would have found her in a dumpster with a bullet in her head. This is someone else’s sick handiwork, and it has nothing to do with sending a message. Did she give any information on a possible suspect?”
“Last night some guy drove up, they talked for a bit, then he parked his car and they went upstairs. She didn’t get a good look at his face though. He was dressed in plain clothes, nothing fancy, and the car was an old model Ford. Time was around midnight.” Hunt said.
“Not much to go on, but that’s to be expected in this neighbourhood.”
A black sedan pulled up at the scene and two men got out. If it weren’t for the silver badges on their belts they looked more like undertakers, dressed in black suits and black ties, than detectives.
“It’s about time they showed up,” Davies said aside to his partner.
“Davies, Hunt. You two look a bit green today.”
“Carlyle, Moore. Take a look upstairs, then we’ll see who looks better,” Hunt retorted.
“And while you’re at it,” Davies said, “see if Casper the Ghost knows anything about it.”
Jason Carlyle and Andrew Moore looked stone-faced at the two detectives. It was a common theme around the precinct, owing to their reputations, but if anyone actually guessed or knew the truth as to who or what they really were, things would get very complicated to say the least.
Leaving Davies and Hunt behind, the two black suits silently made their way inside and walked up the stairs to Dianne Curtis’ apartment room. With the stairway empty of police or nosey neighbours there was no one around to see them disappear. Reappearing moments later on a similar stairway, in a similar building, but with subtle differences, the two detectives hoped to find clues in a place their human counter-parts couldn’t.
Walking through the Invisible, a place behind the mirrors, the two magicians were able to observe more than just the mundane world. Here, even magic was visible, like streaks of vibrant colour against a grey background that represented the physical world. Living things – humans, magicians, magical creatures, even the �
�‘undead’’ – can be seen in their natural form within the Invisible, usually ablaze with a shifting spectrum that was their aura.
In the Invisible, Carlyle and Moore moved around unhindered by the crime-scene investigators and forensic officers that laboured around the body looking for clues to the murderer’s identity. With a single glance at the body, and the various energies surrounding it like flies hovering around a carcass, they easily identified what had happened and what was responsible.
Unconcerned with the shadow-like movements of the humans inside the apartment, oblivious to the twos ‘presence’, Moore and Carlyle decided to take a few moments examining the scene a bit longer. The Invisible was usually a wonderful place with plenty of marvels to behold, however, this room stank of corruption and filth and everywhere they looked they could see a grey fungus-like substance on every surface.
It was known as the Creeping Doom by magicians, and even those creatures that lived in the Invisible stayed away from it. The grey fungus fed on negative energies and emotions. However even Dark magicians, whose power were fuelled by negative energy and hatred, destroyed the Creeping Doom if it got too out of control. It was the one substance that all magical beings feared and loathed, for one simple reason: the Creeping Doom was a death sentence.
Those unfortunate enough to come into contact with the grey substance quickly became ill, and there was no known magical remedy. Eventually the victim would die and be consumed entirely by the fungus which in turn would spread further unless contained or destroyed. Thankfully it was easy enough to neutralize.
Using a small amount of energy Carlyle burned away the fungus with pure white light, leaving nothing behind except a little ash. To the humans in the room it would feel like someone had opened up a window letting out an old musty smell. Had they spent all day in this room they would have slowly become more agitated and stressed for no apparent reason.
