by Scott Eder
Magic called to him from that row of houses, something familiar, elemental. He felt the strain in his soul, the need a separate ache from the rest of his shattered body. He willed his arms to paddle, to follow the call, but they wouldn’t obey. Exhausted, thoughts muddled, limbs numb and lifeless, he surrendered to the magic’s pull.
A strange stinging sensation circled his chest, traveled up his spine and out through the base of his skull like an invisible rope tied around his torso. With a gentle tug, his body stopped and reversed course, but his heels remained firmly locked in the sand.
The “rope” tightened around his shattered ribs and pulled. Intense pain blurred his vision, threatening to knock him out again. His trapped body slid through the grasping sand a few inches then stopped. The pull increased and squeezed the air out of his lungs. He tried to lift his legs out of the sand, but they refused to listen.
The tension on the line increased, he could no longer draw breath and the pain blocked out the world. The last thought he had before the stars winked out was a vivid memory of another restraint across his chest.
* * *
King Phillip’s men placed Dev on a sturdy oak table and held his arms out while a wide iron band snapped into place over his chest.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
His torturer hammered long spikes into the band’s eyelets at each corner to secure him in place for the day’s event. He’d promised fire, but Dev hadn’t seen or felt it yet.
After one last pound that mashed the head of the spike against the hole, the torturer stood back from his handiwork.
“Stand him.” He motioned for the guards to hurry.
They pushed one end of the table to the ground and angled the other toward the ceiling. Strapped in and helpless, the restraint’s rusted edges bit into Dev’s slack, pale skin. His arms and legs hung down and swung free.
The torturer’s tongue darted between the gaps in his teeth like an adder, and a thin trail of saliva leaked from the corner of his mouth. Fever bright eyes slid over Dev’s trapped body. Rough, grimy fingers grabbed him by the chin and forced his head to the side.
“You see, hérétique, I keep my word. Fire, he comes.”
The cart squeaked closer. Before Dev could see the fire, he felt it. A wave of heat covered his body like an old, comfortable blanket. After countless days locked within cold stone walls, the warmth felt wonderful against his ravaged body. He would have smiled if his ruined lips could move without breaking.
Fire entered the room contained in a large brazier. Various prods, poles and tools stuck out of the burning coals. Dev had to squint in the presence of the light after too long spent in gloom.
The flame spoke.
Not in words, not in signs, but in raw emotion on a direct line to his soul. It offered freedom from his current pain and suffering. It offered power, a melding of man with element. It offered righteousness, an opportunity to fight against darkness. His spirit rose with each offer made.
The flame offered him a choice.
“It’s time, hérétique, you kiss the flame now.”
A brand, its letter ‘H’ buried in the center of the coals, was the first selected. The torturer lifted it out, spit on the molten tip, and savored the resulting hiss. “Everyone will know you are hérétique.” To his men he said, “Hold his face.”
The guards rushed to comply. Dirty fingers pressed Dev’s cheek to the wood and held him fast while the other man bounced the rod against his palm.
Dev watched him come, watched this loathsome wad of humanity position the fiery symbol over his upturned cheek, watched his little piggy eyes flash as the brand descended.
Dev made his decision.
There was no pain in that initial touch. No sizzle. No smell of seared flesh.
But the contact ignited a maelstrom inside. Dev’s body arced off the table, popping the nail heads holding the iron band. It banged to the floor and his torturers jumped back. The flames burning in the torches around the room and nestled in the brazier leaned toward him, reaching out to their new elemental brother. As one, they leaped from sconce and coal to man in a fiery conjoining of life, spirit, and purpose.
Fire ripped through Dev’s veins and fused with his bone and sinew. The pain dwarfed anything he felt before, ripped a primal scream from his throat as his fire-laced body transformed. Within minutes it was over and a new strength coursed through his system.
The flames were there, inside, an integral part of him now. Their heat warmed his belly. Still weak from months in captivity, from the daily torture, he knew the fire would heal him. He also knew it would respond to his call.
The room dimmed and the rest of the world resumed its pace. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Dev took a step under his own power. His battered body protested, but he could move.
His fire had incinerated the guards and his torturer, reducing them to piles of ash on the stone floor. With a rush of satisfaction, he scuffed his foot through the piles and scattered their remains among the muck and filth.
Booted feet pounded down the hall.
Dev faced the door, stood straight.
Three guards charged into the room. They took one look at Dev, crossed themselves and tripped over each other to get out. He thought he heard one of them mumble something about a demon.
It was time to leave, to go back to his old life. No more Templars. No more Paris. He wanted to go home and be a simple blacksmith, marry Véronique, raise a family, and live out his life in peace.
Dev stumbled to the door, his foot bumping into a steel helmet one of the guards dropped in his haste to get away. He picked it up and examined the stranger reflected in its polished surface. Dirt and dried blood marred his gaunt features. And his eyes…they were crimson.
I am a demon.
Chapter 8
WREN PROWLED THROUGH CASSIDY’S HOUSE, PICKING through the relics of another person’s life. She was exhausted. The fight, flight and frantic search for some trace of her Knight had wiped her out. The soft leather couch in the living room called her name, begged her to take a load off, but her whirling mind refused to rest.
