“What’s going on?” Helen’s voice was shrill with panic.
The rumbling stopped and everyone lurched sideways, like when a bus stops suddenly at a traffic light. Felix was on his feet in a shot and running for the door. He flung it wide and stepped out into the night. All of the street lights had gone out and people were getting to their feet, cars were halted at odd angles in the road, their lights flickering.
There was a loud boom. Felix flinched and reflexively covered his head. His heart was pounding. A shock wave rippled along the street, knocking people back to the ground. Felix clung to the pub door frame and managed to stay on his feet. He looked down the road in the direction that the shock wave had come from.
“It came from St. Catherine’s,” he said to himself. Without a second glance back into the pub he was off, sprinting towards the river. Pain throbbed in his knee, but he pushed past it. Something like hope was rising in his chest. Could it possibly be that St. Catherine’s had come back?
He ran across the bridge into Old Town and turned north. His lunges stung, his leg ached and every inch of him longed for rest. He was almost there. Not far now. He pushed onward. He ran up a street that followed the course of the river. There was no traffic, no people. The place was deserted. Rubbish lined the gutter and he passed an abandoned car with flat tyres. He hadn’t come up this way since St. Catherine’s disappeared, so he didn’t know where he should expect to get turned around. But nothing happened. He kept on running. There was no dizziness, no confusion, and no blank space. The city went on. He slowed to a walk to catch his breath but kept on walking. This place wasn’t familiar. He took out his phone and went straight to Julie’s number. He hit “call” and it rang.
A great cry rushed up from his lungs and tears sprang from his eyes. Great, vocal sobs burst from him as the phone rang in his hand. He cradled it to his ear and waited for her to answer. He was still walking, wandering almost aimlessly or on autopilot. He turned a corner and recognised where he was. He picked up the pace. Still Julie’s phone rang on. Finally, it went to voicemail.
“Julie?” He hated the panic in his voice. “It’s Felix. I’m on my way to your place now. I’ll be there soon.”
He broke into a run again and noticed signs of life stirring behind windows. Lights came on, voices reached through windows and doors, music and televisions turned on. He ran past a terraced house just as someone emerged from inside and went to their car, their expression unconcerned. Felix frowned and ran on.
He cut through a small playground and leapt over the fence into an alley. He felt the fear rising up his throat. Why hadn’t Julie answered her phone? Where the hell had Peter been in all of this? Felix emerged at the end of Julie’s street. He paused for a split second then sprinted along the narrow pavement between parked cars and the houses that opened straight onto the street with no gardens. His heart hammered and he felt sick. He skidded to a halt at her door and thumped on it hard. He rang the bell and knocked again.
“Julie? Julie it’s me, open up.” He kept thumping the side of his fist on the wooden door and ringing the bell. He stepped back and looked up at the dark windows. With a quick glance up and down the deserted street, Felix shoved his shoulder hard against the door and the wooden frame splintered. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
A strange smell greeted him, and he wrinkled his nose. He closed the door as best he could and walked slowly into the small living room that the door opened into. His leg bumped into the sofa and he edged around it, feeling his way in the dark. There was a little light coming from the kitchen. It was ghostly blue. Light from the digital clock on the microwave. Felix moved towards it and that smell got stronger. It was faintly metallic. His foot made contact with the kitchen tiles and he inched into the room, peering around the corner. The kitchen table was on its side. He took a careful side step further into the room and his foot slid on something wet. He glanced down and saw a dark puddle against the white tiles. A heavy feeling was pressing on his chest and he stood frozen, unwilling to look past the overturned table. One of the chairs lay broken on the floor, the wood splintered. Felix made his feet move and took two cautious steps into the kitchen.
A heavy sob burst from his chest. There, in the eerie glow of the clock, in a huge puddle of blood, was his sister’s body. Her legs were bent at odd angles and her feet were bare. Her skin was almost glowing, it was so pale. She was in her pyjamas. The top was ripped at the shoulder and her throat had been cut. On the floor beside her was a large kitchen knife, covered in blood. Felix dropped to the floor at her head and lifted it into his lap. She was stone cold. Felix began to moan and rock. He curled himself over to press his forehead to hers.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “I tried to save you.”
