by J. C. Staudt
It’s no hallucination. This tree reached out to grab one of the demons and twist it apart. The tree killed the demon. Across the forested periphery of Zug Island, the foliage is moving. Creatures emerge from the wood, migrating from the natural zone to the industrial. Towering treefolk, knurled dryads, mischievous pixies, luminescent winged sprites, and dozens of leafy creatures whose names I couldn’t give you without a paranormal bestiary. The spirits of the forest are joining the fray. The fae are fighting the demons. My demons.
Unless these faerie spirits are acting of their own volition, Elona has found a way to skirt around the rules of our pact. This does not bode well for the army of demons I was hoping would make quick work of the dhampirs.
In other news, I need fuel. I’m vulnerable and useless without it, though spellcasting will be difficult without a heaping helping of extra-strength residue. I retreat down the mound of petcoke and cross the gravel road to where the trail of spattered black blood leads me to the discarded corpse of the eviscerated demon. I drop to my knees and crawl into the brush, dodging glowy fae spirits as they emerge.
The wound in the demon’s severed front half appears to float on its side, a cross-section of carnage now visible without magical aid. Generally it’s a good idea to wash your hands before eating. Especially after you’ve been climbing mountains of the toxic byproduct rendered through industrialized metal refinement. As I dig my fingers into the demon’s flesh like a hobo at a buffet, cleanliness is the furthest thing from my mind.
At over a thousand bucks per vial, demon blood is among the rarest of supernatural commodities. A buffet like this is worth somewhere in the neighborhood of a year’s salary for most working stiffs. And I don’t stop at slurping up the blood. I sink my teeth in and start chewing, because magic is hard, and you’re not doing it right unless you go all the way, and because it’ll take a lot of fuel to coerce my wandering, exhausted mind into rattling off a few spells. Or more than a few, depending.
If you’ve ever handled raw ground beef a few days past its expiration date, you’ll understand why the first mouthful goes down in a slimy lump, and why every subsequent swallow wants to reverse itself with increasing vengeance. I finish my meal and stand in queasy triumph, feeling the contents of my stomach slosh as I flick on a detection spell.
The battlefield explodes in punches of blue. Demons, twisted and ugly, fight and feast and quarrel. Naked tree spirits leap and dance into the melee. Will-o-wisps cast their enticing glows, drawing captivated foes toward lonely places to be bashed and bludgeoned to death. Dhampirs charge and tumble, muzzles flashing against the haze of evening.
The sticky viscera covering my face must make me look like a toddler after raspberry-filled birthday cake. All the better to strike fear into the hearts of my foes with, my dear. The demon’s energies flood my veins, bringing a bleak smile to my lips. My blood is fire. My eyes are cinders. My chest, a fortress. Then comes the familiar lust for power, the euphoric rise as the vagueness of my fatigue pulls into focus. I’m never going into a fight without blood magic again.
A field of petcoke mounds lies between me and my enemies, and I’ve lost interest in climbing. I haven’t cast a levitation spell in years; it burns a ton of fuel, and I rarely have occasion to drift listlessly down the streets of New Detroit. Sorry McFly, hoverboard technology is still a work in progress.
My feet leave the ground. The lift is wobbly at first, as is my memory for long-unused spells. It’s a hell of a thing to concentrate on a spell like this in my condition, and the higher I get the harder it becomes. I’m an easy target up here, and there’s no way I’d keep myself aloft while tossing fireballs and lightning bolts, so I won’t stay long. I just want to find my friends.
As I teeter and rise above the ash piles, I catch sight of the Guardians retreating down a grassy embankment and darting through a diamond-shaped parking lot where scattered automobiles provide cover from Irys and her dhampirs. Bloodsoaked bodies lay strewn across the area, still damp with the effluvium of their crossing. Among the fouler corpses of trolls and ogres lay elves, dwarves, humans, and an assortment of other species. All creatures who deserved a chance to live. Creatures who Irys murdered.
