by R. L. King
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Upstairs, Megan was beginning to wonder where Stone had gone. It had already been longer than fifteen minutes, and she was growing bored with listening to the enthusiastic war stories an old man in a plaid tie was trying to regale her with. Politely excusing herself, she hurried off, thinking she’d find Stone somewhere nearby.
She didn’t see him anywhere, though: she didn’t realize it, but she nearly retraced the steps he’d taken searching for Ethan: dining room, grand ballroom, outside smoking area, hallways leading to the bathrooms. A little concerned now, she ranged out further, taking another hallway that she didn’t think was strictly part of the party area. Maybe he found Ethan and they’re having a talk, she decided. If that were true, she’d just find them, verify that they were both all right, and then head back to the party and wait for them to rejoin it.
She kept waiting for a security guard to stop her, but none did. She guessed there probably weren’t enough of them to cover the whole house, and in any case, she didn’t think the elderly guests were much to worry about, security-risk wise. The worst that might happen was that one of them might get lost on the way to the bathroom, or maybe stroke out in the punch bowl.
She was about to turn around and go back the way she’d come when she smelled something unexpected. Smoke? That’s strange. Maybe I’m near where the smokers are—
But she wasn’t near the smokers. They were up at the front of the house, and she was somewhere in the middle. She moved back, following the smell until she saw something that made her gasp: wafting up from an ancient floor register were tendrils of foul-smelling black smoke. Not a lot, but she knew enough to know that this was not the cheery smoke from a fireplace—even if there had been a fireplace for it to be coming from.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. For a second she froze, then she hurried back down the hallway and back into the party area. She grabbed the first blazer-clad security guard she could find. “Come on—you need to see this,” she breathed.
He looked at her oddly: here was a pretty young woman in a tight dress and heels, looking like she’d just seen a ghost—or a murder. “What’s the problem, ma’am?”
“I think there’s a fire,” she whispered, not wanting to start a panic if she were somehow wrong. She grabbed his arm and tugged. “Come on—let me show you this!”
The man followed, his expression suggesting that he was humoring her. That lasted until he saw the smoke wafting up from the register. “Holy shit,” he growled, stiffening. He turned back to Megan, already pulling his walkie-talkie from his belt. “Listen, lady—you need to get out of here. I’ll call it in. We gotta start evacuating people. Oh, holy hell, this is gonna be a nightmare with all these old people.”
“I’ll help,” she said. “I’ll start getting people to leave, to go outside. I’ll tell them there’s a gas leak or something.”
“Yeah, okay,” he said, already focused on talking into his radio. He waved her off.
Megan hurried back toward the party, realizing as she did that she still hadn’t found Stone or Ethan. She hoped very much that the fire and their disappearance weren’t related.
Outside the summoning room, Miguel hurried as fast as he could down the aisle back toward the main large room. He was in full panic mode now—all he wanted to do was get out of here alive. The fire was already burning through the wooden wall of the summoning room, providing flickering light that made the shadowy piles of furniture loom eerily above him. He glanced upward—
—and tripped over a piece of the ruined player piano, falling forward. He tried to throw himself sideways, but in his disorientation he miscalculated: his reeling body slammed into a tall pile of stacked furniture. It swayed alarmingly, and then something large dislodged from the top and tumbled down, crashing onto Miguel’s legs. He screamed as he felt bones break among the splintering wood, and a wave of agony washed over him. He went down and lay still.
Inside, Stone and Trin were still locked in their battle.
“Give it up, asshole,” Trin growled. “You can’t fight me. You’re soft, like all your type. Can’t handle the power.”
She flung another bolt at him—his shields were weaker now, and most of it got through and smashed into his arm. He staggered back, falling over the top of another table.
Scrambling up, he didn’t bother answering her. More than ever now, he knew he had to end this fast, before Trin killed him. She didn’t have a chance of controlling that thing now if it came through—not by herself, and not in her weakened state. If he failed, all those people upstairs would die, and probably a lot more, too.
She was right about the combat-type spells: they weren’t his specialty, and they were tiring him out fast. Instead, he went with his strength: telekinetically snatching up the same stone gargoyle that Langley had hit Oliver with, he flung it at her, putting all his will behind it.
She wasn’t expecting that. It breached her shield and hit her leg hard, taking her down with a pained shriek. Stone struggled up again and tried to press the attack before she could get her bearings back.
Unfortunately for him, the power black mages drew when they killed their “batteries” was immense, and she still had quite a bit left. Without getting up, she put her two hands together, aimed them at Stone, and let fly with a spell that looked like a whirlwind full of tiny knives. It sliced through his shield, weakening considerably as it did, but what was left flayed at his body, opening up myriad small, bleeding slashes all over. He tried to ward them off, but couldn’t concentrate enough to cast anything. He lurched backward, hit the wall, and slumped to the floor in a bloody heap. He lay unmoving as his consciousness faded.
Trin threw one last concussion blast at him, laughing as she watched his body jerk and writhe on the floor against the wall. Then she turned and quickly left the room.
Megan did the first thing she could think of: she found Adelaide. The old lady was holding court in the main ballroom near one of the large Christmas trees, laughing with some old friends while Iona stood beaming next to her.
