Paranormals | Book 3 | Darkness Reigns

by Andrews, Christopher

  John had learned the Skygger’s tragic history, yes, but its sins far outweighed any pity he might have felt for it. He climbed to his feet, and to Shockwave, he said, “Finish it.”

  His expression grim and determined, Shockwave turned back to the Skygger, the air rippling around both fists.

  Without any obvious shift in its state or intentions, the Skygger transitioned from flopping around on the ground like a fish to lunging straight at Shockwave’s legs. The paranormal fired his kinetic waves, but the Skygger came in beneath them, knocking his feet out from under him even as it slashed at his thighs. Shockwave cursed and went down, his blood mixing with the red of his shiny pants.

  Darkness descended upon them yet again, the shadows engulfing them all.

  “Your brother, Gladius,” John heard as the lights went out. “Your brother is mine.”

  John refused to panic. The threat against Steve suggested the Skygger would be going up the wall of the hospital again. His gladius swords were on the ground behind him, but if he focused enough of his remaining magical energy — the Spectionium spell had depleted him once more — he could attempt a broad Cataptis net, spread wide across the space between the hospital and the crumbling, neighboring building. He knew it wouldn’t stop the Skygger, but maybe it would stall—

  Then Shining Star reignited his aura, rising into the air several feet and pushing back the darkness, allowing John to see, a little.

  The Skygger hadn’t been going for Steve.

  It was hurtling toward John.

  Too late for any spells, John crossed his wrists, taking the slash intended to behead him across his leather-chainmail-clad forearms. The beast’s talons cut through the enchanted armor and into flesh, but not as deep as when it got his shoulder. The Skygger latched onto his legs with its toes, those claws hooking between the links of his chainmail, and it reached for his face, his eyes, with its fangs, its talons, and all of its hate.

  Shockwave collided with them both, tackling them and sending all three to the pavement together, then he rolled over — off John and onto his back, taking the Skygger with him. With the Skygger lying sideways on his chest, Shockwave wrapped his arms and legs around the monster, pinning it in a twisted version of a bear hug.

  John knew that Shockwave would not be able to hold the Skygger for more than a second, if that, and it would claw him open to escape. What was the man thinking?!

  The air rippled around the two as Shockwave primed one of his kinetic attacks. Was he hoping to propel the Skygger straight up into the sky? But then, why would he pin it against—?

  The rippling air did not thrust outward. It enveloped them, cascading back over their two forms again, cycling faster, reentering Shockwave’s body and rolling back outward again, only to curve back inward and repeat the process.

  Shockwave was firing his kinetic energy against himself, over and over again.

  And the Skygger was trapped in the middle of it.

  The Skygger appeared to be squirming around, but it was difficult to tell through the distortion. It wasn’t making any noise, but John suspected that was because it could not catch its breath.

  The question was, how long could Shockwave keep this up?

  The shadows had lessened when Shockwave’s attack began, and things brightened further as Shining Star landed next to them, his arms held out, and he cranked his aura up once more.

  John left them like that to retrieve his gladius swords.

  A solid minute passed, maybe longer, before Shockwave’s kinetic energy faltered; Shining Star wavered, barely able to stay on his feet; and Powerhouse was on his knees again behind them both, his head dipped as he cradled the back of his scalp. John knew he, too, could end up just as exhausted if he attempted another heavy-duty spell, so he chose to take a different gamble.

  Sheathing his left sword, he gripped his right gladius in both hands, the blade pointed downward as he held the hilt at chest level.

  “Shining Star!” he called. “Don’t stop! Shockwave ... let go!”

  Shockwave heard him, and the air ceased its rippling. He sagged, his arms and legs flopping apart, and the Skygger rolled off him and onto its own back. Its flesh looked bruised and pulpy, its bones sagging and loose even by its freakish standards. Its tongue lagged from its mouth, its chest heaving in rapid, shallow panting.

  Then the Skygger’s sunken eyes rolled in their swollen sockets to look up at John and his sword, poised to strike, and it stated, “No.” It was not a plea; it was a command, a denial, a rejection of this moment, this outcome. “No!”

  John looked the Skygger in its wounded eyes. “Yes.”

  With a grunt, he drove his gladius sword into the Skygger’s chest, twisted the blade to widen the wound, withdrew his weapon, spun it up and around, and beheaded the monster.

  The Skygger’s body changed in an instant, along with its decapitated head. John half expected it to crumble into dust, like the vampire analogy that occurred to him earlier, but it did not. It putrefied, curdling and rotting, decaying like a moldering mushroom. The stench was indescribable, but the entire process lasted only a few seconds.

  And, just like that, the nigh-immortal Skygger was nothing more than a slick grey smudge on the pavement.

  Shockwave, who had watched it happen without bothering to sit up, snickered, “Take that ... asshole ...”

  Then he relaxed his exhausted head back onto the pavement, facing the night sky with its stars back in full view, and stated:

  “... ow.”

