by Alex Gates
I roamed the streets of downtown Sacramento without any direction, keeping my eyes open for any Empousa to question. Finding an Empousa, roughing the creature up up, and questioning it about the Scylla curse, Circe, and Hecate seemed my only logical step. I had no other leads outside of Gladas, and I had no way of pursuing him without asking Xander for contact information—which was about the last thing I planned to do at the moment. I could have stormed over to Dr. Tacet’s property and interrogated him about Mel’s body, but I doubted he knew any more about what happened to my daughter’s corpse than Xander knew how to find the clitoris. Besides, I was pretty sure that Mel’s disappearance from under Mortimer’s nose linked directly to Hecate. So, I needed to find an Empousa.
Unfortunately, my thoughts kept snapping back to Xander and how he had decided to abandon our only credible direction. And to what end? Because he had a feeling? Because he heard a voice?
Bullshit. That sounded more like the ravings of a madman than a Guardian Angel. Yeah, that’s the dumbass name given to the few people selected to take a pact from an Archangel.
The more I thought about Xander’s decision to abandon Gladas, and the more I ran the dispute back through my mind, the angrier I became. At one point during my aimless shuffling around Sacramento, getting sunburnt in the middle of winter, I couldn’t keep the rage inside me any longer. I stopped and punched a brick wall with all my strength. My anger wasn’t even enough to disguise that sudden, shattering pain.
I stumbled across the street to a small park and sat against a tree, staring at the clear winter sky. I had no idea how long I sat and stared and thought about nothing and everything at once. My head still ached from the kick in the face the Automaton had gifted me with earlier, and my hangover had subsided into a constant hum that I’d learned to accept. I probably should have taken a nap, but I couldn’t settle my thoughts about Xander and Gladas and curses and Mel and Hecate and Empousa and Callie and Hephaestus and Automatons and Derek and Marie and Dakota and the cops and my burned house and—
“Joseph Hunter,” said a voice.
I pieced reality back around me and found myself in the park, still sitting under the shade of a tree. The ground was moist—you’re welcome for using that fun word—smelling like fresh-cut grass. A cool wind rustled through the branches and across my face, allowing a small amount of reprieve from the agonizing split in my skull.
A silhouetted woman loomed over me. Her hair stood emboldened black against the darkness of the tree’s shadow. Her eyes glowed a preternatural white, like two moons shining in the night.
I cradled my right hand—the one I’d smashed into the wall—against my chest. Without thought, I scooted away from the figure before me.
“You’re an abomination,” she said.
I opened my mouth to speak, but I had no breath to form words.
“You’ll be hunted all of your days,” she said. “The hunter turned prey.”
My body, which had slowly crept backward, stood of its own accord and carried me toward her. I stared at my feet, willing them to turn me around and hightail it out of the park. Something about that woman was familiar—the blackness of her hair, the brightness of her eyes, the way she smelled… the rank odor of death. That fermenting stench of decay that emanated from her.
She dragged me toward her, somehow stringing me up and reeling me in with her mind. She grinned, exposing dagger-sharp teeth that glimmered like her eyes.
“What do you want?” I asked, my voice bursting through my lips like my fist through a brick wall, kind of but not really. “Who are you?”
“I can see your heart—your soul. And it’s as black as the depths of the ocean. It’s as corrupted as a rotted corpse.”
As I neared her, I could make out more distinct features. She had gray, bloated skin. Her dark hair wasn’t hair at all, but black seaweed that floated around her head. I realized why I had no air in my lungs to breathe or form words. We were underwater. I looked up, but I couldn’t see the surface through the darkness. My lungs meant to explode from my body—they caught fire with pain and desperation. I glanced at my feet again, and I noticed chains shackled around my ankles. An anchor was attached to the chains, dragging behind me as the woman reeled me closer still.
“You will die,” she said.
We were no further than two feet from each other now, allowing me to see the familiar scar on her chin and the unmistakable blue of Callie’s bright eyes.
I opened my mouth to scream, but the darkness drowned me.