The shock of so many dead steals my concentration. I tip forward as the spell dissipates, landing hard on a mound of petcoke near the field’s edge and tumbling to the bottom. Black dust plumes around me; gritty chunks trickle through my clothes and slip into my shoes. I stand, coughing, hopping on one foot as I shake the rocks out of first one shoe, then the other. Some powerful wizard I am.
I wonder if Elona really did follow through on her promise to free me from the swamp hags. I’m positive I could lay down in the gravel right here and sleep through a war. This war is moving fast, so I hold still and play dead behind the petcoke mound while the armies charge past.
The Guardians fall back from the parking lot toward the trainyard beyond, where lines of coal cars sit empty across half a dozen tracks which split and converge. The dhampirs pursue the Guardians. The demons pursue the dhampirs. The fae pursue the demons. It’s like a gigantic game of leapfrog, except in this case getting leapfrogged probably means you’re dead.
When the bulk of the mob has passed, a new host blurs into sight from the south, where a solitary train bridge connects the island to the mainland. The group halts abruptly at the southern point of the diamond-shaped parking lot to watch the disparate armies rush by. The male at the head of the group has ditched his typical blue pinstripes in favor of a form-fitting nylon jumpsuit, though his ponytail is as long and lustrous as ever. While youthful in appearance, this particular outfit gives him the look of an elderly man more concerned with comfort than fashion.
“What’s Felix Mottrov doing here?” I wonder aloud.
Felix’s head turns sharply in my direction.
You dumbass, I chide myself. I stay low, but Felix has already spotted me. He zips to the edge of the petcoke field, his entourage hard on his heels. With him is Dominic Voss, the tall blond vampire from the Hallowed who escorted Desdemona to the Pax. Felix’s elder companion Xender Ozul is also present, red gem gleaming at his throat. The group doesn’t surround me, but gathers behind Felix instead.
“Wizard,” Felix says by way of greeting. “Do not be afraid. We’re under a Pax. I would be forbidden to prey upon you, even if I wanted to.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Moira is quite taken with you, as it happens. She believes you could be an invaluable ally.”
“Her and every othersider in this city with a spoonful of power.”
“I’m inclined to agree with her. I don’t know who it is you currently serve, but I expect they’ll be pleased to see this.” He pulls the Trillion of the Bloodless from the pocket of his nylon pants. “You dropped it in the aisle as you fled Sebastian’s theater.”
I take it from him. “Why would you give this back to me?”
He laughs. “Why would I keep whispering steel with an unknown benefactor?”
“I’m confused. What’s whispering steel?”
Felix lifts an eyebrow. “Do you not know? I thought you were a wizard.”
“I am. But identifying the properties of magical items takes a lot of time I haven’t had over the past couple days. I notice your associate there wears a similar stone.”
“Are you familiar with gift magic?”
“Not really.”
“An item enchanted with gift magic serves not the one who wears it, but the one who gave it to them. Whispering steel acts as a sounding board, possessed of a natural resonance. Xender Ozul is my servant. Because he wears my whispering steel, I hear everything that goes on around him. The stone itself serves other purposes.”
“Hold on a minute. So you’re saying Elona Anarian used this to spy on me?”
“Is it she you serve?”
“Not anymore. She used a dream curse to force my attendance at Sebastian’s Pax. No wonder she didn’t specify the information she wanted me to gather. She
knew she’d hear it all herself.”
“Then she is privy to our discussion now.”
“How?” I hold up the Trillion. “I’m not wearing it. The chain is broken.”
“It doesn’t matter. The gem may only work while it is around your neck, but the steel resonates unceasingly.”
My mind races. If Elona has heard everything I’ve said since she gave me the Trillion, what else does she know? I think back to all the conversations I had while the Trillion was in my possession. I brought Ersatz home. I visited the Guardians at the hospital. Does she know where I live, or where to find HQ? Or worse, does she know I’m Arden Savage? The Trillion was a ruse; my focus was always supposed to be on that stone and not the steel it was mounted on. A trick within a trick. I can’t believe I was naive enough to think I’d beaten her at her own game. “That sneaky bitch.”
“What are you called, wizard?”
“Cade Cadigan.”
“And do you still serve the sidhe?”