  TAKAYASU AND SHOCKWAVE

  “We got it, Mike.”

  Michael stirred. He had been dozing in his perpetual darkness — what else could he do, except listen to music or maybe a podcast? And because they had removed the “excess” skin from the side of his head (the tissue that once belonged to his face) late that evening, they had him on painkillers that made him feel even more detached from reality.

  “Mmm?” he grunted.

  “We got it, Mike,” he heard repeated, and recognized Mark’s voice this time. “We nailed the son of a bitch cold. It’s dead.”

  “Awesome,” he slurred — half from the drugs, half from the pathetic hole that served as his mouth. “Anyone else hurt?”

  “Yeah. All of us, really, but it’s all good now. Let me tell you: That Walker kid has really stepped it up a notch. In more ways than one.”

  “I look forward to ...” He almost said “reading your report,” but switched to, “... to hearing your report.”

  Mark chuckled. “Yeah, I’m gonna need a little time for that.”

  “No problem. You deserve a break.”

  Mark made a noise that might have been another chuckle, or might not. “Yeah, that, too. I just meant ... well ... my fingers are a little stiff. Gonna make typing a pain in the ass.”

  “The Skygger got your hands?”

  “Nah. Got my legs, but Walker fixed ‘em. I’m talkin’ about ... You know what? Here.”

  Michael felt Mark’s hand slip under his own, and he gripped it, thinking that his partner was offering more emotional support. But then he realized that it wasn’t Mark’s hand after all – it was too rough, too coarse, like unsanded wood or something ...

  Mark wiggled his fingers, demonstrating that it was, in fact, his hand. So why did it feel so weird?

  Before he could ask, Mark told him, “Remember how my hands were gettin’ all calloused up lately? How I thought it was from my shockwaves goin’ through my skin, ‘specially since I’ve been gettin’ more creative with how I use ‘em?”

  “Yeah.”

  “To take out the Skygger, I got all sorts of creative. A little kinetic shieldin’, a little kinetic buzz sawin’ ... I wrapped it up and threw just about every trick I had at it, you know what I’m sayin’? Anyway ... well...”

  Mark pulled away from Michael’s hand, then took him by the wrist and placed Michael’s hand upon his forearm. The callouses, if that’s really what they were, covered his skin there, too.

/>   Michael asked, “Is it ...? I mean, are we talking about just your arms, or—?”

  “Everywhere, Mike. Everywhere.” He made that not-quite-chuckle sound again. “Let’s just say: You don’t need to feel too self-conscious ‘bout how your new face might turn out. People’re gonna be starin’ at me just as much as you.” A brief pause, then, “I think I might’ve overdone it a little, maybe pushed my power further than it was supposed to go, and this is the price. Walker took a whack at it, but like your face, it’s not really an ‘injury’ for him to heal. But you know what? I’d do it again in a second, if that’s what it took to bring that bastard down.”

  Michael didn’t know what to say. “Mark, I ...”

  “Hey, man, don’t say you’re sorry, okay? I just told ya, I’d do it again.” He laughed, and this time it sounded more authentic. “You know how Vortex ‘n Shining Star like to call us ‘the Invincible Team’ when they think no one’s listenin’? Well, when you get back into action, how ‘bout just you ‘n me call ourselves somethin’ like, ‘the Scarfaces’?”

  “I ... think that needs a little work.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m just spit-ballin’ here. Give me time, I’ll think of somethin’.”

  Michael sucked in a long breath. “Mark, listen. About my, uh ... my ‘getting back into action’ ...”

  “Don’t start, young’n. We already talked about this.”

  “Mark. I appreciate your support, and your can-do attitude. Seriously, I do, from the heart. But even if the surgeons can undo what Park did to my face ... they’re pretty sure my eyesight is gone forever. I mean, the man literally smeared my eyes, along with the rest of it. There’s no undoing damage like that.” He tried to make a sarcastic snort, but given his physical situation, it didn’t come out very well. “The PCA won’t have much use for a blind field agent, Mark. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”

  When Mark spoke next, his tone fell somewhere between sympathy and chastisement, like a teacher disappointed in a star pupil. “Ah, Mike, c’mon now. I figured it out so you can, too — you’re supposed to be the smart one between us, remember?”

  All Michael could say to that was, “Uh ... am I missing something?”

  Mark chuckled. “Ohhh, yeah.”

  Michael was completely lost, and could only offer a vague shake of his head.

  Mark continued, “You’re forgettin’ about our wounded teammate. Ya know, the one the Skygger cut open?”

  “Vortex?”

  Mark laughed again. “Well, duh. Yeah, Vortex, man. You know: The dude with the mechanical eyes?”

  It still took Michael another second to absorb the implications of what Mark was saying ... but when he did, he felt the tiniest kindling of hope.

  THE GLADIUS AND VORTEX

  John sat in an uncomfortable hospital chair in Steve’s new room, waiting for his brother to wake up. Powerhouse was still rooming with him, but the big man was out for more tests, and John was hoping that Steve might awaken while they had some privacy.