I sprang from my slumber and crawled to my knees, coughing and heaving onto the grass. My heart jackhammered inside my chest so fast and hard, I thought it might break through bone and fall onto the ground with a dull thunk. After a minute, I caught my breath, the fresh air filling me with relief. I fell back against the tree trunk and sat there, staring at the downtown streets. I planted my right hand on the ground to adjust my position, and a wave of heat and nausea crashed over me.
I felt it full force now—the injury from punching the brick wall. The pain pulsed through my entire hand and up my forearm. I didn’t know if I’d broken my wrist or not, but it hurt. That was fine with me, at least for the moment. The pain cleared my mind from the many emotions clouding it, anchoring me to the present.
I needed to find an Empousa and interrogate it for information about Mel’s whereabouts. The problem was that like all vampires, they appeared as human. Without any magic to identify an Empousa from a Sheep, I had no way to locate one. The longer they went without blood, though, the more vampiric they became. Their skin turned leathery, their fingers extended into talons, their ears pointed, their teeth grew into fangs, and wings sprouted from their back—Xander and I called them Ravens in their hungry state. Unless I happened to stumble upon a Raven now, I had no chance of identifying an Empousa.
I rubbed my face and glanced at the sky. The sun remained high, signifying early afternoon. That left an entire day to hunt. Trying to figure out where to start my search, I turned my head toward the streets that served as the park’s perimeter and cursed under my breath.
Another of Hephaestus’s Cursed—an Automaton—had peeled off the sidewalk and onto the park grass, heading in my direction. This one appeared female, with long hair, skinny legs, and a pretty busty chest for a monster. For a moment, I even considered letting her tackle me, but I thought better of it.
As the Automaton neared me, I muttered, “It’s not a good time.” I cradled my right hand as shivers crawled over my body, despite the fact that sweat beaded my forehead. “Could you do me a favor, though? Call an ambulance? Also, I don’t have a dollar to my name… so, if you could”—I chortled before I said it—“fork over some cash to pay for the hospital bill, that would be great.”
The Automaton continued toward me, ignoring my plea for help. My burning face reminded me of the meeting with yesterday’s Automaton, and I didn’t plan on sitting against the tree and waiting for a repeat performance.
I scrambled to my feet. “Let’s talk this out,” I said, raising my hands in a defensive gesture—though I wouldn’t be hitting anything with my right hand.
The Automaton devoured the space between us and I kept backing up. Not really wanting to dance with it all day—I loved to dance, don’t get me wrong, but the Automaton wasn’t my type, and I didn’t want to lead it on and break its heart—I had to make a choice.
Decision one: I could fight the Cursed in broad daylight and risk attracting the attention of the police and going to jail and all that hoopla. Decision two: I could channel my inner baby and run away, in the hope that the Automaton was slower than me. If Vegas had odds on the race, I wouldn’t have bet on me. Just some insider knowledge. Don’t say I never put out my neck and risked everything for you.
“Shits on a kabob,” I said. “You really put me in a corner here, Francis.” I didn’t know its name, but it looked like a Francis to me—all business and no play. “Between a rock and a hard place. And let me tell you somethin
g, I prefer to be the hard place, not pressed against it… if you catch my meaning.”
The Automaton lunged toward me. I waited until the last second and leapt to the side, barely avoiding contact. Unable to stop its momentum, the Cursed stumbled forward a few feet. I didn’t hesitate to take advantage of its vulnerable position.
Channeling my inner Chuck Norris, I sprang into the air and—
Quick aside for some necessary exposition.
Despite what you may have concluded after a few examples of my now-rusty fighting prowess, I’m actually above average in hand-to-hand or foot-to-foot combat—which is about the only thing I’m above average in. Wink, wink, ladies and gentlemen. Wink, wink. Throughout my formative years, I acquired a black belt in three different fighting styles. Unfortunately for you, my combat record is currently classified as top-secret by the United States military, so I’m not at liberty to tell you about those martial arts. But one of them rhymes with My Don Dough… ish. To phrase that a little more delicately, I’m a badass at kicking shit.
Yeah, maybe I’ve shotgunned one too many light beers over the past five years. And yeah, maybe I don’t work out or stretch as much as I used to. And okay, while you’re being super annoying about it, yeah, maybe I haven’t practiced a jumping back kick in way too long. But that’s not the point. Point is, five years ago, I was really good at it.
