by K. A. M'Lady
“If you wish to live, you will show me where Jirvel is holding my family,” I told him. I chucked the hunk of Jeckle’s heart toward the end of the counter, where I knew he crouched. Where I knew he shook and sweated with fear. His adrenaline was so high I could taste it on my tongue. Feel it ripple along my flesh.
The sound of the meat slapping the floor made a squishing, slushy sound. I knew that fresh blood splattered when it hit. The scent of blood and death filled the room.
The poor young fool was mere moments from the point of no return. He teetered on the brink of full turn, full turn into Wolf that would not bring him back for hours, if not until tomorrow. Soon he would be useless to everyone. Especially himself. I had to get him out of that room and show me where they were holding the others.
I spotted my gun on the floor to the left of me, just under the edge of where a long row of stovetops lined the wall. I decided to make a move. With a deep breath I leapt, reaching for the gun. A shot exploded by my ear, the bullet grazing the round of my shoulder, burning a path across the edge of my vest.
Brave little bastard, I thought as my feet hit the edge of the counter with a speed I didn’t remember having. I dove forward, my feet bounding off the center counter and leapt toward his outstretched arm and the gun he’d pointed right at me. The force and my momentum carried both of us backward, one rolling over the other. He landed on top of me, my left hand clutching the wrist of his right—the hand that held the gun.
He punched me in the face with his left fist and I snarled. Little bastard! What the hell was with these guys and striking me in the face? Cripes, I’d been here ten minutes and I was already sick of this shit. If this was how my night was going to go, there were going to be a lot of dead bodies scattered on the floor.
“Hit me again and you’re going to regret it,” I told him, slamming his right hand against the ground.
He hit me again.
With a burst of anger, I let go of his wrist and with both hands blasted him with a huge ball of light. His chest burst into flames, the gun flying off to who knows where in the room. Smoke, flames and screaming Werewolf filled my vision as he frantically rolled off me, swatting at the wall of fire his chest had become. I stood up and watched him writhe on the floor in agony, his body alight, fur and flesh burning before me.
“Can’t say I didn’t warn you,” I snarkily advised on a sigh of aggravation while I stood over him. “You know, you could have just shown me where they’re being held.”
“She’d. Have. Killed. Me,” he finally managed, the power of the flames boring a hole into the center of his body.
I couldn’t keep the short bark of laughter from flowing out of my pursed lips. “And you thought I wouldn’t?”
He just stared back at me, the stench of melting flesh filling both of our senses, his eyes filled with pain.
“Well, now you’re just as dead,” I coldly replied. I left the kitchen with five dead Werewolves in my wake, my other two bullets making purely lucky shots. Yet, I was no closer to finding the others. I was, however, starting to leave a trail of mayhem behind me.
I still wasn’t able to feel Kieran, but I could sense Jade so I knew I had to be close. Here’s hoping it wasn’t just another of Jirvel’s dark traps. Or if it was, that I had enough Light to burn my way through her and her mad Darkness.
Yes, this Halloween was definitely going to be for the damned. Some of them just didn’t know that their true death was coming for them, and the Reaper’s name was Rihker.
Chapter Twenty
From the thunder, and the storm –
And the cloud that took the form
When the rest of Heaven was blue
Of a demon in my view
From Alone by E.A. Poe
I should have known Kieran would have built several secret entrances and exits to his subterranean gothic castle. He was, after all, once a medieval lord. They apparently liked to have escape routes. I found the one I was currently scurrying around in like a lost mouse in the dark hungry for cheese at the back of one of the massive walk-in freezers. It was so huge they could have frozen a city of Death Stalkers in one of the damn things. Or a city of human blood donors. Frozen Charlie Blood-Pops, anyone? Lovely thought, that.
I kept praying with every step I took down the winding stairs that the next one wouldn’t be my last. That the curve wouldn’t open up to a landing that would open up to the main hall...the feasting hall. Where I knew Jirvel and all her crew would be waiting to feast upon me. That I would be dessert to the finished-off remains of those I’d cared for.