“No. Hell fucking no.”
“You’re the second wizard I’ve met in a matter of months. The other was like you—a human who performed magic without the innate biology required.”
“What was his name?” I ask, feigning curiosity.
“Arden Savage. He killed my father. I was hoping you’d be so kind as to help me kill my sister.”
“But… she’s your sister.”
“Only in the sense that my father made us both. I have always borne a certain hatred for my sister. I’ve tolerated her for our father’s sake, but her actions on this night and many others are grounds for exile. To kill in the midst of a Pax Sanguinem is an abomination to our laws, as is her unsanctioned alliance with the fae. Furthermore, she continues to jeopardize my position in the Ascended. The elders have mistrusted me since my father betrayed them. While I do not wholly blame them, it is a frustration to claw my way back into their good graces. Irys has made this increasingly difficult.”
This is sounding better by the second. In one night, Irys has lost both Elona’s protection and that of her coven. The shields are down. Maybe there’s an angle here; a way I can work this to my advantage. “You want her dead.”
“Were it not for the Pax Sanguinem, I might do the deed myself. You are not a vampire, and are therefore not subject to the terms of the Pax.”
“How much is her death worth to you?”
“What is it you want, Cade Cadigan?”
I take a deep breath. “The Book of the Dead.”
He frowns. “The grimoire?”
“The one your father used to bring back the vampire lords.”
He shrugs. “Kill Irys, and the book is yours. It is of no use to me, regardless of its monetary worth. I don’t share my family’s desire to see the rebirth of ancient lords who are better off dead. It’s our time to reign. My father sought to use our blood machines to identify feedstock. Under my guidance, Mottrov Multinational will become the forerunner in discovering new ways for vampire-kind to coexist with othersiders and mundane humankind alike. With our focus on ingenuity and the solutions afforded us by science, we can overcome the petty disagreements of the past.”
“Shake on it and I’ll get to work.”
Felix shakes my hand. “Be wary of Irys. She’s vulnerable to magic like any dhampir, yet her elven half gives her a faster rate of healing than her half-human counterparts.”
“Duly noted. Why are you here, anyway?”
Dominic Voss answers. “Desdemona asked us to be here so we could witness Irys’s violation of the Pax firsthand.”
“Killing her isn’t going to get me on the shitlist with the Ascended or the Hallowed, is it? I know Irys has protected you in the past.”
“Her protection is sporadic and unreliable. End her, and you’ll have the thanks of every vampire coven in the city.”
“And the grimoire?”
“And the grimoire.”
“We’ll distract the fae as best we can while the demons fight Irys’s compatriots,” says Dominic.
“Make sure you stay out of my line of fire. The spells I’m about to cast don’t discriminate.”
Chapter 30
The Guardians fall back from the trainyard and disperse through the steel processing facility beyond, an industrial maze of pipes and silos and outbuildings. They duck and scramble through obstacles, turning to fire quick bursts over their shoulders to keep the advancing dhampirs at bay. The demons aid in the effort, chasing down the dhampirs and tackling them to the ground to overwhelm them with superior numbers, rending flesh faster than the dhampirs can heal it back.
A sizzling orange energy ray strikes a dhampir in the thigh, cauterizing a hole through it. The dhampir hobbles a few steps before collapsing into the dirt. The wound begins to heal over, but the demons catch up and put a quick end to the dhampir. I look to the source of the ray and find Mazriel standing in one of the train cars atop a mountain of coal. Glad I’m not the only spellcaster fighting for the good guys. I’ll bet she’s half the reason the dhampirs haven’t run the Guardians down already.
Our game of leapfrog is beginning to fold in on itself like an out-of-tune accordion. Treefolk use their branches like brooms to sweep swarms of demons off the dhampirs. Pixies wave their smooth wooden wands to cast glittery spells which tinkle with the music of tiny bells. Malanx picks up a tree and snaps it in half, then plunges its severed trunk through a prone dhampir. Felix and his vampires blur through the ranks to pluck fairies from the air and carry them away. They’re doing everything they can to avoid violence and uphold the terms of the Pax. I can respect that, but it’s going to take more than sudden relocation to get rid of the spirits of the forest.
