She blinked, and he was gone.
The Eye-ling was no more. The psychic link was destroyed.
The cult leader winced in pain. He had not expected the boy to unleash such raw electrical power from a mundane device such as that apparatus. He blinked rapidly and massaged his temples. The throbbing was subsiding quickly, but a sharp, white-hot dot of pain remained behind his left eye. He had to admit, it was a clever contraption and he could not help but admire the boy. He had come a long way since that day, twenty years ago.
He coughed. Not sure what was burning more, his eye, or his ego, he staggered to his feet and called out loudly for his servant.
“Maxwell!” he bellowed, his voice reverberating with power.
Seconds later the latch on the door to the basement clicked and quick footsteps announced the view of a tall, thin man dressed in black.
“Yes sir?” Maxwell paused in the smoky air to regard his Master. “Are you well?” He descended to the bottom step. “I thought I heard something not long ago but was reluctant to disturb you.” He peered sharply and gestured at the altar.
The Master adjusted and dusted his robes as he cleared his throat. “Indeed, yes, I am fine.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Merely a small annoyance and minor setback.” He strode back to the altar and righted fallen candlesticks.
“Bring me the girl,” he growled.
Out on the street, Denis looked back over his shoulder to where the horse and carriage waited. He could see the driver, one hand gripping tight on the reins and the other stroking Mildred’s neck. He was saying something to her, no doubt in an attempt to soothe her nerves.
Denis turned his attention back to the empty street ahead and strode with cautious intent. His eyes roamed the buildings on both sides of the street for any sign of life or movement.
Nothing. Downright wrong. The fingers of one hand nervously drummed a light staccato beat on the handle of the Dragoon as he made progress towards the corner brownstone. His shoulders were tight. He tried to shrug the tension loose as he walked. He half expected something to materialize out of thin air and ambush him. Laughing to himself, he cast another nervous look behind him. The cabbie, watching him, waved in encouragement.
Denis shook his head. At least Mildred looked more calm.
The closer he approached, the more detailed the strange phenomenon emanating from the building became. He squinted as he walked closer. They were definitely humanoid shapes, although nothing suggesting a human. Denis wasn’t a religious person by far, but he found himself muttering The Lord’s Prayer. He grimaced, trying to focus. His booted footsteps seemed unnaturally loud in the still air.
The air was heavy, more so than anything that nature herself could manifest, and he could feel it seeping into his bones. It was a low hum, a faint vibration emanating from within.
His stomach knotted as he felt the strength of the house deepen as he got closer. The swirling mass of smoky shapes were now speeding up. Shadowy taloned claws reached for him as he approached.
Denis stopped and paused to watch. The stone stairs were before him. He tilted his head up the dozen or so steps and checked the heavy oak door. The shadowy mass surrounding the building did not obscure the stairs or the door. He frowned and swallowed a rising lump in his throat. His eyes darted about the building and he tried to quell a blossoming disquiet in his stomach. Of all that he had seen these past twenty years, this chaos here made him feel like a raw recruit, fresh from the ranks and green. He closed his eyes briefly and breathed in.
Hold fast Denis, lad, he mouthed silently. He opened his eyes again. The door was before him. This was the only way in. He watched the shadow shapes reaching and flowing. He shook his head wondering why he was here. He looked back in the direction of the carriage. There was no way in hell he was going to touch the shadows to test one of those ground floor windows. Of course, he did have a legitimate reason for being here after all, so knocking on the front door was not all that unreasonable. He wondered again what this particular house contained that was in need of insurance. Keeping one eye on the house, he consulted his watch. He smiled in grim amusement.
Time to go to work.
Niko ran though the library, his coat streaming behind him. His rifle bounced against his thigh and one hand held up his aural compass before him. The odds were slim but he was hoping against all hope that he would be able to pick up the trail.
He thrust open the library doors into the warm June sunlight, scattering pigeons as he searched the skies frantically.
Nothing yet.
He checked the compass, holding it at arm’s length and swinging it slowly in a wide arc from left to right across his chest.
The steady, faint pinging, which usually indicated normal levels, grew perceptibly louder and the red light brightened noticeably with the tell-tale sign of residual energy.
Yes! He looked up and over at the direction he needed to follow.
Niko strode off confidently in the direction of the river front.
Many people watched in amazement at the strangely clad young man striding through the city streets waving some mechanical contraption back and forth. They took one look at his grim face, fever bright eyes, and parted to let him pass. Others gave him only cursory inspection before turning back to their own affairs, content in their own troubles.
He didn’t get too far.
There was a faint rumbling as if from far off thunder. The sky darkened, hiding the sun behind roiling black clouds.
People stopped to look up and point. A chill wind began to blow up the street bringing with it a scent of rot and decay.
From off in the distance, dogs barked and howled.
The ping of the aural compass became one long drawn out sound and the red indicator light remained on.
But which way to go now? Niko searched, frustrated and momentarily at a loss.
Which way?
As if in answer, the ominous grumble of thunder grew louder and seemed to Niko to emanate from the West where the sky seemed even darker.
“Looks like we’re in for a summer thunderstorm,” a voice at his side said knowingly.
