by N. P. Martin
The point of the knife had reached the hollow of my throat by the time I relented. "Stop!" I said. "I’ll do it…"
The Hand pulled the knife away slowly, keeping it just in front of me. "Sacrifice…"
I sighed helplessly. "All right, I’ll give you your damn sacrifice you evil son of a bitch…"
Drakkar’s evil spirit, asshole that it was, wouldn’t allow me access to my magic so I could heal the damage it had done to my face. I guess it wanted the pain to be a reminder not to mess with it again. In any case, the Hand ceased its autonomous movements for the time being, and stayed by my side where I kept it so I didn’t have to look at it.
"I can’t believe I’ve agreed to murder somebody," I said to myself as I sat on the couch and wondered what I was going to do. There wasn’t much choice but to do as Drakkar said, for the Hand could kill me anytime it wanted. It had already made that abundantly clear. It wanted a blood sacrifice. The only question now was where I was going to get one. Someone had to die, but who? No one innocent, that was for sure. But then again, would it matter? Everyone would die if I didn’t do as Drakkar asked anyway. Still, if I had to murder someone, I wanted to at least make sure I murdered someone who deserved it, if indeed anyone did deserve to be murdered. But there was no time for moral debate. If I didn’t stop Sorcha, and soon, the world would be over anyway.
Eventually, I lifted my phone and called Monty. "Hey," I said. "I need a favor. I need you to find me someone to murder…"
15
With help from Monty, I managed to find a suitable candidate for sacrifice. I know how that sounds. You might be thinking I’m as evil as Drakkar for even contemplating ritually murdering someone, but before you go judging me, just remember what’s at stake here. I’m doing this so you and your loved ones don’t get eaten by ancient monsters and then have your souls trapped for eternity in a world of darkness.
Besides, the person Monty had found for me deserved what was coming to him anyway, at least according to Monty. It was a child killer by the name of Glenn Morely, an Englishman who came to live in Cork several years ago when he got chased out of Manchester for being a known pedophile. Morely lived in Cork City until it was discovered that he was responsible for the deaths of three children under the age of ten. According to Monty, Morely was suspected of kidnapping and murdering three other children, but there wasn’t enough evidence to convict him on those. Monty even turned up video footage that Morely had posted on the dark web, showing a masked Morely vilely abusing one of his victims for the entertainment of the international pedophile ring he belonged to. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Morely was an evil piece of work that didn’t deserve to foul the earth with his footsteps any longer. Monty especially, being a victim of past abuse, told me to make it as painful as possible for Morely. While I understood the sentiment, I planned on doing just the opposite. If Iolas’s treatment of poor Arthur Cartwright had shown me anything, it was that I took no pleasure whatsoever in torturing anyone. Although, in saying all that, I suspected Drakkar’s spirit would take over anyway, leaving me no choice but to go along on whatever ride Drakkar took me on. Whatever it turned out to be, I can’t say I was looking forward to it.
Morely was being temporarily housed in the medium security Cork Prison in the city. Once he was sentenced by the courts, he would be transferred to a maximum security facility somewhere and left to rot in solitary for the rest of his life, and that’s if he didn’t get killed by the other inmates first. People of Morely’s ilk usually didn’t last too long in prison. Not that any of that mattered, as I was about to kill him anyway. Or rather, the Hand was.
Cork Prison isn’t the biggest of facilities, housing only about three hundred inmates, most of them low-level criminals. Monty had helpfully dug up the blueprints for the prison and had planned out the quickest route for me to reach Morely’s cell. With the help of my magic, I didn’t anticipate that it would be very hard to get inside the prison. Nonetheless, I waited until dark before making my move.
Sitting in my car a few streets away from the prison, I held up the Hand to address it. "I need access to my magic if I’m going to do this," I said, staring at the eye.
