If Patrick could’ve moved, he’d have run away from the damned thing.
Ilya’s body settled over his stomach, the weight of the man with a demon riding his soul forcing Patrick deeper into the mud. It slithered into his ears, muffling the roar of the reactionary storm above, even if it couldn’t drown out Andras’ voice.
Fingers wrapped in cold metal gripped his chin, tilting his head back, and Patrick moved where the demon wanted him to go. Mud squelched in his hair as rainwater trickled down his nose. He could barely get his throat to swallow it, the sensation like he was drowning.
“It’s a pity you won’t see the hell we’re building. We’ll bury you here, and no one will find your body,” Andras said.
His grip tightened past the point of bruising, the pressure against Patrick’s jaw so hard he thought Andras would dislocate it, when the sound of automatic fire rent the air. Andras wrenched Ilya’s hand free, the gauntlet scraping Patrick’s skin open. The demon jumped back up to solid ground with supernatural ease. Patrick remained in the position he’d been left in, sinking into mud and drowning beneath rainwater.
The spellwork lines flickered ominously, his heartbeat stuttering in response. His chest felt bruised already from the connection, and Patrick tried to breathe through the panic, but he could barely get any air in past the water running down his nose into his throat.
He heard voices shouting as if from a distance, the jagged sound of automatic fire cutting through words he couldn’t make out. All Patrick could see was the reactionary storm, rain falling like daggers into his eyes, lightning flashing in tandem to every pulse of magic that shook the ground.
Except it wasn’t just magic.
Skeletal hands pushed through the side of the grave, brittle, yellow bones grasping at open air. Thick globs of dirt slid down the side of the grave as the dead sought their freedom from their burial spot. Patrick couldn’t move, bound by the spellwork that was threatening him with a heart attack.
If he died by way of zombies, he was going to have words with whatever god met him in the afterlife.
A zombie dragged itself free of the side of the grave, its muddy skull tilting downward. Half its jaw was missing, and the glow in its eye sockets was all magical control from the Morrígan’s staff. It clacked its rotten teeth together, reaching toward Patrick with one arm. Its finger bones scraped against his chest, pulling at his T-shirt.
It reminded him too much of the soultaker when he was a child, and the rapid beat of his heart came from him this time, not someone else’s magic. Fear was difficult to tamp down, but he tried, even as the zombie crawled free of its grave and into Patrick’s.
The stink of death was foul in his nose, making him gag, but he couldn’t throw up because then he might choke on it. Patrick tried to move, but no part of his body obeyed him as the zombie crawled on top of him, skeletal hands reaching for his throat.
The bone was cold where it touched his skin, sliding through the mud he was sinking into. Its fingers scraped over the back of his neck as thumb bones settled against the front of his throat over his trachea, pressing down with a strength the dead should never have.
Patrick struggled to breathe, caught between the force of the spellwork and the brutal grip of the dead who held his life in its hands. Dark spots ate away at the edge of his vision, creeping inward as the pressure forced his tongue out between his lips, air a necessity not granted to him. The burn in his lungs was an ache he choked on and would’ve succumbed to if the body that dropped down into the grave hadn’t gotten in the way.
White-hot, heavenly fire burned through the skeleton, breaking through the control Andras had over it. The skeleton shuddered, its grip going lax around Patrick’s throat as it collapsed into pieces on top of him. Patrick blinked his eyes, trying to breathe but finding he couldn’t get his throat to work.
Then a warm hand gripped the collar of his jacket and hauled him free of the sucking mud, giving him a firm shake as Gerard’s face swam into focus. “Come on, Collins. I need you to fucking breathe.”
Patrick’s lungs unlocked, air wheezing past his teeth. It wasn’t enough, not when he was still tied up in the spellwork. The lines of the pentagram folded around him, keeping him anchored to the hideous magic that threatened to burn him up until nothing was left.
Gerard cupped the back of Patrick’s head, keeping him upright and stable, as he wielded the dagger given by the gods with brutal ease, cutting him loose of the spellwork. With every line he sliced through, agony shot through Patrick’s body, as if his entire nervous system was doused in acid. Control came back in pieces, and by the time Gerard had cut him free, backlash had him screaming into Gerard’s chest at the bottom of the grave.