At the center of her mental vortex lay Dev. Where is he? Is he alive? As she tried to fill in the blanks, her body roamed from room to room and banished the early morning shadows with the flick of a switch. After her first circuit, every light in the house shone bright, but one.
Wren refused to believe Dev was lost to her. She half expected him to walk through the front door at any minute. But that was silly. He had no idea where Cassidy lived, and would most likely head for the Cradle or the condo.
She called home earlier and got the machine. She wanted to call one of the other Knights to help, but without the scrying mirror locked inside the condo, contacting anyone in the Cradle so far underground would be impossible.
I told her to make the mirrors portable. But did Cyndralla listen? No. Made cards instead.
Wren stood over the sleeping loose-end in the bedroom. Cassidy Sinclair lay curled on her side with a pillow clutched to her chest. Petite snores punctuated her deep breathing and a thin line of drool connected her split lip to the pillow.
Wrong place at the wrong time, lady. I should have made you leave. What do I do with you now?
Wren didn’t understand why Cassidy made the decision to stay. If it were her, she would have kicked the carjacker’s ass and gone out for ice cream. But Cassidy didn’t have the same level of training as Wren, so the physical solution wouldn’t have worked for her. Yet this chick chose to stick it out, even proved helpful and somewhat comforting during the crazy search along the south shore of Tampa Bay. She could have left at any time, but she hung close. Why?
Cassidy rolled over.
Wren shook her head, sighed, and resumed her restless journey through the house. Stalking down the short hallway, she ignored the closed door on her left this time. During her first trip, she’d opened every door and gone through all the closets and drawers, except for this room.
It seemed different. The moment she’d stepped in she felt out of place, an intruder into the realm of the sacred. A quick glance at the thick layer of dust coating everything—stuffed animals, Barbie’s Dream House, pink and frilly bed sheets—and the way each and every item was arranged just so told her that the room hadn’t been used in quite some time. A red satin pillow lay across the top of the bed with “Amy” stitched in clumsy pink lettering.
Arranged across the child-sized desk, a large collection of photographs of all shapes and sizes captured the life of a dazzling child with startling blue eyes, chubby pink cheeks and an unruly mop of blond hair from infancy to maybe, five or six. A curly lock of hair tied with a pink ribbon and preserved in a little baggie lay in front of the pictures.
That one visit was enough. Wren had turned off the light, closed the door and never ventured back.
The hallway opened into the living room and that tempting couch. The first hint of morning outlined the panels in the closed vertical blinds as she navigated the furniture and stopped before a group of shelves she’d passed by all night. Trophies, medals, and newspaper articles covered every square inch of the central bookcase’s four shelves.
Cassidy Sinclair, first place, fifty meter free style. Cassidy Sinclair, first place, one hundred meter backstroke. Cassidy Sinclair, first place, two hundred meter free-style. First place. First place. Champion. First place. Yeah, yeah. I get it.
She picked up a worn newspaper clipping.
Let me guess. It’s about Cassidy Sinclair. The article started out, “Cassidy Sinclair sets new record…” Yep.
Wren continued to read.
Whoa, that’s crazy. I’ve held my breath for maybe thirty seconds, but six minutes?
“What are you doing?”
“Waah,” Wren jumped, dropped the article and reached for her knife, but came up empty. “What did you do that for?”
Cassidy yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Do what?” Her innocent, sleepy voice diffused the situation.
“Never mind.”
Cassidy padded across the lush brown carpet to the kitchen.
“Want some coffee?” Not waiting for a reply, Cassidy grabbed the carafe and filled it to the line. “So what’s the plan?”
Wren climbed onto one of the old-fashioned bar stools that lined the kitchen counter and dropped her head into her hands.
“I need to check the north shore.” Wren said.
“I know, but the place will be crawling with cops and reporters and pretty much every other agency imaginable. Hell, I should probably be there.” After spooning in ground coffee, Cassidy flipped the switch and leaned across the counter on her elbows.
Wren palmed her eyes. “Sugar. I need sugar.”
“Sorry, I don’t really have anything.”
Wren went over to the pantry closet and pulled out a package of donuts that had fallen behind the boxes of pasta.
“How did you know…?” Cassidy’s brow lowered.
Wren ripped open the box, took a big bite of chocolate covered goodness, and held up one finger to buy time.
“I, uh, I’ve been through your house.” Saying it out loud, Wren felt like a steaming pile of crap. It hadn’t occurred to her, aside from entering the little girl’s room, that her actions were inappropriate in any way. New places could be dangerous and she needed to get the lay of the land. At least, that’s what she told herself as she pawed through drawer after drawer.
“I see,” Cassidy said.
The coffee maker coughed and wheezed. Cassidy plunked down mugs and fixings, and poured the coffee in silence. Wren upended the sugar container over her cup and watched a waterfall of crystals disappear beneath the dark surface until it threatened to overflow.
“Seriously?” Cassidy shook her head and cupped her mug in both hands.
Wren opened the drawer and self-consciously grabbed a spoon. She didn’t want to do anything to remind Cassidy of her invasion, but she needed the spoon.
