The Vaticinator

by Namita Singh

stumble in the direction of where the sword seems to be falling. The Occultist burst forward, looming over Neal as he fumbles to grasp the sword.

  “No.” I whisper in horror as I increase my pace towards them.

  Another shriek fills the air, combining with the calls of my family from behind. Neal seems overpowered as the Occultist scream in his face. I start running, not knowing what my presence would bring but not wanting Neal to be alone in this nonetheless. And through the haze of all the chaos, the thought of my partner’s aura fills my mind. The irrepressible, gigantic aura of the Occultist is swallowing even Neal’s potent aura. I cannot sense it past the witches. And when a metallic glint swings from the ground next to Neal and shoves right through where the legs of the Occultists must be, I find myself oddly wishing to be able to sense his aura.

  Because as shrieks get louder, getting painful, the occultists seems to realize what just happened. Just for that microsecond the twisted, rippling and grimacing face of the Occultists was worth it all. But the next moment, the wind gets sucked in through the gaping hole near their legs, the air stilling around us. The deafening silence lasts for a miniscule moment before the Occultists combust. They implode, their forms disintegrating. A strong pulse of their explosion bursts out. Ten times stronger than the implosion of a single occultist. Nothing comes in the grasp of my senses as I get lifted off my feet by the force of it. Nothing, except for that one tiny moment mid-air, just before I hit the ground and lose consciousness. The one moment of my semi-conscious mind that is certain that it’s Neal’s aura which would have been hundred times more worth than the painful grimace of those dying Occultists. If only.