The eye blinked once, and a second later I felt my magic flowing through me once more. When I got out of the car, I stood in a block of shadow under a doorway, then used my magic to turn myself invisible. As soon as I was ready, I walked to the main gates of the prison. "Nebulam, fumum, vaporem tu debes evadere," I whispered, turning my physical body instantly to vapor, which allowed me to walk straight through the gates unhindered. On the other side, everything looked gray and ghostly, as if a thick fog had come down to shroud everything. This was because I was now in the Astral Plane, a place I never feel comfortable in for all sorts of reasons, chief among them being that it’s bloody dangerous due to the amount of entities—malevolent or otherwise—that dwelled within it. Becoming vapor may have been a useful trick, but if I stayed like it for too long, there was real danger I could end up trapped within the Astral Plane forever. For that reason, as soon as I was through the gates, I quickly made myself solid again.
The route that Monty had mapped out for me didn’t involve going inside the prison itself until I had reached the place where Morely’s cell is. Having memorized the route, I made my way to the exercise yard, turning myself to vapor again whenever I came across any security fences or doors. The small yard ran alongside the solitary confinement wing, and I walked exactly sixty-six yards by the whitewashed wall, stopping just under a tiny window. On the other side of the wall was Morely’s cell according to Monty.
While I stood facing the wall, the Hand began to agitated, flexing its fingers as if in anticipation of getting them wet with blood. Sighing at what I was about to do, I turned myself to vapor again and walked through the wall into Glenn Morely’s prison cell.
The dark cell I ended up in was narrow and claustrophobic, with dirty white walls and a toilet in one corner. Apart from that, there was nothing else in there, except of course for the inmate who was sleeping on the small single bed. I knew it was Morely because I had already seen the picture of him that Monty had sent me. The child murderer was in his early fifties, with thinning gray hair and gaunt features, his chin and hollowed cheeks stubbled with thick whiskers. Looking down at him sleeping, I tried to decide if he looked like an evil murderer, soon deciding that he didn’t. Like nearly all such people, Morely looked unremarkable, normal even. Except, he wasn’t normal. Far from it.
The Hand of Drakkar was soon hovering over Morely’s face as the eye seemed to examine him. I could already feel the pleasure of anticipation coming from the Hand, a pleasure which flowed through me as well, as much as I tried to fight it. The energy in the room soon changed, as if it had become charged with electricity. This was followed by the sound of many whispering voices that seemed to come from everywhere, though who the voices belonged to, I had no idea. There was dark magic—darker than any I’d ever felt—at work in the room, and as much as I wanted no part of it, I still found myself at the center of it.
As the Hand continued to hover over Morely’s face, the man himself must have sensed something, for he flung his eyes open, which soon widened in fear as if he could actually see the eye of Drakkar looking down on him, which he obviously couldn’t because I was still maintaining my invisibility. The room itself was so charged with energy at this point, that I had no doubt Morely felt it himself anyway, which probably accounted for the look of fear on his face, and his darting eyes. He actually looked like he was about to scream, so frightened was he by the invisible presence in the room with him, and the unnatural coldness in the air. But before he could make a sound, I felt my arm shoot up and then back down again as the Hand swiped across Morely’s throat, the long, sharp fingernails slicing into Morely as easily as any knife would. As the Hand finished its sudden movement, a spray of blood splatted against the white wall, forming a dripping red rose.
Morely’s hands immediately went to his
throat to try to stem the bleeding, but it was no use. The cut was deep and the ruby red was flowing out of him like wine from a bottle, saturating the bed he was lying in. The laughter of many voices echoed around the cell as Morely lay choking on his own blood, his eyes wide with shock. As much as I thought the bastard deserved to die, I took no pleasure in watching it happen. It wasn’t long before the smell of urine and excrement filled the cell, turning me sick.
"He’s dead now," I whispered. "Time to go."
But the Hand of Drakkar wasn’t done yet. It ripped off Morely’s saturated clothes until his thin torso was exposed, then it used its nails to puncture Morely’s belly. As the fingers dug deeper into soft flesh, I had to look away, which was difficult considering the Hand had control of my whole arm. I ended up shutting my eyes when the Hand pulled hard and ripped out a bunch of Morely’s intestines, placing the pile of stinking innards on the man’s bare chest. The smell, not to mention the sight of all that gore, was too much for me, and I ended up vomiting on the floor, spewing my DNA everywhere, which lucky for me, there was no record of on any system.