“What are they saying on TV?” Cassidy asked.
“What do you mean?”
“This is big news for Tampa. It’s probably on every channel. Didn’t you check?”
Stupid girl. Wrapped up in her own little world of misery and planning, she hadn’t thought of checking the news.
Cassidy pulled her into the living room and turned on the television. “Let’s see what they say.”
“Tragedy at Club Mastodon. Details when we return.”
They sat on the edge of the dark leather sofa. Wren jiggled her left foot and cracked her knuckles while the commercials wasted her time.
“Information is still coming in about the tragic fire and murders at a local hot spot last night.” A news anchor read from the paper he held in his hand.
The word ‘murders’ didn’t sit well with Wren. Her stomach tossed the half-eaten donut and sugar-sludge coffee around.
“Over eighty people were killed at Club Mastodon last night when a man, whom police have not yet identified, set the club on fire, killed five people and the manager inside, then opened fire on other patrons waiting in the parking lot. In the hope of identifying the man, the police have asked us to show the following video. But I warn you, the footage contains disturbing images.”
* * *
Cassidy held her breath as a black and white security video played out. A bald, naked, well-built man stabbed a number of club patrons before turning on the club manager. The camera never found his face, but she knew it was Dev. Had to be.
He’s a killer and I helped him escape.
She stared unseeing at the television as the reporter went on to say that the killer headed south on I-275 over the Sunshine Skyway. On his way, he killed another six people as he plowed into and over them during a freak onset of fog.
“But…Dev was attacked.” The color drained from Wren’s face. “Those people were already dead.”
Cassidy felt sick and used. “Get out.” She had enough. Her gift must have been wrong. “Leave before I call the police.” Cassidy grabbed the phone.
“Ms. Sinclair.” Wren’s voice was calm and quiet as she stood up. “Please, wait. We didn’t do it. You saw what happened on the bridge.”
Cassidy dialed nine. “That was your boyfriend in the video.” She pressed one.
“Boyfriend? You think he’s my boyfriend?” Wren blushed and an uncomfortable giggle bubbled out.
Cassidy imagined a lot of things that could have happened at that moment, but a murderer’s accomplice giggling in her living room like an awkward ninja schoolgirl wasn’t one of them. She imagined Wren pulling a gun from somewhere under her dress, or lunging across the room. Not…that.
Without all that serious end of the world shit stressing her out, she looks like a kid.
“God, I wish.” Wren flopped onto the sofa and smiled shyly. “He doesn’t see me that way.” She paused then raised her eyes to Cassidy’s. “Please, don’t finish that call.”
What just happened?
Cassidy realized she wasn’t facing off against a hardened criminal, but a young girl with a crush. It made Wren seem more human, fragile.
She didn’t hang up the phone, though. She wasn’t ready to do that and only one digit remained between rescue and the unknown.
Wren stared at the floor. Cassidy stared at Wren.
Quiet minutes slipped by.
“Wren.” Frustration made Cassidy’s voice sound hard, so she cleared her throat and started again.
“Wren?” This time her tone softened. “Did you and Dev kill those people?” It was a silly question. How could she believe the answer? Of course the killer would say, “No.”
Wren paused for a moment, head down, hands resting on her knees.
Cassidy got the impression she was thinking about how to say whatever it was she was going to say.
“Cassidy Sinclair.” Wren stood, tone and expression serious. “We didn’t kill anybody. You have nothing but my words and actions to convince you of the truth. Yes, we borrowed your car, but yo
u may have that back once we find Dev. And yes, I searched your house, but only to ensure there was nothing lurking about.” Wren clasped her hands in front of her chest and bowed at the waist. “I apologize for the invasion of your privacy.”
“Give me your hand.” Cassidy held hers out and waited.
Wren titled her head and raised one eyebrow, but crossed the room and placed her hand in Cassidy’s.
“Repeat what you said,” Cassidy said.
Through her gift, Cassidy felt the girl’s sincerity, embarrassment, and concern as Wren reaffirmed her statement.
Cassidy hung up the phone.
“Let’s find him.” She could really use that swim now to calm her nerves, to chill out, but it would have to wait. At least she had something to look forward to at the end of this ordeal—a nice warm swimming pool in her backyard.
Cassidy zipped the blinds, pulled open the door and stepped out into the chilly September air. Beyond the pool and grass, her back yard opened onto a choppy Tampa Bay glimmering in the early morning sunshine. The gray slate tiles beneath her bare feet were cold, freezing cold. She shivered, arms covered in goose bumps, and hopped back in the house.
What the…?
A layer of ice coated the entire patio floor and extended out to the surrounding grass. The privacy fence to either side of her property prevented her from seeing the neighbors’ property, but she imagined their yards to be frozen as well.
“Um, Wren, check this out.”
Wren took a quick look and shouted, “He’s here!”
“What?”
“Let me out.” Wren bolted through the doorway and charged across the ice-rimed tile. Arms whirling, feet sliding in different directions, she half ran, half fell into the wrought iron patio table. She glanced back to Cassidy as if to say, “Are you coming?” before venturing further into the yard.