  He had been tempted, very tempted, to slip away into the proverbial night without confronting Steve at all. (Was “confronting” the right word? It felt too harsh, yet he couldn’t think of a better one.) The Skygger was dealt with; the danger was over. He could find solitude somewhere — not difficult for a man with his talents — to rest up until his magical reservoir were strong enough for another calculated Subcinctinin spell.

  The spell that started it all for him.

  The spell that would take him back to Dryal.

  But that felt wrong, cowardly. He had no real idea what he was going to say to Steve; the possibility of a carefully-paced, heartfelt “reveal” had been stolen by the Skygger’s trickery, so where did that leave things?

  “You’re still here.”

  John blinked and raised his head. Steve’s eyes were open — those startling blue eyes that were once his own exact shade of hazel — peering out at him from behind his folded-back face mask ... the one so similar to his own.

  Steve said, “I half-expected you to just disappear.”

  “I considered it,” John admitted. (Had he just pitched his voice deeper? To hide the truth from his brother?) “I understand the Skygger used my image against you. I didn’t know how my presence would make you feel.” That much, at least, was true.

  “Yeah. Your monster from another dimension tried to make me believe that you were my dead brother, John.”

  John nodded, saying nothing to that.

  “But I’ve been told that you’re too old to be my brother.”

  You have no idea how old, Steve.

  “You see,” Steve continued, “my brother was about two years older than me.”

  John nodded again, remaining noncommittal.

  Steve stared at him for several more seconds ... then he reached up and pulled off his Vortex mask. He laid there a few moments, his head on the pillow, his blue eyes intense. Then he said, “Your turn.”

  “Vortex, I—”

  Steve snapped, “I don’t wanna hear any ‘secret identity’ bullshit. Not right now.” Then he repeated, “Your turn.”

  John knew that he could stand up right now and leave. After all, Steve had fully embraced this “superhero” world of his, so his demanding another superhero reveal themselves went against his own rules, right? John was under no obligation here.

  He could just walk out the door. His brother was alive. Mission accomplished. And Dryal was waiting.

  Without a word, John reached up and removed his own mask.

  Steve’s eyes widened as he gasped, his lips parting to speak but unable to actually say anything at first.

  John waited.

  Then Steve shocked him by whispering, “... Dad?”

  John experienced a rush of intense bewilderment over his brother’s inexplicable conclusion. But then ... when he thought about it ... it made sense.

  For John, it had been several hundred years since he had last seen their father’s face, and the changes in his own would have been very gradual over that great amount of time. On top of that, he was now, physically, close to the same age their father would have been when Steve last saw him — just two year ago, by his time.

  Family resemblance, John thought. That never even crossed my mind.

  “No, Vortex,” he said at last. “I’m not your dad.”

  Tears formed at the corners of Steve’s eyes. “But ... how, I ... I-I don’t ...?”

  I can’t do this to him.

  “I’m sorry,” John said. “Let me rephrase that: No, Steve. I’m not our dad.”

  Steve gasped again, and the tears spilled onto his cheeks. “John. It is you.”

  John nodded. “I’m sorry, Steve. After what the Skygger did, I had no idea how to tell you, or if I should tell you. I didn’t want to make things worse, I didn’t want to—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Steve cut him off. A smile — a small one, but evident — slipped across his lips. “I don’t care. You’re back. I ... I thought you were dead, John. But you’re alive.”

  John returned his slight smile. “Yes.”

  “And man ... you got old.”

  John laughed at that, a short but heartfelt guffaw. “Yeah. I got old.”

  “And you’re ... you’re a paranormal? What ... what the hell happened to you, John?”

  “It’s ... complicated.”

  “Dude, I’m not asking about your relationship status, I’m asking what happened to you.”

  John cocked his head, baffled. Relationship status?

  This in turn made Steve laugh, though he immediately cringed and clutched at the bandages on his torso.

  John shifted forward in his chair. “I should be able to help some more with that. Have they removed any draining tubes, or—?”

  “I have no idea, John.” Then he repeated his brother’s name, and it was filled with wonder. “John.” He studied his brother’s face, then whispered, “Jesus, you look so much like Dad.”

  John nodd
ed his understanding. Then he shared, “You know ... until very recently ... I thought you were dead.”

  “Yeah, I’ll wanna hear about that, too. But ... later. For now ...” He reached out.

  John removed his gauntlet and clasped Steve’s hand in his own.

  Yes. For now.

  For now ... Dryal could wait.

  About the Author

  Christopher Andrews lives in California with his wife, Yvonne Isaak-Andrews, and their wonderful daughter, Arianna. In addition to his duties as stay-at-home Dad, he is always working on his next novels, and continues to work as an actor and screenwriter.

  Excerpts from all of Christopher’s novels can be found at www.ChristopherAndrews.com.

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