Niko blinked and turned. A grizzled old man stood staring at the sky. He nodded and smiled toothily.
Niko smiled back and was about to respond when he was stopped short by a voice that thundered down from the sky. It boomed and echoed above their heads with eldritch words that could only come from something beyond mortal ken. Something as ancient as the stars.
DEES MEES JARSCHET BOEN MOESEF LOUVEMA ENTIMAUS!
The ground trembled and heaved as if the very Earth herself were repulsed from the words pounding down from the aether. People screamed and ran, seeking shelter from the chaos.
Niko grabbed the old man’s arm, catching him as he stumbled. “What devilry is this, lad?” he shouted into Niko’s face. “What’s happening?” Fingers dug into his arm. “Are the hounds of hell come at last?” His breath reeked faintly of grain alcohol.
Niko steadied the man and thrust his own coat back. “It’s not a thunderstorm, good Sir.” He pocketed his compass. “Nor are they hounds.” He smiled wryly and nodded. “But hell is indeed close.” He released the buckle and drew his rifle from its inner holster. He leaned in and brought his face close to the old man’s. “You need to take shelter,” he said, “and wait for the sun to reappear.”
The old man stood frozen with wide, frightened eyes and nodded silently.
Niko broke into a reassuring smile and patted the man’s shoulder. “All will be well.” He plugged his rifle into the battery pack and flicked on the power switch. The machine hummed comfortingly to life. The man looked from the rifle and back to Niko, almost too stunned to speak.
“Wha-what is that?” he asked, finding his voice and pointing to Niko’s weapon. “Never seen a rifle like that!”
“And nor will you again.” Niko replied then turned to leave. “I have to get to work.”
The old man just shook his head.
Niko ran toward that dark tempest.
Despite the chaotic swirling mass covering the house, all was silence. No sound, no sun, not a hint of air movement at all. Denis blinked, stifled an unbidden tiredness, and fought off a serious yawn. The thickness of the atmosphere caused his eyelids to drop low. His head felt like it was wrapped in cotton.
Moving slowly, and as steady as he could muster, he placed one booted foot upon the lower step. Holding a breath, he winced and braced himself for the attack he was certain was about to assail him.
Nothing.
The shadow’s shapes quickened their dance and rolled toward him but seemed, mercifully, unable to reach him.
He stared intently at the black mass as the shapes metamorphosed from one hellish figure into another. He took another step up, then drew a sharp breath. There! No, it couldn’t be. Could it? He leaned in, peering closer, trying to ascertain the validity of what he was seeing. He shook his head vigorously as if to clear away the familiar images now forming there and blinked. There it was again. The shape, the face, before him now was that of-
“No!” He cried out, throwing up his free hand. Heart-wrenching, unbidden images of the battle on Cavalry Field flooded his vision.
He stumbled back a pace and almost fell. Something hissed in his ear and he closed his eyes and bowed his head. The Lord’s Prayer flitted through his loose grip on sanity and bounced around those images, shattering and dispelling them like so many toy soldiers.
He swallowed, righting himself, and gripped the Dragoon’s handle. He attempted to conjure up saliva from a desert-dry mouth. His breath quickened as he approached the front door. He could feel the icy sinews of fear winding around his heart. If ever there was a desire for a drink, it was now.
A clenched hand hovered inches above the smooth wood as he paused to regard once again the strange shadows flowed outward, rising and falling like waves across the facade of the house. The images of the people on the street came back to him in a flood. They were the same creatures. He shuddered inwardly, his stomach knotting. Considering what was occurring, knocking on the front door seemed moronic and futile.
Something unwholesome was happing, foregoing the usual etiquette was warranted.
Denis tried the door latch.
Locked.
He tensed, looking about once more. Seeing no one, he took a deep breath, and sharply kicked the door just below the latch.
The latch mechanism shattered with a tremendous crack, blasting the door open as wood splinters fluttered like snow against the darkness of a silent foyer. Denis pulled the Dragoon free and sidestepped up to the ruin of the door frame, weapon held high and ready. He checked the outside of the building one final time.
The shadow creatures rose and fell, swirling, ignoring him.
He grunted, nodded satisfactorily to himself, then stepped up into a dimly lit hallway. His booted feet crunched the wood splinters as he crossed the threshold.
Directly across from the open front door was a wide, grand staircase that rose and swept up and over to the right. A balcony railing lined the stairs. He noted a few closed doors atop the open air hallway. A large blackened iron chandelier hung from a long steel chain, swaying gently in the warm air. Blood red candles sat unlit in their holders. He looked around the sparsely furnished front room. Dust was a thick coverlet.
Denis frowned. If this was an example of the rest of the house, it wasn’t exactly worth insuring, let alone any inspection. More likely in need of a maid. He shook his head and wondered why the owner had bothered calling his company. He struggled to remember. What was it his supervisor had said? Damn it. All he could recall was a holding company in New Jersey on the investigation order.
His silent reverie was interrupted as footsteps echoed down to Denis from above.
Shite.