“Oh, good, he’s alive!” Keith shouted from somewhere above them on solid ground.
Patrick’s thoughts were too scattered for him to understand what it meant that Keith was there. Fighting for focus was excruciating, almost as difficult as getting enough air into his lungs.
He forced himself to stop screaming, breathing raggedly, mud sliding down his body beneath the torrential downpour. Gerard tensed against him, and Patrick lifted his head, blinking hard as the world swam around him. Several more skulls and bony arms had pushed free of the rapidly destabilizing grave walls, driven by magic.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Gerard grunted, hauling Patrick to his feet.
His knees nearly buckled once he was vertical, feet sliding in watery mud. Gerard stabbed the zombies reaching for them with the dagger, heavenly fire flashing in the dark, brighter than lightning.
“Raise your arm over your head,” Gerard said.
Patrick did as he was told, flinching when warm fingers wrapped around his wrist with bruising strength. He looked up, right into Hermes’ eyes, and blinked rain out of his vision.
“Ready to pay your soul debt?” Hermes asked.
Patrick unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Fuck you. Let’s go fight a war.”
Hermes laughed, and between him and Gerard, they got Patrick out of the grave he was supposed to die in.
Up on the surface, the graveyard tucked away between buildings in the middle of historical Salem was overrun with zombies called forth by Andras and the Morrígan’s staff. The Hellraisers were holding their own against the horde, aided by over two dozen werecreatures picking off Dominion Sect magic users and hunters. Supporting the werecreatures were SOA agents in lettered windbreakers, magic at their fingertips and focus circles burning beneath their feet.
Andras in Ilya’s body stood behind the Dominion Sect forces, the Morrígan’s staff held aloft. The quartz crystal trapped within the knotwork glowed like a lighthouse beacon. In the swath of illumination it provided, Patrick could see more of the dead clawing free of the ground.
Zachary stood to Andras’ right, sending mageglobes in the direction of the SOA agents. Neither of them had fled yet, and Patrick half wondered if they even had a way out. Their job was to provide access to the Salem nexus. Eloise had been traded away from Patrick, and now the spellwork no longer held him.
Hades, Patrick realized, was nowhere to be found.
Another one of Zachary’s mageglobes slammed against the shields Patrick’s fellow SOA agents were holding up. The crackle of magic that fluctuated through the defense spoke of damage.
“Collins.”
Patrick jerked his head around, blinking in Gerard’s direction. Gerard grabbed Patrick’s right wrist and pushed the dagger against his hand. Patrick reflexively curled his fingers around the hilt, breathing harshly as he stared at the heavenly white fire dancing across the matte-black blade.
The screaming, metal-breaking sound of soultakers arriving echoed through the storm just then, catching everyone’s attention. Patrick knew they’d need the prayers in the blade now more than ever.
“Oh, fuck me, I didn’t sign up for those fuckers again!” Keith yelled from his position by a shattered gravestone.
“Yes, you did!” G
erard yelled back.
“You brought your team,” Patrick managed to get out, breathing coming easier the longer he was free of the spellwork.
“They go where I go, and I promised Jono I’d bring you back.”
Patrick flinched at Jono’s name. “How pissed is he?”
“Eh, if there’s a couch left in your apartment after all of this, I don’t think you’ll be sleeping on it. Are you ready to fight?”
Patrick could do with about forty-eight hours of sleep and several good meals, but that was wishful thinking. “Yeah.”
Gerard smiled tightly, the look shared between them that of soldiers who knew there was no standing down in a situation like this. Gerard unclipped his rifle and passed it over to Patrick, who took it with his left hand. Patrick watched dazedly as his former captain made a fist, fingers wrapping around the pole of the Gáe Bulg as it was called forth. The spear crackled with power, Gerard’s eyes glittering with an inner light, his true aura leaking through. The smell of ozone cut through the air, so strong not even the rain could dampen it.