As I spat out the last of the vomit, the voices around me began to get louder as they all chanted something in unison in a language I couldn’t understand. I didn’t care what they were all saying anyway, though I was worried that someone else might hear them. I still wasn’t sure if the voices were in my head, or if they actually existed outside of it. If the latter was the case, there was no doubt one of the screws would come and check pretty soon.
Not that the Hand seemed to care as it dipped itself in Morely’s innards, and because the Hand was obviously attached to me, I was forced to endure the slippery feel of the innards as well. "Enough!" I hissed, just as another voice sounded from outside the cell.
"Everything all right in there?" It was one of the screws, obviously alerted by the noise.
Before I could say anything else to the Hand, the cell door opened to reveal a young male guard in his twenties. His wide eyes went first to the sight of Morely’s mutilated body, and then to my surprise, to me. As the guard looked right into my eyes, his face drained of blood and his lower lip began to quiver in fear. That’s when I realized he could see me. In the course of the "ritual" my invisibility spell had obviously worn off for whatever reason.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" the guard exclaimed as he made the sign of the cross on himself, and then promptly ran screaming.
"Great!" I said. "He saw my bloody face!"
Immediately, I cast another invisibility spell, just as I heard footsteps running down the corridor toward the cell. The Hand must’ve known it was out of time, because it now hung loosely by my side, Morely’s blood still dripping off it. Just as two more guards appeared at the door, I turned myself to vapor and went through the wall, leaving a bloody mess behind me.
Once I was outside, I ran as fast as I could back to the car, started the engine and drove off like a maniac. When I was back in the countryside again, I pulled the car over by the side of an empty road and began to bang on the steering wheel. "Shit, shit, shit!"
The guard had seen my face, which obviously wasn’t good, though I doubted very much he would remember me. It was dark in the cell after all, and the young guard was probably so frightened and freaked out that he most likely couldn’t be sure what he saw. There was also the fact that Morely was despised by everyone, so I doubted anyone would look too hard for his killer. With any luck, his gruesome death would forever remain a mystery.
Pretty soon, the smell of blood in the car got too much for me, and that combined with the fresh images of what had just happened, was enough to make me open the door and vomit onto the road, though there wasn’t much left in my stomach to bring up by that point. When I closed the door again, I realized I was drenched in Morely’s blood, which was smeared all over the interior of the small car as well. Making a tight fist with my left hand, I squeezed my eyes shut as I tried to get a grip on myself. Things had gotten so crazy, it felt like I was on a rapid descent to Hell. "Keep it together, Corvin," I told myself, and then brought the Hand of Drakkar up in front of me, which was completely covered in blood, except the eye in the middle that stared out at me. "I’m going to get cleaned up now," I said in a voice that was weary but firm. "And afterward, you’re going to show me where Sorcha is."
I stared at the Hand, waiting on some kind of response that never came.
All it did was stare coldly back at me.
16
After taking a shower back at the cottage (trying not to look at the Hand the whole time), I felt slightly better; not soiled anymore, at least on the outside. A sense of calm also emanated from the Hand, as if Drakkar’s spirt had been sated by the bloodletting. I couldn’t help but wonder how long this would last, though. How long before it demanded another sacrifice? Hopefully not before I’d had a chance to confront Sorcha. I’d given the Hand what it wanted. Now it was its turn to give me what I wanted. So as soon as I was dressed again, I went outside. The sky was dark and cloudy, as if a storm was brewing. The air itself felt positively charged with energy, though not all of it from the coming storm. There was another energy at play, one which I knew had to have had something to do with Sorcha and her ritual to activate the Arc of Annihilation. Something told me she was on the cusp of completing her process to usher in the apocalypse, which meant there was no more time to mess around.