Visions of giants and bone grinding for Pixie bread ran briefly through my head.
It was so damned dark in the stairwell, it was difficult for even one with my increased night vision to tell where the hell the next step was. I used my hands on the wall to guide me, my she-wolf scenting my way. Gradually the touch of smooth tile, each square faceted to the wall like a block of reality, keeping me centered to the world above, changed. The cool smoothness turned to course grit. Grit slid into course rock, chiseled by tools no man had ever handled.
The scent of manufactured air that you never notice until it’s gone faded into the dustiness of sweet earth and cold stone. I could smell the change of time. Ancient memories and bygone battles drifted beyond the touch of my fingertips. It was as if the walls themselves were speaking to me; telling me their stories. Who had walked these very steps, and where those steps had trod before.
I moved on, lower into the darkness. Further down I wandered into the depths of Kieran’s lair. I let the earth speak to me. Allowed it to be my guide into the nether reaches of its domain. Listened, as it told me its history. Followed, as it showed me The Way.
Poised upon the next step, my fingers tentatively brushing against the solid foundation of the rock, the whispers from within the rock abruptly stopped. I stood upon my step; breath locked in my chest and waited for the roar of my heartbeat to quiet its clamor. Just beyond me, about six feet down around the curve, pale light began to glow around what appeared to be the end of the bend of the stairs and a landing below.
“The lady says bring the Panther bitch. So, we bring the Panther bitch. Ye want to argue with her, Jack? Be my guest. But me, personally, I says she’s one scary fuckin’ Death Stalker. Not quite right in the head, if ye know what I mean?”
“Quite right ye are, Benny. Quite right. Been servin these arseholes fer a long time meself. Ain’t seen one quite as scary as she.”
The conversation was thick; English Cockney or some such European language. The accents were difficult to discern. Didn’t really matter. The thunder of steel doors slamming shut told me I was in the right place. And I only knew one female Panther—Jet.
With my back against the wall I slowly peered around the edge, taking in as much of the layout before me. Before I managed to get sighted and my goose got cooked.
Down to the right, an adjacent row of cells stood. Cells I remembered well. One cell in particular that probably still bore the stain of my blood and the scent of my flesh. I briefly wondered if Jirvel ever got around to fixing the door I decimated.
At the furthest end of the cells stood Jet, beaten, bloody and chained like a dog. With a startled cry of torment, she was dragged out of her prison by two little Hobgoblins.
“Damn creatures,” I muttered, then cursed myself for speaking aloud. Well, no time like the present, I guess, to slay some more bad guys. I just wish it weren’t Hobgoblins. Damn things hold grudges. Familial grudges.
I took the next step and watched the first one pause, sniff the air and turn toward me. He stood only about three and a half feet in height, but he was definitely in his prime for fighting. A sprinkling of grey dusted the length of his beard and shoulder length hair. Lines ran the expanse of his round forehead and large, dark eyes. His notched, pickle-shaped nose sprouted over the crease of his lips and his small round chin. And, in a creature like him, looks never truly allowed one to decipher their true age.
His stout arms and legs supported a wee barrel shape. This, from what I’m told, is quite normal as well. None of that however, made me feel any wiser or better prepared as I watched him pull his blade and run hell-bent toward me, battle cry bouncing along the rock’s rough surface.
Several options of death ran through my mind in the few short seconds it took me to leap down the remaining stairs. I opted for quick and expedient. I pulled a dagger from one of my armbands and whipped it him just as he leapt to meet it. It struck him directly in the right eye, the tip forcing its way out the other end. He hit the ground like a lodestone.
“Shit,” I said, knowing I might have killed him just a hair too soon.
His fellow looked up at me the same instant I glanced down the passage, and I knew a blade would never make it across the distance that separated us in time.