“They’ll eat the magic in your spear,” Patrick said, mouth dry and throat scratchy despite all the water he’d swallowed.
Gerard spun the spear in one hand, the deadly blade at the tip flashing with every rotation completed. “They can’t feast on all of it. I’ll draw the soultakers in so you have a chance to stab them.”
He had mud in places it should never be, his nerves were shot, and his chest ached in a way that made it difficult to catch his breath. Patrick still nodded agreement to the plan, blurry gaze trained on the handful of soultakers staggering their way through centuries-old headstones. He blinked hard several times until his vision cleared.
“Wonder how different Cairo would’ve been if I’d had the dagger at the beginning,” Patrick croaked out.
Gerard gripped his shoulder in a brief gesture of support. “It doesn’t matter. You have it now, so do some damage.”
Patrick nodded, getting a better hold on his dagger.
“I’ll take this,” Hermes said, taking the rifle out of Patrick’s hand. He braced it against his shoulder, comfortable with the weapon and the damage it could do.
“Bullets can’t kill soultakers,” Patrick warned.
Hermes’ smile was cutting with its ferocity. “Who said anything about demons?”
The messenger god slipped away through the storm, and Patrick couldn’t watch where he went, attention drawn to Gerard’s advance. Patrick followed on shaky feet, grabbing at any bit of concentration he could get in the aftermath of being cut from the spellwork. His body felt weird, but it obeyed him, and at least this time he was coming out of paralysis brought upon by magic, not demonic possession.
Patrick stayed on Gerard’s six, keeping some distance between them for maneuverability. Other Hellraisers shifted position, and Keith came up on Patrick’s left to flank him.
“Doing all right, Razzle Dazzle?” Keith asked.
Patrick nodded. “Getting there.”
“Good. Let’s get you close to fuck shit up.”
Gerard’s aura spilled out around him, godly in its brightness, and the soultakers zeroed in on him like he was their next meal. The monstrous screams coming out of their wide mouths would have been a warning for anyone else to run, but they just set Gerard into motion.
He surged forward, a blur to Patrick’s eyes. The Gáe Bulg was like an extension of Gerard, flashing through the air as he fought soultakers. He used his magic to draw them in between the headstones before attacking, using his position to drive them to Patrick. Gerard’s otherworldly speed was all that saved him from the soultakers’ tongues that whipped through the air and their wide maws ready to bite.
Patrick went a little light-headed, thinking of how tonight so eerily mirrored the one all those years ago in a Salem basement. But he couldn’t dwell on it for long, because the first soultaker was forced past Gerard, and the demon had caught his scent.
Its bulbous head turned their way, the dark maw of its mouth parting on a scream. Patrick conjured up a mageglobe and filled the pale blue sphere with raw magic, baiting the soultaker ever closer.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Keith said.
“You and everyone else,” Patrick muttered.
He took a steadying breath before lunging forward, sending the mageglobe left while he dodged right. The soultaker’s hunger meant it followed the path of Patrick’s mageglobe through the air for a second, tongue lashing out at the magic.
It was enough time for Patrick to fall to his knees, miss getting his neck snapped by the slashing of the demon’s tongue when it whipped back around, and slam his dagger into its chest.
Light sparked along the blackened bone and muscle where the blade cut through with an ease like nothing else. Even air strikes couldn’t guarantee a soultaker’s eradication, but prayers from the heavens burned the demon to ash that turned to mud beneath Patrick’s feet. He went to his knees, sliding in the grass.
Then Keith was there, grabbing his arm and hauling Patrick upright. “No lying down on the job, Razzle Dazzle.”
Patrick sank his heels into the mud, steadied himself, and took aim at the next soultaker Gerard herded his way. “Keep the others off me if you can.”
“Distraction by wasting bullets. You got it.”
Armor-piercing rounds could rip through a soultaker’s skin. The Hellraisers were equipped with spelled bullets, and while the demons would brush off any other projectile, the hint of magic caught their attention. It wouldn’t be enough to hold it, so Patrick reached deep for his magic. His soul felt scraped raw, but Patrick formed a mageglobe despite the pain.
