by Scott Eder
Where are you?
Magnus and Wren followed her silent lead. Outside the pediatric ward she stopped beside a child-sized kitchen play area complete with table, chairs, and Playskool appliances. A whimper behind the plastic refrigerator fixed the position. Cassidy gently lifted the plastic table out of the way and went around the refrigerator.
“Oh dear God,” she breathed and dropped to her knees at the feet of a little girl. Eyes shut tight, the girl tossed her head from left to right. Short red bangs swished across her forehead.
“Magnus, pull the kitchen out. We need room.”
The Earth Knight stepped closer and eased the kitchen pieces up and out of the way. Cassidy scooted up to the little girl’s head. Her skin was too pale, nearly white, but thankfully not gray yet. A blue tint colored her lips.
“Wren, we need something to warm her up. Blankets. Anything. Go.”
Wren ghosted away.
Carotid pulse faint, but there. Breathing shallow. Cassidy chafed the girl’s arms and motioned for Magnus to do the same with her legs.
Wren appeared with an armload of blankets and a portable electric heater. Cassidy covered her patient, leaving only her head, hands and little feet uncovered, as Wren plugged in the heater and positioned it near her chest.
The girl shifted, kicked her left foot into Magnus’s knee that sent the little pink and purple lights on her sneaker to twinkling.
Come on, baby.
The wheezing stopped. Cassidy felt for a pulse. Nothing.
No.
She flipped the blankets down to the girl’s waist and started CPR. Thirty quick pumps. Two breaths. Thirty quick pumps. Two breaths. Cassidy paused, checked for a pulse. Nothing.
Don’t leave me.
“Magnus, Wren, rub her legs.”
Thirty pumps.
Come on, girl.
Two breaths.
Breathe, baby. You can do it. Cassidy’s eyes welled.
Thirty pumps.
Not another one.
Two breaths.
Cassidy checked. Nothing.
She couldn’t hold the tears at bay. They rolled down her cheeks and plopped onto her bunched hands as they pumped up and down on the ironed-on image of Dora the Explorer.
Two breaths.
Thirty pumps.
Still nothing.
She leaned forward and placed her forehead on the child’s chest. A barely-there whisper tickled her cheek. Cassidy froze. It came again, stronger this time. Without moving her head, she slid her hand to that thin, fragile neck and felt a faint pulse beneath the skin.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
“Cassidy, we need to go.” Magnus warned.
“She’s alive.” Cassidy said.
Magnus and Wren’s mouths dropped open and they stared first at the girl and then at Cassidy.
“Take her.” Magnus said.
Cassidy clutched the little girl to her chest. Magnus took the lead until they got back to the lobby.
“Go around back.” He told Wren. “I’ll meet you there.”
Magnus pounded down the hall and turned into the stairwell. Cassidy followed Wren through the Emergency room exit and found a discrete spot to wait between two ambulances.
The sirens reached a constant volume and leveled out.
What will they make of all this?
The child stirred, whimpered. Cassidy rocked her, made comforting shushing noises in her ear and kissed her on the forehead.
You’re going to be okay.
Magnus emerged a few minutes later carrying a bundle wrapped in a lead x-ray smock under one arm.
“Did you get it?” Wren asked.
“The parts I could find at least.”
Cassidy interrupted. “How are we getting out of here?” She didn’t have her car and she didn’t know how Wren and Magnus had gotten there.
“Wren, do you know how to hot-wire a car?” Magnus asked, eyeing the vehicles in the staff parking lot.
“No.”
Magnus cracked his knuckles. “I guess it’s on me.”
Chapter 22
DEV HALF-HEARTEDLY CLUBBED THE PADDED DUMMY with a wooden practice sword. I brought this on myself. He always beat the snot out of the blue one on the end, but his blows lacked their usual fire and energy. Its sewed-on buttons and crooked-stitched smile mocked him.
Dejected, he tossed the sword at the dummy’s dangling feet and lumbered across the sparring circle. Past elliptical machines, treadmills and stationary bikes, he roamed to the racks of free-weights, plunked down on a bench and waited for his spirit to motivate him.
Grounded. Dev lay back, let his arms dangle free, and stared toward the ceiling. Like a bratty child.
“The mighty one has fallen, no?” Dronor’s Spanish accent reminded him of Antonio Banderas minus the long hair and bad-ass cool in Desperado.
Dev groaned.
“See how he wallows in defeat, punished like a little boy.” Donor tsked as he made his way closer.
Don’t push me. Dev’s anger ignited and he sat up.
