Blessed by Fire

by P W Hillard

  Shauna sat behind the desk. Light from her computer screen danced over her face. “Top ten most shocking talent show moments” played on YouTube. A man was swallowing a sword. Shauna was thoroughly unimpressed. Before joining the police, Shauna had briefly considered applying for a major television talent show. As a Ghula she could easily perform feats that most humans considered dangerous. She could push the sword right through herself if she wanted to. She had decided against it after a friend ran afoul of a monster hunter, the resulting investigation convincing her to try and help people with her life. A few months later and she was training to be join the force. She couldn’t really complain. She didn’t sleep so was able to rack up a considerable amount of overtime, she only ate rotting meat so was able to buy in bulk from her local butcher at frankly criminally low prices, and her dark skin dealt with the normal ghula problem of being a little pale that for most consumed prodigious amounts of makeup. Normally she was happy to take the night shift, but her company was proving frustrating.

  “No updates yet Sargent?” Asked Florence. She had been emerging from her office periodically to check, creeping out from the single beacon of light on the far side of the dark.

  “Nothing yet Ma’am,” said Shauna quickly minimising the video.

  “Ok, well, let me know if there is anything.” Florence tugged at the collar of her blouse nervously.

  Shauna sighed. “Are you ok Ma’am?” She regretted asking immediately.

  “Well,” Florence grabbed a wheeled desk chair and pulled it over. “Not really. Something about this just doesn’t sit right. Too many things could go wrong. I’ll tell you this Shauna, woman to woman. You always worry about your friends, and it only gets worse the higher up you get, it becomes more and more your fault then.”

  Shauna was a little shocked at the word friends. Florence Weston was an efficient boss, but frankly could be cold and was generally regarded as a bit of a battle-axe. Shauna wasn’t sure any of her colleagues would describe Florence as friend. “I would have thought hard choices come with the territory Ma’am?”

  “Well of course, that goes without saying.” For a moment the stern commanding officer had returned. “Doesn’t make it any easier though,” Florence admitted, her serious face morphing into one more akin to a worried schoolmarm.

  “I think, maybe, we need to just sometimes admit to ourselves we can’t control everything. Worry about what you do have control over. Go home, get some sleep, worrying here isn’t going to help anyone.” Shauna worried she was being a little too candid with her boss.

  “I think you’re perhaps right,” admitted Florence. “Still I’ll stay here if it’s all the same. What video were you watching?”

  “Video Ma’am?” Shauna’s denial would have gotten her a middling grade in high school drama.

  “Oh, come on, I could see it as I walked over.” Florence scooted the desk chair around to the other side of the desk, the awkward motion of pulling herself on her heels more suited to a toddler than a Detective Chief Inspector of the Metropolitan Police.

  Shauna clicked on her internet browser to maximise the window again. “It’s talent acts.”

  “Oh!” said Florence excitedly. “I love this show, click play!”

  Aasif shut the Quran with a thud. He was standing beside Jess, who had finished placing the last of the honey and black seed oil into the tank. She picked up the metal lid and heaved it onto back atop the tank, a high-pitched squeal of metal on metal.

  “Think that will be enough?” asked Aasif, taking a curious peek into the tank before the lid dropped down into place.

  “It kind of has to be. This is a pretty all in plan.” Jess tapped the lid on the tank, satisfied it had settled closed. “That happens a little too often for my liking.”

  “Oddly, that fills me with a little bit more confidence.” Aasif held the Quran in both hands, staring at the cover.

  “Really? I wouldn’t of thought that,” Jess said rolling down her sleeves.

  “Yeah, well you’re still around aren’t you?” asked Aasif. He slipped the Quran into the inside pocket of the tracksuit jacket he was wearing causing one side to sag with the weight. There was a knocking on the door to the maintenance room. Dale leant halfway through the threshold.

  “You guys ready?” he asked. A chain was wrapped around his hand. It jangled as he moved.

  “Yeah, sure,” said Jess, slipping on her suit jacket. “Time to face the music.”

  Shauna stood silhouetted against the doorway. The shining light pouring from the doorway of Florence’s office striking out into the dark office beyond. Florence sat behind her desk, terrible royalty free music playing from the YouTube video she was watching. Florence had sat with Shauna for a bit, and then retired to her own office suddenly very cognisant of how awkward it must have been.