Holding the Hand of Drakkar up in front of me, I stared at the eye. "You got your blood, now show me where Sorcha is."
The Hand moved my arm toward me, bringing itself to rest on my forehead, the palm slightly out so I could still see the eye only inches from my own. The eye’s stare was intense, as if it was trying to burn a hole in my head. Then, images forced themselves into my mind, taking me away from my current surroundings to somewhere else. Suddenly, I was standing in a field in front of a Megalithic round tower with a hexagonal base. The sky above was pitch black and full of broiling clouds, and as I looked up at the tower, I saw a figure standing on top of it, who I instantly recognized as Sorcha. Her hands were raised as if in praise, and then she looked down at me, as if she could see me. That’s when the vision ceased and I found myself back at the cottage again.
The vision wasn’t much to go on, but it was enough. There was only one round tower in Cork that was fully intact, and that was Kinneigh Round Tower. It was also the only one in Ireland with a hexagonal base, so there was no doubting where Sorcha was. The only problem is, the Kinneigh Tower is nearly an hour and half’s drive from my current location. I didn’t foresee myself making it there in time to stop Sorcha, given that she had already begun her ritual, which by the way, was also probably her last one before the Arc became activated.
I didn’t have much time to think about any of this, though, for seconds later, I found myself in the midst of another vision. In this vision, I appeared to be looking up from the ground. Kinneigh Tower was in the background, but the dark figure of Hedrema was blocking most of it out. In her hand was a large knife, which she soon brought down on me in a stabbing motion, but before I could feel any pain, the vision ended suddenly.
"What the hell was that?" I asked the Hand as I held it in front of me, the eye staring back at me with a look of knowing. "Did you show me the future?" The Hand’s index finger flexed slightly as if in response. I shook my head. "Great, so Hedrema is going to try to kill me. But why?"
The Hand gave no response this time, and in fact, the eye in the palm closed, as if to indicate that it was done helping me. If indeed it was helping me, and not messing with my head by showing me something it knew would throw me off balance, and given Drakkar’s sadistic disposition, I wouldn’t put it past him. Either way, I knew I had to be careful.
As driving to Kinneigh Tower wasn’t an option, given that it would take too long to get there, I knew I would have to use my magic instead. I was in possession of a spell that would create a portal, supposedly to wherever I wanted to go, but I had never used it before, mainly because my mothe
r used to warn me about such spells, telling me that opening portals was a dangerous business because they were so hard to get right. It was all too easy, she said, to end up somewhere you didn’t want to be, which included other worlds that wouldn’t take too kindly to a human showing up in them. For that reason, I’ve always been afraid to use portals, but at this point in time, I didn’t have a choice.
To cast the spell, I would also have to use my left hand, which I wasn’t happy about either. You get used to using a certain hand when casting magic, and over time the casting hand becomes as important as the words to the spell itself, so I wasn’t sure how things were going to turn out.
Still, having no choice, I said the words to the spell. "Ianua sit!" Then I moved my left hand around in a circular motion, focusing my magic in front of me as a bright blue energy soon began to trail behind my hand, coloring in the black of night as the portal began to form. As the portal widened, I concentrated hard on the place I wanted to go to, and soon the portal was formed. All I had to do now was step into it, though I hesitated before doing so, afraid that I was going to end up on the other side of the world, or in some other world, trapped and unable to get to Sorcha, nor save Dalia. Then it would be all be over.
As my fears increased, I almost closed the portal up again. But then a voice popped into my head, a memory really, of my father, about to leave on the night that he ended up dying at the hands of Constantine. At nine years old, I didn’t want him to go. I knew his job was dangerous, and I told him I was afraid that something bad would happen to him. I wanted him to stay so he could read to me in bed, like he did most nights. In the memory, I saw my father come to me and place his hands gently on my shoulders as he smiled reassuringly. "You don’t have to be afraid, Corvin," he said softly. "Fear is just in your mind, and you can conquer it if you want to."