Aside over.
—performed a jumping back kick. Instead of my foot connecting with the back of the Automaton’s neck, where I’d meant it to, I kicked its arm right in the tricep. I hadn’t jumped as high as I’d intended. Also, for the sake of total transparency, when I spun in the air, I sort of lost my positioning and aim. All in all, it worked out terribly. I landed awkwardly on my left foot, twisting my ankle. I fell to the ground, and guess which hand I instinctively used to catch myself?
Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner. My right one.
So, that was great fun.
I lay on the park grass, trying not to vomit as the pain in my hand screamed at me to stop being such a careless asshole. I actually agreed with it, but the point was moot. What could I do? The past was the past, am I right?
While I was on the ground, wondering if my day could get any more exhilarating, the Automaton introduced its foot to my rib cage. They didn’t get along at all. My body lifted off the ground about four feet and flew sideways, over the cement sidewalk, and into the street. Once again, my right hand took the brunt of my landing. By that point, though, the pain was so intense that my receptors had stopped comprehending it. So, it just went away. I appreciated that, as that was how I dealt with all my pain—dulling it until I forgot it existed.
I rolled onto my ass and sat in the street’s bike lane. Hopefully, one of those super annoying tournaments where everyone rides their bikes and pays zero attention to any vehicles on the road wasn’t taking place. But with my luck, a stampede of overly fit elderly people would mow me down with their ten-thousand-dollar midlife crises—expensive street bikes.
“You know,” I said to the Automaton, which stood on the sidewalk and regarded me with a cocked head, probably wondering why I was still talking, “this could always be worse. I could be back in that suffocating office with that poor excuse of a friend. Don’t worry, I won’t burden you with his name. But it’s synonymous with douchebag.” I stood, and my knees rattled together. Everything seemed fuzzy. “You know what, Francis? I think you’re a better friend than he who shall not be named. Voldemort, if you will.”
Most likely tired of my gabbing, the Automaton advanced toward me again. I sighed with annoyance. Why couldn’t these things just be content with kicking my ass? Why did they have to capture me and return me to Hephaestus, too?
Now desperate and out of options, I scanned my surroundings in search of my last resort—a shadow. You remember that one song from the ‘90s, I think? Da, da, dah, no breathing, this is my last resort. Is that how it went? Never mind. It’s not important right now.
It was later in the afternoon than yesterday’s encounter with the other Automaton, and the dark pools stretched all around me. A car drove by, holding its horn, alerting me that I stood too close to the street. Well, not just me. The Automaton had stepped off the sidewalk to join me in the bike lane.
I crab stepped—which is flower language for moving sideways—to a shadow cast by a building rising above us. My mind raced. I’d accessed the mysterious and unexplained shadow power three times. Twice against Medea—once as a shield and once as an attack to kill her. Then yesterday morning I’d used it to teleport. Last night, with Dakota’s terrible assistance, I’d failed miserably.
So, what was the worst that could happen?
I stood under the shade of the building and reached for that elusive, mysterious power that I had no idea how to access. And I felt it within me. How do I explain this to a Sheep? Cue the thinking noises of a clicking tongue.
Okay.
The power was like being trapped in frigid water beneath a layer of ice. You could see the distorted version of people standing above you and the trees and the warm sun, and you could taste the gallons of oxygen just outside the ice, but you couldn’t access any of it unless you located that one exit point. I was trapped in a human body that had evolved beyond magic—but I knew I could find the power and access it. Hephaestus had once led me out of the dark, frigid water and allowed me to breathe. Now, with his blessing expired, I was trapped again, but I saw through to the other side. I just needed to find a way out.
Desperate, I found a crack in the icy lining and placed my lips to it, breathing in the dark, cold power. The depths of it were vast—untapped and terrifying, yet with an allure, a beauty that tempted me to shatter through the ice despite the imminent danger. Magic—not filtered through a Nephil—corrupted the human soul and twisted the mind. If I just broke through the barrier, I might shock my body and go insane, or die. I had to allow myself the time to slowly acclimate to my new condition.