  “Ma’am, I’ve just head from the guys in the field. Everything is ready, and they are proceeding with their plan,” declared Shauna. She held a print out in her hands of the message, but it felt largely pointless, being only a sentence long. She handed it over to Florence, a wasteful slice of police bureaucracy. Florence took it, glanced at it briefly and set it down on her desk.

  “I think,” she began, “that I could use a drink.” There was a clink as she pulled a glass decanter from beneath her desk. She reached back under and pulled out two small matching tumblers. “You know, I keep this stuff here for when the top brass visit.” She poured out two small measures of a thin brown liquid. It smelt like wood stain. “Can’t much stand it myself. It’s a little too old boys club for me. But, right now, it feels like the right thing to do.” She lifted one of the glasses and handed it to Shauna who took it politely. To her alcohol tasted overwhelmingly like paint stripper, her poor sense of taste one of the prices she paid being a ghula.

  “Thank you, Ma’am. I’m sure they’ve been in worse situations before.” It felt like a lie coming out.

  “I’m not sure any life-threatening situation is really worse than another. Ask a man falling off a cliff how he feels, and I don’t think it would differ from someone on the firing squad.” Florence swirled her glass, staring at the small vortex that had formed in the whisky.

  “Thanks for the drink Ma’am.” Shauna set the glass back down on the table. “I, uh, better get back to the desk. In case they call.”

  “Right, right.” Florence set her own glass down, the whisky undrunk. “Thank you, Shauna. That will be all.”

  The five of them stood atop the roof of the derelict office. The wind was starting to pick up, the threat of the towns ever present rain hanging over their heads. Mark held his grey woollen coat tight against him. The air smelt acrid from the still damp spray paint.

  “Ok we all know what to do?” asked Jess.

  “Yeah, I’ll head over to the other side of the street keep watch,” replied Rajan. He zipped up his own thin black jacket and headed down the stairs.

  “Ok, kiddo, we got gate duties,” Dale tapped Aasif on the shoulder, holding out a set of dark brown chains.

  “Guess that leaves us with the dangerous part,” shrugged Jess.

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” smiled Mark.

  Slowly and carefully Jess and Mark began the ritual. In the centre of the rooftop was a large stone bowl in which the varied flowers and herbs the spell demanded had been ground by mortar into a fine powder. Shards of bone, their source Mark decided was best left unknown jutted from the green paste, proud towers rising from a mire. The mixture smelt foul, it stank of death and decay, something perverting the normally fragrant ingredients. Jess placed her sleeve over her nose and placed a handful of small stones their surfaces carved with runes into the bowl. They sank slightly in the paste, sitting amongst it like marshmallows in the words worst breakfast cereal.

  “Ok, ready for the next step?” Mark asked, grabbing a small wooden box from by the entrance to the stairwell. He placed it down next to the mixture.

  “I guess so,” Jess said, pulling a s
mall sheathed dagger from her pocket. She slid the blade free from its cover. It was dulled bronze, worn with incalculable age. “Ready when you are.”

  “Aasif really go inside my head with this thing.” Mark opened the box revealing the doll nestled inside. He gripped it, holding it up under its arms like a messy toddler. Jess held the ancient knife in her hands and thrust, stabbing the blade deep into the doll. It screamed, a horrible echoing roar of defiance. The doll began to thrash about, kicking its arms and legs furiously as Mark struggled to hold it. Its motions became less fluid, shifting from rapid rage to slow methodical ticking movements. The dolls head began to list, it coughed, a bubble of dark red blood forming at its lips. As suddenly as it began the wailing screech stopped, and the doll hung lifeless, a simple toy once more. Mark tossed it into the bowl gingerly, like a new parent disposing of a used nappy.

  “Well, that was fucking terrifying. This whole case has been a cavalcade of nightmare material,” Jess said, leaning over the bowl, carefully watching for more movement from the doll.