“Shit is right, lass,” he told me. There was an edge of cold hatred glowing in his eyes when he stated, “That were me brother ye just killed. Now I’m gonna hafta kill ye.”
The little man wasn’t much taller than the other, but his dark grey beard and overly wrinkled face showed that he was probably a bit more skilled at the craft of death and warring than the other. I guess I killed the wrong one first.
I glanced at Jet, her dark, dark eyes drowning in pain. I knew that if I was going to save any of us this was one wee Fey creature who needed to go, and go just as quickly as his brother. There was no way I had time to cross swords with him though. I was sure he wasn’t going to fall for the ol’ dagger to the eye trick. Been there, done that, now good ol’ Hobbies’ brother was pissed.
“Draw yer blade, lassie.” He shoved Jet back inside her cell, twisting the key in the lock.
“I’m afraid,” I told him while I sauntered a few steps closer, careful to step over his brother’s remains, “that we won’t be crossing blades this day, Goblin. I’ve got bigger demons to burn and right now, you’re just in my way.”
His disgruntled reply was the last sound he made as two silver orbs of light burst from my palms like comets coursing across a midnight sky. Each one landed on his chest with enough force to lift him clean off his feet. His little body slammed against the furthest wall. A pitiful screech erupted from him, light tearing open his chest. In a startled gasp, he clutched his chest while his insides poured out onto the floor.
I didn’t bother to look in the cells as I passed them. I wasn’t ready for the heartache I knew was coming. Instead, I steadily walked to the end where the remnants of the Hobgoblin lay in a gruesome pile of mush and limbs and dug around in them until I found what I was looking for. Keys.
With a deep breath to steady my nerves, I unlocked Jet’s cell door first, releasing her from her shackles. Then, taking one of the vials that Prism had given me from a small bag attached at my belt, I bid her to drink it before I moved on to the next cell.
To my dismay, I found Berg, shackled to the floor and beaten to a pulp, his face unrecognizable.
“He fought them for me.” Jet’s whispered words held the tears I knew she would not shed.
Quickly I released him from his bindings, handed Jet the vial and told her to make him drink it. Every last drop of it.
Markus and Ivy were in the next two cells, both chained to the walls. Holy items strung around both of them bored wounds deep into their flesh. Ivy was stripped naked, her pale, pale flesh bearing the marks of brutality no woman should suffer. To each of them, I fed my own blood. Then, in turn, I drank from a vial. When all had been released, we gathered in Berg’s cell, he being the most wounded, unable to move.
“Take my hands,” I told them, placing the creatures of the earth to my right and the Death Stalkers to my left.
“What are you going to do?” asked Ivy, her voice nothing more than a whisper filled with uncertainty and lingering fear.
“What no one else can,” I assured her.
In the stillness of dungeon, I closed my eyes, leaving behind their wounded faces and somberness. Their angst and their pain. I too left behind, for the moment, my own worries and fears. I let go of my sorrows for not being there to protect them from these dangers and my own uncertainties that I wouldn’t be able to be the savior that they needed.
The next few moments belonged to me. To the one thing I knew about myself. Knew about those I’d come to care for. I finally understood that they were important to me. Important to my life. That I did have the power to save them. And most importantly, the power to heal them.
So, in this dark, unnatural place with some of those that I loved surrounding me, I let the Light fill me, calling on its radiance and its earthly magic. I walked the edge of Darkness and let death skirt the shadows of my soul. I Called to my nature and my true self and let The Way fill me with both of my powers. Light and Darkness – Care and Suffering – Good and Evil. And then, I transferred its healing magic into my family to make them whole.
I opened my eyes to the illuminated glow of phosphorescent green filling the small cell with an ethereal light limned in opaque shadows. It was natural and unnatural. Earthly and yet darkness road the edges like a stallion’s gruff and pluming breath. It was beautiful and majestic, but the eerie chill of death wavered through its haze like the coming of a storm in a lightning struck sky.