“She must have died before she vanished,” the silky voice in his head said. “There was no way you could have known.”
“Maybe she could have been saved if I’d found her sooner?” Felix still clung to Julie’s head, but he raised his own to look around the cold kitchen. “Did Peter do this?”
“Stands to reason.”
Felix let out a strained cry and raised a hand to wipe the tears and snot from his face. He gently placed her head back on the floor and stood up.
“I have to call the police.”
“Yes.”
Felix fumbled with his phone. His hands were slick with sticky blood. He looked at them and hesitated. He patted the illegal gun inside his jacket and let out a groan. If the police came and found him like this they would search him and find the gun. And the silver bullet. A cold, hard sensation spread quickly down his throat and filled his body. He walked carefully backwards away from the body and glanced down at his bloody shoes. He wanted to run. If he ran hard enough maybe none of this would be real anymore. He could hide from it. But he couldn’t leave Julie like this. He couldn’t make himself a suspect. He needed justice for this.
“I need to hide the gun,” he muttered.
“I can help with that,” his dark companion told him.
“You can?”
“Just leave it where it is. No one will find it. I promise. Make the call.”
Felix’s hands shook as he dialled 999.
“Police,” he told the voice that answered. “My sister’s been murdered.” He rattled off the address and sank back onto the floor.
It was all a blur, what happened next. He was aware of blue, flashing lights and people entering the house, torches swinging over him and the murder scene. Someone hoisted him to his feet and checked him over. He felt numb but he just about managed to recount breaking in and finding her. They took his shoes and jacket. Sure enough, his holstered gun was exposed but no one commented on it. He knew they would have endless questions and he would have to try to answer them. He had been so sure that when he found his sister she would be okay, and they would go on with their lives as normal. But now he knew that nothing would ever be normal again.
“The police will deal with Peter,” the quiet voice in his head said. “We have bigger fish to fry. You’re probably right, you could have saved her if you’d found her that morning. If St. Catherine’s hadn’t vanished, then she wouldn’t have bled to death. You know who’s really responsible.”
I do, Felix thought. He felt in his pocket for the silver bullet and it was there, safe and sound. He was going to find those creatures and make them pay for what they’d done.
The Watch have restored the city, but what will the consequences be? Will Felix get his revenge? Find out in the final installment in Forgotten Magic.
About the Author
H. B. Lyne lives in Yorkshire with her husband, two children, and cat. When not juggling family commitments, she writes dark urban fantasy novels, purging her imagination of its demons. Inspired by the King of Horror himself, Holly aspires to be at least half as prolific and successful and promises to limit herself to only one tome of The Stand-like proportions in her career. Other interests and idols include Joss Whedon and
Robert Kirkman, and she is often spotted wearing Firefly™ or The Walking Dead™ apparel. Find out more at www.hblyne.com.
Don't forget to grab your copy of the next anthology, Forgotten Magic.
Bands of Brass
William C. Cronk
“Bands of Brass” describes Finyaka's journey as he tries to come to grips with the immense burden he carries. The Radiance that the Great Sun has granted him has set him on a course that is unpredictable and terrifying. He needs to discover what his purpose is, and what his powers can do before they destroy him.
“Bands of Brass” has been a bittersweet excursion of rapidly learning the writing arts and putting together a story that has depth and character. It has been a journey full of blood, sweat, and tears. Much like the story of Finyaka and Matasa thus far.
William C. Cronk
Trying to prove himself worthy, Finyaka must explore the unorthodox Radiance that Anuu has gifted him, all the while trying to navigate the politically charged landscape that surrounds him. Will he become the mage-priest he is destined to be, or will those factions aligned against him see him fail? When all is said and done, what role does his cousin Matasa hold?