  “You know what’s scarier? That it probably won’t give me nightmares, that I’m starting to become desensitised to all the darkness we deal with.” Mark tipped the shredded paper from the box into the bowl. He pulled a lighter from his trouser pocket, an ornate silver thing with detailed etching on both sides. Mark had never smoked in his life, but a lighter had proved repeatedly useful and he had deliberately purchased an expensive one in a misguided attempt to appear flashy. He flicked open the open and click twice on the wheel. He leant down and touched the flame to the shredded paper. It caught alight easily, joyfully bursting into an eager flame. Thick acrid smoke began to rise from the bowl as the plants within joined the fire, causing it to erupt into an impressive blaze. The head of the doll began to melt, one of its eyes turned to liquid, running down its face to mix with the still wet blood that stained its mouth. “Ok, here,” he said tossing the lighter across to Jess. “You’re up next. You sure about this?”

  “Not really?” she admitted.

  Claire smiled as she worked, painting her macabre display. She laughed as she worked, splashing the still warm lambs’ blood in great sigils around the imposing oven. Around her the newer Jinn stood and watched admiring the work, taking in the deftly woven primal magics. The murmur started slowly at first, a faint ringing in the ears. Slowly moment by moment it grew, the faint upset in the crowd becoming a loud roar. The ringing grew stronger, its lure becoming overwhelming. It was like the earlier summons, but it felt different, more unstable its magic less refined. Slowly, one by the one the crowd drifted, lured by the siren song. Claire stood up, her hands still sticky with blood. She turned and raised her hands in the air.

  “Brothers and sisters. Again, we are summoned. Again, they wish to challenge us. Let’s go say hello,” Claire shouted. Eagerly, and as one, the crowd began to run. A tidal wave of rage, avarice, of unchecked id made manifest, they surged from the building. They had been summoned, and they would answer.

  Chapter 20

  Rajan sat across the street from the office building they had chosen. He was sat in a separate office building. It was taller but the way it was constructed wasn’t conductive to the plan. This whole area of town was full of three or four-story buildings, built initially to try and bring jobs to the area. It hadn’t worked, the nearby Cardiff proving to be just too popular and convenient. Rajan leant back in the creaky office chair he had found left on the empty office floor, a straggler from a mass exodus. In his hands he held a pair of binoculars bought in a hasty trip to a local hardware store. They had proven next to useless, the dark setting in much earlier than Rajan had expected. He lifted them to his eyes, peering out of them anyway, scanning points of light in the dark. There! Movement! A second shadow followed the first, followed by another. Flashing shapes beneath the street lamps. He lifted his walkie talkie from the floor, a loaner from an unhappy station commander. He pressed the switch and there was a short burst of static.

  “Raj to everyone, I spot movement. Hard to tell numbers but it’s a lot. They’re coming in real fast. Get ready everyone. Over.” He released the button.

  “Got it Raj,” buzzed Mark from over the radio. “Looks like the beacon spell is working. We’re ready here over.”

  “Dale here, me and Aasif are in position. Good luck everyone, over,” crackled a third voice.

  Rajan crouched down, trying to minimise his shadow against the window. The office was dark, but he was eager not to give the game away. They would only get one shot at this.

  The Jinn burst out from backstreets, from within shadows and from hidden nooks each eager to reach the keening call in their heads. It pounded at their skulls, the piercing ring threatening to burst forth the closer they got. It was a curious mix of incredible pain and overwhelming ecstasy that called them. At this moment, each Jinn desired only one thing, to be close to the beacon. This one was different, a curious untempered thing, the work of hands not used to crafting such delicate magic. The demon’s song was subtle, a gentle invite to attend, a polite request drifting across the winds. This one screamed by contrast, an angry demand bellowed as an order. The Jinn scrambled to enter the building, pushing against each other, almost crushing themselves in the glass doorway to the building. It had swung open, no one questioning the fact it was unlocked. They poured into the building like hungry ants, a wild herd of pure abandon. Except for one. Walking slowly, purposefully behind the swarm was a single Jinn, her long red dress torn, her body battered, bruised, and burnt. She stood, waiting patiently for the crush to end, there was plenty of the night left.