Instead of following the battle across the parking lot, I head down the gravel road to where the petcoke field borders the patch of forest from which the fae emerged. Along the way I pass a dead human, uniformed and armed with an assault rifle. One of the night watchmen employed to keep trespassers off Zug Island. Poor guy had no idea what hit him.
Normally I would denounce the burning of trees, because starting forest fires is a despicable thing to do. But so is murdering innocent othersiders as they cross through the fabric of worlds, and so is holding a wizard hostage by hijacking his dreams. And while we’re at it, so is sending an army of forest spirits to fight for a dhampir you’ve sworn not to protect. My enemies have continually sought to tilt the playing field in their favor. I’m trying my damndest to make that hill level again. Screw those trees and the evil fairies who live in them. Yes, I’m aware that only I can prevent forest fires. But since the souls of the forest fae are tied to the trees in which they live, I figure the best way to defeat them is by giving Smokey Bear the finger.
A strange pain rushes through my legs as I gather energy from the demon blood. The black veins on my thighs pulse and stutter beneath my trousers, a sick crawling sensation like worms beneath my skin. I’ve never funneled this much demon through my body before, and the sensation both thrills and terrifies me.
A fountain of flame erupts from my palms. I work my way down the gravel road, bathing the treeline in fire. If I were a super-badass, non-tired wizard, I’d be hovering three feet above the ground as I did this, solely for the purpose of looking awesome. I’m a regular wizard with a headache and a stomach full of demon flesh. So call me a spoilsport.
Screams of anguish resound from the distant trainyard, making my massive fuel expenditure worth every penny. The fae break and flee toward their forest home, leaving the demons to regain their footing and thwart the dhampir advance. The Guardians have all but vanished into the mazelike processing facility, but Irys and her remaining forces are nowhere near defeated. Malanx is too slow to snatch or stomp on the running dhampirs, so she focuses her efforts on finishing off the wounded.
When the first wave of fae reaches the forest, they’re too concerned with putting out the fires to pay me much attention. The treefolk are terrified of going anywhere near the stuff that could light their hair on f
ire. I retreat down the gravel road, only to find myself staring down a trio of them, thick trunks and twisted branches looming over me. One shuffles close, looking to take a swing. I spark a new flame in my palm and rev the engines to make it rise above my head and curl with black smoke. “You want a piece, stickboy? I can go all day like this.”
He and the other treefolk move aside to let me through.
I circle a fenced-in power relay station and cross the diamond-shaped parking lot, now littered with the bodies of demons and fae alike. Only a few dhampirs are fully dead, the rest lying alone with twitching limbs as their would-be fatal wounds heal over. I douse them in fire as I pass, bending to soak my hands in the blood of fallen demons and sucking the sticky red off my fingers. I don’t care anymore how much of it I ingest. All that matters is killing Irys.
After weaving through strings of train cars parked on parallel tracks, I pass beneath the bundled pipeline separating the blast furnaces from the trainyard. The Guardians have regrouped, and I reach the edge of the facility as Mazriel blasts open the door to the long outbuilding ahead and ushers the others inside. I count five including Mazriel. Urdal, Shenn, Ryovan, and Des hurry through the smoldering doorway as the dhampirs converge. I wonder if Steve Sussman found Des in time to warn her about the demons. I hope he’s alright; I haven’t seen a trace of him since we parted ways.
Someone else is missing, too. It’s expected that Baz, Fremantle, and Janice are absent, but Githryx should be here.
Mazriel stands in the doorway to lay down magical cover, blasting pipes and pavement with her strange orange rays. They burn like napalm where they land, forming a minefield for the dhampirs to navigate. She casts one final spell and slaps it against the top of the doorway before following the others inside. My detection spell picks up the glowing magical ward as it washes over the threshold.
They should really bring Mazriel along on more of these outings. I’d known she was powerful, but seeing her in action solidifies her prowess in my mind. I wonder what cool stuff Janice must be able to do. She is a lich, even if she claims to know next to nothing about magic.