“Between the Light and the Darkness stands the Wayward Soul, at constant conflict until, in the end, it chooses a side.”
Proverb of the Seven Peoples
Dragging his unconscious cousin through the desert was not Matasa’s idea of a simple life. He longed for his family. He would never see that day, not after what had happened. How could they go back to their village, when Finyaka’s father had instigated the mob attack on the Elder Council that wound up with Matasa and Finyaka fighting his father and brothers at the Jut? At least they weren’t running for their lives anymore, thanks to Finyaka’s new-found Radiance.
“Onubaki. I need to find a witch.”
Matasa spun his head around, surprised to hear Finyaka’s voice.
But it had only been a hallucination, a memory of what Finyaka had said not long before he had fainted. He was out cold. The solid gold band he wore that once belonged to their slain wise woman, Elder Sinaya, glinted teasingly on his arm. For his part in their escape, and how he had uncovered his ability to wield magic, Finyaka said nothing. His head lolled to the side.
Matasa had removed his tunic and used it as a sledge to pull Finyaka through the sands after his cousin had fainted. He paused for yet another arid breath. The deep sighs of fatigue came more often now. He didn’t know which burned more, the late-day sun searing his exposed torso, or the betrayal of his cousin Nahrem, Finyaka’s older brother.
How long ago was that? Had it only been one day since they’d lost such a large portion of the goat herd to ghost hounds, and then flagged for death by Finyaka’s father and brothers? For all the aches in Matasa’s body, it felt like years. He leaned against the ebony staff that once belonged to Sinaya.
“Great Sun Anuu give me strength,” Matasa prayed aloud, facing the scrub dotted, coarse sand of the mesa valley that lay ahead of them. He couldn’t believe the audacity of Finyaka’s father, calling the village wise woman, the venerable Sinaya, a witch. She was a devout adherent to the Great Sun Anuu and accomplished mage-priest. How could Tsimunuu, Finyaka’s father, use such a derogatory term against her?
Dismay that he was connected by blood to abusive Tsimunuu motivated Matasa to push through his fatigue. Finyaka deserved it. Even if Matasa had a sliver of Finyaka’s newfound magical ability, he wouldn’t use it, not after seeing how it had completely exhausted his young cousin. The Radiance had given Finyaka the capacity to squeeze the life from their attackers with a mere thought, he didn’t even have to sing as Sinaya did. But Matasa knew his cousin was a better man than Finyaka’s father and brothers put together. He’d shown great mercy, healing his father before demanding his return to the village. Finyaka kept us alive. Now it’s my turn to keep him alive and help him find the wise woman Asho, as Sinaya had bade him to do.
Matasa was surprised to find the water skin empty. Finyaka must have drained it before he passed out. Finyaka’s Radiance may have healed his undeserving father, but the magic couldn’t conjure water from the dunes. Unsteady, Matasa put one foot before the other and moved on. They needed water. And soon. Sweat still appeared on Finyaka’s brow, which was good, but the unresponsive state he was in was a sign that time was of the essence. By all that the great sun touches, what am I going to do? If we can make it to the caravan road, there’s hope. I just wish I knew where it was. If Matasa didn’t find water or help, their triumph against Finyaka’s family was going to die with them in the desert. He tugged on his tunic-sledge, his burden getting heavier with each weary step.
Nahrem didn’t think he’d ever see the day when his father was at a loss for words. Yet here was Tsimunuu, the most powerful man he knew, able to say only one thing: I want Matasa’a head.
“We know the goat lickers are making for Onubaki, Father,” Nahrem said. Matasa, his sun-forsaken cousin was with that doe of a brother, cowering just over the rise. His other brothers, Fadya and Tamika, emerged from their places of concealment. They, too, had been wounded but remained travel-worthy. “If need be, we get there before Finyaka and Matasa do. The doe and his insolent lackey will never make it on their own. Not even Finyaka’s Radiance could save them in the desert.”