The Knight of Water wended his way through the equipment, ran his hand along the rails of the treadmills, taking his time.
From under a lowered brow, Dev tracked the Water Knight’s unconcerned movements, sizing up the situation. Loose navy-blue slacks, tight white polo, rubber soled shoes, George Hamilton tan, rapier strapped to his hip….
He’s come to pick a fight. An accomplished fencer, Dronor relied on precise, lightning-quick strikes. For him, it was an art, not a martial skill. He spent long hours lunging and feinting and prancing in front of a mirror, admiring the majesty of his own form. But when challenged, he had business elsewhere.
“I’m not in the mood,” Dev said.
“Oh, I am sure you are not ready for visitors.” Dronor straddled a bench opposite Dev, and mirrored his posture. “The righteous have won the day.”
Dronor’s rolling ‘R’s set Dev’s teeth on edge. He clenched his fists in his lap and let the flames build up strength in his gut. Rage. His friend for so many years had his back.
“If you’re here to fight, shut up and get on with it.”
A cocky smile spread within the boundaries of a carefully groomed van dyke. Arrogance sparkled in his hazel-colored eyes. With fluid grace, the Knight of Water gained his feet, drew his sword and leveled it in front of Dev’s nose.
“As you wish, gusano.” Dronor spat out the last word.
Dev got to his feet, the steady tip of Dronor’s rapier followed his movement. “If you’re going to insult me, at least use a word I can understand.” Empty hands raised in front of him, Dev emphasized his unarmed status.
Dronor lowered his sword and nodded toward the middle of the room where a twenty foot circle had been marked off on the floor. The Knight of Water strode into the center, rested his thin blade on his shoulder and waited.
Dev limped to the rack and eyed the vast array of weapons on display. Aside from his left leg, which still gave him some trouble, the rest of his body had pretty much healed. Days on his back left him feeling stiff and uncoordinated, so this fight should prove interesting.
The long knives piqued his interest, but the morningstar looked appealing. He imagined that big spiked ball smacking into the side of Dronor’s smug face. The power of the fire burning under his skin flickered and danced at the image.
Nah. Don’t want to kill the arrogant fool. The knives called to him. Maybe just carve my initials in his uptight ass.
Dronor tapped his foot and cleared his throat.
You can wait. Dev took his time, pretending to agonize over the decision he had already made, but eventually grabbed a pair of simple, straight-bladed daggers. Compared to Cinder, they were sad and clunky, a pair of beat up Pintos to a Ferrari, but they’d do the job. The choice gave Dronor a definite reach advantage, but Dev balanced that out with aggression and ability.
He twirled the knives and played up his limp as he moved into the arena.
Dronor
adopted a classic fencing stance, complete with left arm bent and at his hip. “En garde.”
“Bring it, Drippy.”
Lip curled at the insult, Dronor lunged. Dev blocked the blow, but it came in quicker than he expected, quicker than he thought the old Knight could move.
Another lunge, down and to the side. Dev barely knocked it aside.
Damn, he’s quick. Dev crouched, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. He needed to take this fight more seriously.
Dronor noticed the attitude change and charged in with a furious combination.
Sweep high. Block. Slash low. Dodge. Dev forgot about his left leg and, as he twisted to avoid the latest strike, it gave out and he dropped to his knees.
Dronor capitalized with a stab to Dev’s left ass cheek. It was a superficial wound, but stung all the same.
Son of a bi— The rage broke free of Dev’s control. Fire roared to life and engulfed his hands. They became a blur in front of him as he rose and recklessly charged the Knight of Water.
Slash. Jab. Slash right. Slash left. Thrust.
Wild swings left Dev panting while Dronor danced out of the way unharmed. The older Knight seemed amused by Dev’s fiery outburst and rage-inspired tactics.
“You are pathetic and should have been locked up long ago.”
Fire screamed through his body. Dropping the knives, he threw himself at the Knight of Water, grasping for his throat. When his blazing hands came in contact with Dronor’s skin, a torrent of steam rose into the air.
“You forget, stupid Knight of Flame, I am your foil.” Dronor smacked Dev across the top of his skull with a bare palm that sent a gush of water down the Knight of Flame’s face. It sizzled and separated into droplets that boiled down his cheeks. “Your fire means nothing to me.”
The water cooled Dev’s fury, left him wet and fuming. Dronor pushed him off and followed with a slap of his blade to Dev’s chest.
“Pathetic.” Dronor sheathed his rapier and strode toward the door. “You will be stuck here forever, Quinteele.”
Pathetic. Dev sat down hard on the wet floor, landed on his new wound and quickly adjusted position.