Megan hurried up to her. “Mrs. Bonham?”
She smiled. “Oh. You’re Dr. Stone’s date, aren’t you, dear? What was your name again? Mary? Margaret?”
“Megan,” she said. She ducked down to whisper in the old woman’s ear. “Mrs. Bonham, there’s a problem. There’s a fire somewhere down below. I’ve already told security, and they’re calling in help, but we need to get everyone out of here quickly. It won’t be safe much longer.”
She glanced around, her eyes growing wide and fearful. “A—fire?”
Megan didn’t have time to wait for it to sink in. She hurried over to the bandstand and snatched the microphone, startling the bandleader. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, feeling herself shaking. “Please listen to me. We need everyone to exit the house and go outside onto the front lawn. There’s been—a small kitchen fire, and we want to make sure everyone’s safe. Please go now in an orderly fashion, and help those who can’t make it on their own. Thank you.” She handed the mic back to the bandleader and climbed back down off the stage.
There was a murmur of conversation among the guests, occasionally punctuated by a louder “Fire?” or “Fire!” Meanwhile the security force was coming in, attempting to usher people out of the ballroom and toward the front lawn. It was slow going; some guests didn’t believe there really was a fire, and some couldn’t move very fast. Others were already heading toward the door.
Megan looked around. Where was Stone? Where were Ethan, and Tommy? Suddenly everyone she knew had disappeared, and in the middle of a potential disaster. This didn’t bode well.
Trin found Miguel outside the circle room, his legs crushed, moaning in agony. “Trin...” he whispered. “Help me. For God’s sake, get me out of here...” He reached toward her.
She looked at him, then back at the fire. “Sorry, man. You’re on your own.” And then she was past him and away, running back past the growing flames toward the exi
t.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
On the shattered table, lying under the dead weight of Oliver’s body, Ethan regained consciousness. His whole body was in pain—he was pretty sure at least a couple bones were broken, and he’d lost a lot of blood. Struggling free of the bonds that no longer held him, he rolled Oliver’s body off, trying not to scream with the effort. He looked around, coughing, struggling for breath. Why is it so hot and smoky in here?
Then he saw and heard the blazing fire, and it all came back to him.
Trin.
Trin had betrayed him. She’d intended to betray him all along.
And he’d fallen for it, because she’d smiled at him. Because she’d made him feel like he was worthwhile. Because he’d wanted so badly to believe it that he’d ignored everything else.
He looked around. The crack in the armoire’s doors was nearly two feet wide now, the swirling mists almost reaching the edge of the circle. He had to do something.
But what?
He continued looking, and his gaze fell on the still form of Stone, lying broken and bleeding against the wall. Was he dead? Ethan couldn’t tell. Painfully, he crawled toward him. Even if he was alive, though, what could he do now? He couldn’t do a sacrifice, and he didn’t have the spirit’s name. There was no way he could—
And then he saw his parka, lying there on the floor close to Stone. And he remembered.
He hadn’t given Trin all the books he’d brought. He’d forgotten he’d even put one in his coat, with all he’d been through in the last couple of days. The news about his mother had driven nearly everything out of his mind. But now, he remembered.
The diary.
Selena Darklight’s diary.
If it was anywhere, it would be there.
He had to hurry.
He continued crawling toward the parka and Stone, aware of the spreading flames behind him and the ever-widening crack in the armoire door.
The evacuation was proceeding a little more effectively now that the house’s smoke detectors had at last registered the fire and gone off. Megan joined the security guards in hustling the elderly guests outside, herding them out to the porch, where the more able-bodied among them helped the others into the yard. In the distance, she could hear the sirens of fire trucks approaching, but she knew it would take them a while to make it all the way up here.
Grimly, she realized she still hadn’t seen Stone. Now she was beginning to worry in earnest: if he were here, he would be in the thick of the action, doing whatever he could to help out. The fact that she couldn’t hear his distinctive British tones cutting through the panic, giving orders and hustling recalcitrant oldsters out the door, told her everything she needed to know.
He wasn’t here.
But where was he?
Ethan had the book. Clutching it in his trembling hand, fighting to stay awake, he dragged himself over to Stone and rolled him over on his back. The mage was unconscious, the white front of his tuxedo shirt shredded and soaked in blood. Ethan shook him. “Dr. Stone! Wake up! Please don’t be dead!”
Stone moaned.
Ethan shook him again, harder. “Dr. Stone! Please, wake up!” Sweat ran down his face; the smoke was everywhere, darkness settling over his head like a warm, heavy animal. “Please! You have to wake up!”
Stone’s eyes flickered open. He seemed to be having trouble focusing for a moment, then he saw Ethan. “E...Ethan...”
Tears streamed down Ethan’s face. “Oh, God, Dr. Stone. I’m so sorry. I’ve been such an idiot, and now we’re—”
“What—?” Stone tried to rise, but couldn’t manage it.
Ethan held up the book. “Dr. Stone—this is Selena Darklight’s diary. I found it the other day, in the attic. I was gonna give it to Trin, but I forgot I had it. You gotta take it, Dr. Stone. You gotta stop this thing. Look!” He pointed with great effort toward the armoire. “It’s gonna get out...It’s gonna—get—” His energy spent, he trailed off, slumping over.