“Who are you?” a deep voice demanded. A tall, black garbed figure materialized at the top of the stairs. Deep shadow obscured his face but Denis could see it leaning forward to peer at the shattered doorway. “What are you doing?” The figure started down the stairs.
Denis could now see this was a man dressed in black trousers and tunic. Some form of cloak was wrapped around his shoulders. His shaven head was crowned by a black skullcap. His eyes gleamed wickedly.
Denis held up his empty hand. “Easy friend, I’m here to-”
The man drew forth something from his side and launched it in one smooth motion.
That something whizzed a mere inch from Denis’ face.
Thunk.
A long, thin blade quivered in the door frame. He blanched.
Son of a bitch. Next one probably has my name on it.
The man drew forth another dagger and growled a phrase in a language Denis did not recognize. This evil-looking black blade was serrated along one edge, shorter than the first but no less deadly. The cloaked man started quickly down the stairs, holding the weapon low.
Denis took up a stance, crouching slightly. He brought the Dragoon up and sighted the approaching madman. “Okay, put the knife down, boyo,” he bellowed, as he cocked the hammer.
The man’s eyes were a fever glow of fanaticism. Spittle flew as he cursed Denis vehemently and charged downward across the last few steps, knife now raised high.
Mad son of a bitch. He’s not stopping.
A little closer. Wait for it.
Denis drew himself up, took one step back and held up his free hand in a stopping motion as he pulled the trigger. The Dragoon roared and the bullet caught the black garbed cultist square and point blank in the chest. Arms spread wide, he flew backward in a spray of blood as the force of the .44 caliber bullet ripped the life from his body. He landed heavily, sprawled at the bottom of the stairs. The knife tumbled from a lifeless grip and clattered on the hardwood floor.
Denis watched, sickened, as blood seeped from beneath the shattered body, spreading out across the floor in a slowly widening, crimson pool.
A thin, blue-white cloud of gun-smoke hung in the air like a vaporous ghost.
Denis expelled the breath he had been holding just as the sky above thundered with those ancient words. The house shuddered and rocked under the power. He clutched at the door frame.
DEES MEES....
What the hell is that?!
As if in answer to his unvoiced question, a girl’s screams pierced the air, mixing with the thundering bass of that chant.
The fear dropped away from him and spurred him to motion. He gripped the Dragoon reassuringly as he made his way toward the back of the house in search of the stairs downward.
A gun-shot rang out above the black robed figure’s head.
Only for a moment did he wonder who the interloper might be. His servant, Maxwell, obviously had met his end. He shrugged. No matter. It would soon be over. He turned back to the altar and began, ignoring the girl’s frantic, terror stricken screaming.
He reached a hand down to her face, almost tenderly, to remove a sweaty strand of hair.
Repulsed, she pulled away from him, turning her face and whimpering as she strained at her bindings.
She would be silenced soon enough. He stood straight and tall before the altar, arms spread wide and head raised toward the sky, as he softly spoke the eldritch words of summoning. He listened rapturously as they were echoed and amplified above in the heavens.
“ENTIMAUS—”
The last word cracked the aether and he began the chant again, the echoes layering and harmonizing the ancient words.
His excitement mounted as each recital ripped the veil between worlds open wider. He pulled a breath and began once again, a small, tight smile on his lips as he mouthed the words.
The earth trembled and heaved. The doorway was opening!
They flowed from his lips, this chant that was forever burned into his memory and emblazoned in bright letters across the landscape of his mind.
Still chanting, he turned his attention to the altar and the bound girl upon it. She was weeping and straining against
the chains that bound her.
“Please—” she begged, pulling at her bindings.
Cold metal held her fast.
Keeping up his chanting, he caught her gaze and slowly shook his head.
She struggled harder. “Stop it! Why are you doing this?” She twisted. “Let me go!”
Denis flung back the kitchen door and searched frantically about the darkened, empty room.
Goddamn basement door has to be around here somewhere. These houses are all the same.
His eyes settled on a spot near the window and wall. He checked the window. Completely blackened by whatever was covering the building. Shadowy shapes flowed across the panes of glass, as if the window was being buffeted by a murder of crows.
He made his way towards the corner of the room next to a series of tall cabinets. A narrow door, painted the same color as the wall greeted him.
Another frenzied cry reached up to him from below.
He swapped a fresh cylinder into the Dragoon. He briefly contemplated adding the shoulder stock but opted against it. Probably going to be close quarters. He spun the fresh cylinder once and listened as it clicked into place.
Satisfied, he reached for the door handle.
The thundering words rang out again and again, a chanting chorus of summoning. People screamed and ran for cover as the skies continued to blacken.
Niko ran. He dodged the frightened people the best he could and thrust aside those he could not. Most took one look at his flapping coat and ominous weapon and melted aside. The constabulary, demanding him to “Stop!” and blowing their whistles, attempted to apprehend him but could not keep up to his loping swiftness. In his head, Niko apologized profusely to them all as he left them behind, winded and confounded. He was certain that if they knew the circumstances, they would be following, not chasing him.
Alas, for there was no time to explain, nor was there any assurance of believability.
Tesla & Malone - Lightning's Call - Book One Page 5