“Mention that again and I’ll gut you.” Tsimunuu paled at the suggestion of Finyaka’s powers. He looked upon his eldest son with strange eyes, not the disappointment he usually cast upon Nahrem.
“Where did they go?” Tamika climbed to the top of a nearby pillar of rock and scanned the horizon. Fadya eased himself against the same outcropping, gingerly testing the integrity of his broken nose.
“By the Darkness!” Tsimunuu suddenly lashed out, catching Fadya by the collar. “Help your goat-spawned brother search for them.” He turned to Nahrem, invigorated by something. Nahrem wondered whether revenge or fear of his youngest son stirred him. “Do what you want to the doe, but Matasa’s head is mine.” Tsimunuu ran a hand across ribs which had been broken by his nephew earlier that day. Finyaka’s Radiance had healed them. Nahrem chuckled at the irony. “What’s so funny, boy?” His father fixed him with hardened eyes. Nahrem knew that look all too well.
“Matasa broke you and Finyaka healed you. Now we go to break them. It appeals to me.” He unsheathed the knife that he had stabbed his younger brother with earlier. He would sink it into the little witch again, soon.
“Let’s gather the others if they’re capable,” said Tsimunuu, stern and authoritative. “We head for Onubaki,” Tsimunuu continued as if the plan had come from him. Nahrem bit his tongue in bitter silence.
The big man turned to head back toward the Jut where the entire incident had started but a few hours ago.
A low growl came from the rocks.
Nahrem froze. His hair stood on end. Like a rising shadow, the large, scarred form of the bristle-backed female ghost hound appeared atop a cluster of boulders. She was the same alpha that had mauled him, at Finyaka’s command, a short time ago. Fresh blood trickled from gashes on her flanks and muzzle.
She jumped down, her gaze intent on Tsimunuu. She slowly skirted the group of men, taking her time. Tsimunuu hefted his staff. Tamika grabbed two stones and tossed one to Fadya. They slung the stones in their slings. Behind them all, Nahrem slid into a small crevice in the stone where he could hide. He shook uncontrollably, barely able to hold onto his knife.
“There’s but one of the sun forsaken beasts,” Tsimunuu said. “Crack its skull boys, or I’ll crack yours.” He eased himself away, putting his sons between himself and the hound.
Fadya let fly the stone and it whizzed through the place the hound had just vanished from.
No longer feeling safe, Nahrem slipped from his hiding place. He didn’t want to be caught in the crevice without a means of escape. He brandished his knife and crept toward the mesa’s edge.
“By the darkness,” Fadya swore from behind him. He knew his brother woul
d be setting another stone as quickly as he could.
“Any more of the beasts?” Tsimunuu asked.
As if in answer to his question, Nahrem heard not one, but a dozen hounds, growling and snarling. Swallowing hard, he glanced over his shoulder at his family.
A pack of ghost hounds surrounded his father and brothers. Blood matted the fur of many of the beasts. The alpha perched nearby on a raised boulder. She waited until hers and Tsimunuu’s eyes met. She barked once. The pack dove at the three men.
Nahrem broke into a dead run. Rabid snarling and the screams of his family chased him into the unforgiving desert. He didn’t know it, but the Darkness Behind the Light ran with him.
Matasa surveyed the barren rock and lifeless dust of the mesa. It was a miracle of the Great Sun that anything survived this heat-blasted place. The hardiness born from such an environment created a people with a sense of purpose and an unyielding will to survive. It also made them rather headstrong and stubborn, and right now those were the traits that kept pushing him forward. He was as strong as the mesa, as unending as the wadi; he would survive, and he would ensure his cousin did as well.
Water was scarce, save the few oasis villages, and small caches among the hidden aquifers of the mesa. The closest he knew of was the small well at the Jut. He'd never been this far into the true desert before, and he was unsure where to find the next source of the life-giving liquid which was more valuable than gold among the various tribes that called this forsaken place home.
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