Stone fought to make sense of what Ethan was saying. He forced himself to an elbow, focusing on what he had to do. He saw the thing in the armoire and stiffened.
He could suffer through his pain later. He could even die later. Later didn’t matter. All that mattered was right now—and right now, he had to do this. He picked up the diary in a shaking hand and used a small spell to break its lock. Painfully, he began paging through it.
The crack in the armoire grew wider.
“…Give up, little worm. You will not stop me now. You have lost. You will die, and so will everyone you ever cared about…”
“Bugger off,” Stone muttered, continuing to turn the pages.
The first of the fire trucks were arriving now. Small groups of shivering guests huddled together in the front yard, their eyes full of fear.
Megan was still inside. She was moving from person to person as they left the house, asking them if they’d seen anyone matching Stone’s description, or Ethan’s, or Langley’s. Sometimes she got an affirmative, but it was a vague one: “Oh, yes, I think I saw him earlier tonight,” or “Yes, he was in the ballroom when I got here.” But nothing definitive. It was as if all three of them had vanished from the face of the earth.
She wondered if she should head upstairs and search for them.
Stone kept having to blink blood and sweat from his eyes as he struggled to read the blurry, cramped print in the diary. This was taking too long! Already the flames were growing so high that he wasn’t sure he and Ethan could even get out safely anymore. If he didn’t do something soon, none of this would matter. In frustration, he growled and gave the book a hard shake.
A piece of paper, possibly used as a bookmark, poked out from between two pages about three quarters of the way in. Breathing hard, Stone opened the book to the indicated page and shoved the bookmark aside.
On the page, written in thicker, embellished text, was a single word, surrounded by diagrams of magical circles. Even looking at the word made Stone uncomfortable.
The thing in the armoire made a low, rumbling warning sound, as if anticipating his next move.
“Yes...” Stone whispered in triumph. Gathering his will, he grabbed the edge of a nearby table and pulled himself up. He staggered to the center of the circle, leaving a trail of blood behind him. He opened the book and faced the armoire, and he began an incantation.
“…No...” whispered the thing in his head. “…You will not…”
The swirling mists, which had now reached the circle, solidified into tentacles with clawed appendages, raking at him. He held his ground, bellowing the incantation as loudly and forcefully as he could manage.
The creatures slashed at him, moving in. He reeled backward, fighting to hold his balance, barely remaining inside the circle as more and more forms boiled out of the armoire’s opening. The horrific sloth-creatures came through, along with the sticky, searching tentacles from his bedroom. But there were more things too: things that he could barely look at, things that made his sanity recoil and begin to crack. His voice faltered, the incantation dying on his lips.
“…You will fail, small one…” the thing in his head said. “…You have no hope. You cannot stem my power. You are too weak. I was old when your world was new. I will destroy you and everything you ever cared about…”
The creatures were drawing closer now, moving around the circle, testing its boundaries. Stone was forced to divert energy to strengthen the wards around it, but knew he couldn’t do that for long—his limited power had to go toward taking his best shot at sending the thing back before he simply collapsed, his formidable will no longer able to sustain his failing body. Already the grayness was closing around him, his legs beginning to buckle.
One of the creatures, a new one with wicked claws on the end of multiple whiplike tentacles, breached his shield and slashed at him, opening up a deep gash across his chest. He cried out, raising his hands to ward off the blows, clutching Selena Darklight’s diary with all his will. If he
dropped it now, he knew everything would be lost.
Faster than he could see, another tentacle lashed out and sliced through his hand with surgical precision. The diary, his severed fingers still attached to it, fluttered to the floor, landing in a puddle of blood. Stone screamed, dropping to his knees. Jamming his wounded hand under his opposite arm to try to stanch the bleeding, he lunged for the book with his good hand.
The creatures were getting through now. He couldn’t hold the shield around the circle anymore. Had he broken it somehow? Smudged it when he’d fallen, or when he’d dropped the diary? It shouldn’t work that way—either the shield was up, or it was down. He blinked blood from his eyes again, his gaze cutting madly around to locate the source of the breach as he scrambled for the diary.
“…You will die, little mage…” the thing’s implacable voice spoke in his head. “…You will die screaming in agony, and your power will feed my birth into this world…”
“No!” Stone shouted. His eyes were nearly clamped shut now, sweat pouring from him, his hand fumbling for the diary. The heat from the fire seared him.
Something flashed in the corner of his vision. He braced himself for another creature, forcing his eyes back open. But it wasn’t another creature. It was Ethan. The boy lunged forward with an inarticulate war cry. Stone tried to yell a warning, but his body wasn’t responding properly to commands anymore.
The creatures tore Ethan to pieces in seconds.
Stone screamed again, trying to gather energy, to move forward, to do anything, but he could only watch in horror as the claws and tentacles snatched at the boy’s shirt, his pants, his hair—and then slashed and pulled at his limbs until they tore free, spraying Stone with hot showers of blood and worse. The last expression he saw on Ethan’s face was one of accusation. Why don’t you help me?