The shadows around me turned palpable. They had substance and form within the darkness. I reached out my hand and grabbed a spike three feet in length, similar to the one I’d used to slay Medea. Similar to the one every vampire hunter in every movie has ever used to slay a vampire—except it was made of shadow and not wood. Holding the black, cold spike felt like holding ice.
As the Automaton stepped within range, I didn’t hesitate. I drove the point of the shadowed stake through the Cursed’s skull. The tip punched out the other side, dripping ichor and brain matter onto the street. Amazed and frightened and shocked at what I’d just done, I did the first thing that popped into my head.
I stepped into another shadow and disappeared.
8
Check out this bullshit.
Unable to control my shiny-new teleportation ability, I appeared right back in Xander’s office through a shadow thrown by his desk. I would have surrendered my heart and soul to his Lord and Savior Jesus Christ had I caught him with a bottle of lotion and an old gym sock and something nasty muted on the computer screen. Unfortunately, life doesn’t always provide lemons for your lemonade. Sometimes, you’re just stuck with a pitcher of flat water. He sat behind the computer, with his neck craned and his eyes squinted—both of his hands on the keyboard for God and me to see.
“You know,” I said, watching him about leap out of his chair and draw his Beretta, fixing that bad girl’s spitter right on my face, “I hope you not only go blind from squinting at that screen, but that you also acquire a hunchback and a spinal problem from slumping forward like that. It’s terrible posture.”
“What—how—“ he sputtered in a fearful voice, placing his weapon, placing on the bulky desk. “Did you teleport again? On purpose?”
I ignored his question, still angry at him. I headed toward the sofa and sat down, the afternoon sun glaring through the window, warming my back. Henrietta remained in pieces on the couch cushion. I picked them up with my good hand and continued cleaning my baby in an awkward fashion. Xander
eyeballed me the entire time. I wondered what ran through his thick excuse for a brain.
“I don’t have to talk to you,” I said. “So, quit looking at me like a father who just realized his college-aged daughter is a woman after all.”
I was riding a high from expending my power. My body sang with fake pleasure, shoving the black pain of my injuries into a pink ocean of bliss. That reason right there was why most Sorcerers went rogue. They chased a high that ascended them into clouds beyond the reach of any alcohol or drug. Though I was still pretty enraged by Xander’s decision to abandon Gladas’s lead, I had a hard time not spilling everything to him—giving him all the beans, and even the weenie.
What was I supposed to do after what had just happened—after confirming, once again, that the shadow magic existed within me through some unexplainable means? Was I just going to sit on his sofa in silence and clean a gun that might not ever fire another round? I had to tell someone, even if that someone was my best friend who I currently hated. I could talk to one of those sexy-voiced phone ladies, they were always great listeners. But they cost money, something I didn’t have at the moment. Shit. I needed a job.
Hey! Don’t… don’t you dare judge me right now. Imagine that you just received unbelievable, impossible news, and the only people you wanted to share it with were A) dead, or B) idiotic friends. What would you do? Not tell your idiotic friend the amazing news, just keep it to yourself? I understand that Xander was the worst human currently alive. Was I still pissed at him? Yes. Very much so. But, even more than that, I had a mountainous desire to brag about how I consciously—willingly—chipped a small hole into that layer of ice and used my unexplained shadow magic. I had to tell someone about that, and the bullet points listing my living friends started and ended at one—and even that name had a question mark beside it.
Xander didn’t say a word for about three minutes, probably considering my vengeful feelings toward him and respecting my privacy like a decent human being. I couldn’t keep the excitement bottled any longer. “So,” I said, allowing the dam to break and the flood to spill into the room. Speaking of flooding, Xander had cleaned up the spilled coffee mess from when all his half-empty cups had fallen to the ground after I’d thrown him into the bookshelf. What a nerd. “You know how sometimes my temper gets the better of me? Don’t get me wrong, or mistake that I wasn’t—and still am—incredibly pissed at you. I still might kill you while you sleep, to be honest. I haven’t decided. But after casually and peacefully leaving your office earlier, to find and torture and interrogate an Empousa, I instead found myself in a pretty intense battle with a storefront wall.”