I could feel the Light of hope, possibility and all living things flow through me, course from my fingertips like trickles of water into the hand clutched tightly to mine. I turned to my right, and Jet and Berg both glowed like Heavenly Angels, all of their wounds sealing over with new, bright pink skin. Awed by the power—my power—I watched their every bruise fade before my eyes.
I glanced to my left and the coldness of death and earth stalked like shadows and lonely graves. Chilled wind washed through me, and the sparkle of every star in a cloaked sky shone like diamonds lining the flesh of Markus and Ivy in a glistening dark haze, the Darkness a mad-capped maiden warrior riding a shadow horse, its thunder and scourge burned through me, beyond me. It passed from my touch and into Markus passing further on into Ivy’s pale flesh. Death filled them. Restored them. The touch of the grave making them whole.
With our connection still strong, I let the images of the last few days events they had missed during their capture pass between us. I shared with them all of my misgivings, my sorrows and my fears. I also gave them the knowledge of the plan Prism and I had worked out prior to my arrival, so that no words were spoken in this dark place. So that our words could not be used by any of Jirvel’s spies or dark magic and used against us. Then, when I felt that I had done all I could to prepare them, I released them from my touch.
“By the Prophets,” Markus exclaimed. His body trembled, but he was whole, appearing just as strong and healthy as ever. Hopefully more so. They all appeared well.
Jet, Berg and Ivy were all mumbling their own exclamations and amazements when I suddenly felt the spill of dark sludge slither its way up the back of my spine, wrap itself around my neck and whisper in my ear, “By the Prophets indeed.” Everyone in the cell froze.
Lucien appeared from nowhere like the shadowy demon he was, blade to my throat, arms wrapped tightly around me. “I believe, Cherie, that you’ve much explaining to do. And my mistress is awaiting your arrival.”
“I thought we had a deal, Lucien? That you had thrown your hat in to escape your mistress?”
“Ah yes. Our deal. Well, you see,” he started. “You know what they say about deals with death and the devil.”
A bitter laugh escaped me despite the blade at my throat. “Yeah,” I stated, just as my vision began to spin, my world fading to solid black. “They tend to cost you your soul.”
Chapter Twenty-One
then let men kill which cannot share
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine, passion willed,
freedom a drug that’s bought and sold
From My father moved through dooms of love – E. E. Cummings
We appeared in the center of the gre
at hall like shadows forming from the soot of the earth. Lucien’s blade still carefully poised against my throat’s main artery, which beat a thready rhythm matching the anger that rode my bones. I wanted to tear his heart out. I wanted to tear all of their hearts out as I slowly looked around at the mayhem Jirvel had wrought.
She sat on a dais dressed in a snow-white gown of silk overlaid with a sprinkling of gems, and looked like the pale queen of death that I knew she was. The gown was sleeveless, the vee of its neckline cut low to her waist, her pale, firm breasts peaking beneath. When she stood at our arrival, the sound of Lucien’s breath catching resonated in my ear. The cloth of her dress was so frail and gossamer you could just make out the blush of her nipples, the indenture of her waist and the fact that she wore absolutely nothing beneath.
I hated to admit it, but she bore a striking pose. I suppose it was probably enough to make most men catch their breath...if you liked the hopelessly dead and virally pasty. Personally, I looked forward to seeing her blood stain the hell out of the damned slutty outfit. And being the one to put it there.
To the right of her toothy-bitchiness’ throne stood a wall of sheer rock face, uncovered and unblemished, except for the wall decor she’d chosen to have chained to it.
To my utter disgust Ien, Garric, Jade and Dragon now hung as her petty attempt at demoralization and vagrant fear tactic. All had been shackled with silver. Burn marks that did not seem to be healing still smoldered on their chest. Cuts, gashes and festering wounds seeped from each of them. I couldn’t really tell for sure, but it appeared that Dragon’s legs were broken in several spots. I knew that had he been able to change the wounds would have healed. The legs repaired, but left too long, he would never walk again.