The magic in it called to the soultakers’ hunger, and two of the demons left Gerard to target Patrick. Two-on-one odds weren’t great, but the odds got worse when three of Zachary’s mageglobes cut through the air toward them with lethal intent.
Patrick didn’t have the focus for a good counterattack, still shaking off the lingering effects of the spellwork. Jono wasn’t there to help him tap a ley line, and he had two soultakers nearly within dagger reach. There wasn’t time for him to defend against both attacks.
Zachary’s magic was malevolent and capable of killing, but so was the god that slipped free of the veil, his arrival announced by the haunting, echoing sound of a conch shell.
Kū swung his wooden spear lined with shark teeth into the trajectory of the oncoming mageglobes with a furious war cry. The sound of it was taken up by the Night Marchers that poured into the graveyard, war drums a counterpoint to the thunder booming through the night sky above.
The feathers on Kū’s cloak and helmet didn’t wilt beneath the rain. When his spear made contact with Zachary’s mageglobes, the explosion was brutal, but the god stood like a mountain in the face of the concussive force.
The soultakers lost their footing from the shock wave of the explosion that rolled over the graveyard. Patrick braced himself against a headstone, squinting against the wind-driven rain at the demons. The godly support to the fight was prayers answered, but demons still walked the earth, and Patrick needed to do something about that.
Gritting his teeth, he lunged for the closest soultaker, sending his mageglobe at the other one. He dredged up his personal shield to block the whiplike tongue of the one closest to him from landing a blow. When the other soultaker ate his mageglobe, he felt the loss of magic like a skipped heartbeat in his chest.
Then his dagger found its target, burying itself in the black muscle of the soultaker’s malformed thigh. The crackle of heavenly fire incinerated the demon in seconds, and Patrick gasped for breath, twisting around and sliding his shield with him. He missed getting a soultaker’s teeth sinking into his skin by half a second, though his magic took the brunt of the demon’s hunger.
“I have one more for you!” Gerard yelled.
“Great,” Patrick muttered as he watched the soultaker on the other side of his shield bite its way through.
The d
rain of magic wasn’t something he could afford right then, but he was the only one with a weapon that could kill a soultaker. The exhaustion settling in his body had to be ignored for a little longer, but it made him slower than he liked.
As his shield went down, the soultaker pitched forward with a scream. Patrick jerked backward, never taking his eyes off the demon as it advanced. His hip slammed into a headstone, and Keith shouted a warning.
“Duck!” Keith yelled.
Patrick ducked, missing getting his head bitten off by a single second. His soul was a bruised mess, and the recognition of hell and black magic was everywhere in the graveyard, making it impossible to pinpoint the enemy’s position.
Facing off against a soultaker was a good way to die, and maybe Patrick’s luck would’ve run out. Except the veil was thin, and gods walked the earth once more, and Gerard never cared for letting the men under his command die.
The Gáe Bulg pierced the closest soultaker’s bulbous head, the weapon an incandescent line of light. The spearpoint protruded from the demon’s maw, its teeth trying desperately to bite it in half. It wasn’t dead, despite being on the receiving end of an attack that would kill anything else. Hell’s shock troops really were a pain in the ass to kill.
“Hurry up,” Gerard got out through clenched teeth. “Fucker is strong.”
Patrick stabbed the soultaker in the neck, wincing at the scream it let out before being abruptly cut off as its body disintegrated. The ringing in his ears didn’t go away even after its ashes got mixed into the muddy ground.
Patrick levered himself upright and tried to get eyes on the last soultaker—and went down beneath its weight. The metal-tearing screech of its voice nearly deafened him, and Patrick felt his personal shield give way beneath the demon’s teeth and never-dying hunger.
“Patrick!” Gerard yelled.
He couldn’t get leverage to twist around and stab the fucker, but Gerard solved that problem by using the Gáe Bulg to batter the soultaker off Patrick. The spear was enough of a magical distraction that the soultaker followed it rather than trying to bite Patrick’s head off.
A Veiled & Hallowed Eve Page 24