  Rajan watched from above, in awe at the frenzy below. A tide of people pressing against each other normally reserved for panic news reports about American black Friday sales. There was one who stood out, a young girl standing calmly waiting for the furore to pass. From the description it could only be Claire, the first Jinn, the seed at the heart of the chaos before her. With a great heave the last of the frenzied Jinn collapsed through the doorway. The majority of the crowd had moved on, scrambling over the buildings security barriers and disappearing inside, heading towards the stairs that formed the spine of the building. Claire followed, running her hand across the glass of the door as she strolled past it. Rajan clicked the button on his radio.

  “They’re in. Looks like, fifty of them maybe? Perhaps more. Claire is here. Be warned most of the crowd seems pretty crazy but she isn’t, something different about her. From how mad they looked I would guess we got them all. They really want to get up to that roof. Over.” The walkie clicked as Raj released the button.

  “Got it Raj,” said Jess, her voice wavering in the static. “Dale, Aasif, you’re up boys.”

  Aasif nodded to Dale and together they leapt out of the back of the van. It had been parked directly in front of the office, the two men sat in the back, hiding ready to pounce. They each held a large iron chain, wrapped around an arm.

  “You get the front, I’ll get the rear fire exit,” whispered Dale, taking off in the opposite direction. He jogged awkwardly, trying not to make noise with the heavy chain.

  Aasif, stepped carefully towards the front door. He leant out slowly, trying to get as good look inside the reception of the building. Being spotted now would spoil the whole thing. He waited a moment, and satisfied, tiptoed slowly over to the open glass doors. He stepped deliberately and carefully into the reception. The security barriers hung off, broken by the weight of the Jinn pressing against them. He took a nervous breath and got to work.

  He gently closed the doors, one at a time, taking care to not make any more noise than strictly necessary. The chain made it awkward, its weight causing his shoulder to throb. The doors closed, he slipped the chain from his shoulder and began to wind it around the door handles. Pulling the chain tight with a clank, he pulled an iron padlock from his pocket. Aasif had imagined it to be some elaborate Victorian thing with a long thing key. He had been surprised to have been presented with a small lock that lo
oked like a black box with a bar, a set of combination dials running along the bottom. Apparently, they were still common. He slipped the bar through the links of the chain and snapped it shut. He finished his job with a line of iron filings supplied from one of the black pouches stuffed into his pockets. Pleased with his work, he shuddered at the next part. With trepidation, he walked further into the office building, following the path the Jinn had taken.

  Aasif let out a sigh of relief as he pulled himself into the store cupboard on the first floor they had designated as his rendezvous with Dale. The tall detective, his short cropped blonde hair dripping with sweat leant against the wall. He pulled out his phone and began to type. He held it up in front of Aasif.

  “Everything good?” it read. Aasif pulled out his own phone and typed a reply.

  “All done. I set a line of iron in front of it too.” Dale gave him a thumbs up, pleased with the initiative the constable had shown. Each man turned to face the doorway to the supply cupboard. Silently waiting, willing their colleagues to succeed.

  The horde continued its ascent, trampling up the stairs with a thunderous din. The stairs shook with the weight of their footsteps, a pounding overwhelming beat, like a storm crashing against a window. Onwards and upwards they climbed, pulled inextricably to the beacon burning brightly in their minds. The Jinn wearing Martins meat, thrashed his head, sniffing the air as he clambered up the stairs, his hands gripping the steps as her bounded on all fours. The beacon was filling all his senses, its cry overriding everything else. He pushed his way through the crowd, the younger weaker Jinn giving way as he forced his way through. The crowd rushed past the exit doorways to each floor, determined to climb as high and as close as possible to the beacons source. Reaching the top of the stairway, Martin threw a wooden door open. Human flesh poured from the doorway into the office floor. The barren floor loomed large, an arena of plasterboard and bad carpeting. He stopped his run, trying to hold himself desperately in check. The other Jinn filled in behind him, forming a tight wall of bodies. Their chests heaved with heavy breaths, their bodies crouched ready to pounce into another run. At the other side of the room was a woman. Tall with a thin pointed face, her blazing red hair pulled tight into a ponytail. In one hand she held a clump of rags wrapped tightly around a wooden table leg. It stank of petrol. In the other hand she held a silver lighter, its cap flipped open. She cast a long shadow, a nearby streetlamp filling the floor with a dull light.