Ass kicked twice in the same week. I know better. Why did I let that Spanish fossil get to me?
A glimmer of the rage he felt before stirred, but he immediately tamped it down.
If I can’t control the fire and rage, I am going to be stuck here forever.
Chapter 23
THE ELEVATOR PINGED OPEN ONTO THE bright waiting room of Alexander’s penthouse office. Whistling, he stepped from the doors. It had been a good morning, despite that Sinclair woman’s impudence. Alexander’s new secretary scampered over with a fist full of post-its and “panic” stamped across her forehead.
“Mr. Gray, Mr. Gray.” The blonde wheezed, her voice scratchy and annoying. Stale cigarette smoke clung to her polyester jacket and too-short-to-be-taken-seriously skirt. Thick brown hose and chunky shoes completed her comical ensemble.
She parked herself in his path, waving the papers at him. “Oh, Mr. Gray, thank God you’re finally here.”
Her breath lunged at him—a lethal mix of Marlboro and coffee.
“Calm yourself, Ms.…?”
“Dorayis, sir. Kareena Dorayis.” She smiled demurely. “The agency sent me over this morning.”
“Calm yourself, Ms. Dorayis. Take a deep breath.”
And, darkness prevails, a breath mint.
“I am sure whatever it is you are pushing in my face can wait for a few more minutes.”
Alexander stepped around her, careful not to touch any part of her loathsome body, and rushed for the door to his office.
“Please see that I’m not disturbed.” Alexander shut the door in her face and grinned when he heard the follow-up thunk and muffled curse.
“It’s about time, little brother.” A powerful voice, rich and condescending, greeted him. Magdon.
Surprised, Alexander schooled his features.
“Brother,” Alexander approached the portrait of his eldest brother on the wall. Magdon glared from the canvas, his puffy red cheeks billowed in and out as if he’d run all the way through the magical link. “It has been too long. What brings your sentience here to my insignificant harborage?”
“Can it, Lexi.”
Bastard.
“Why, whatever do you mean?” Alexander portrayed the innocent well, but his brother didn’t buy it.
“What is going on down there?” Magdon’s jowls flopped. “I’ve been getting condolences from CEOs and government officials about the accident at the hospital.”
“Oh, that. It was just a little test.”
“As the CEO of Daegon Gray,” Magdon lorded his position over his younger brother, “I need to be informed of all ‘tests’ that could possibly affect our corporation’s sterling reputation. Are we agreed on this…brother?”
“Reprimand duly noted. Has our business concluded then?”
“So, Alexander…,” eyes shifting left and right, Magdon leaned forward. “What sort of test was this?”
Curious, are we?
It was only his brother on the portrait, not his father. He could be honest, to a small degree, without fear of major reprisal.
“I wanted to see the magic of the shadow orbs in action.”
“And?” Magdon’s expression grew eager, eyes bright and lustful. “What happened, little brother? Did the humans blow up?”
“Why would they do that?”
The fact that his eldest brother did not know how the orbs affected the humans was another surprise.
“I thought, hoped really, that they would blow up.” Magdon’s fat red cheeks sagged.
Interesting.
“Sad to tell, it was nothing so dramatic. Boring, truth be told. The weaklings changed color then died. No blood, no spectacle, no style.”
“That’s it? How…anticlimactic. They should blow up. I’ll work on that.”
“I was led to believe it was supposed to be boring and appear to be caused by some natural phenomenon.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Magdon cocked his head like he was listening to something on his end of the line.
What an odd call.
“What is new with you?” Alexander asked.
“We’re moving forward, little brother. Daegon Gray bought out the overseas manufacturing companies last week. A couple tweaks to the assembly line, add a touch of Shadow magic here and there, and voila.”
“When will the first product be available?”
“Six months, maybe sooner. We’ve initiated a global recall of all baby products. Staged a few, one or two thousand, infant deaths around the globe to make the defects look real and serious.”
Alexander nodded, impressed.
“You know how these humans get,” Magdon continued, “Kill one of their young, and they go berserk.” Looking up, he ticked points off on his blunt, sausage fingers. “We killed their larvae and framed the infant product manufacturers, what, six weeks ago? Their stocks tanked and Daegon, with the promise of fixing what was broken in the—” He placed his hand on his chest, “—interest of humanity, gobbled them up for pennies on the dollar.”
“Well done.”
“Once the recalled products are back, we’ll repackage under the Little Ghost brand and send them back out. Pacifiers, nipples, chew toys, the lot. We have to gain their trust with a decent product before we can introduce Shadow into the mix.”
Alexander bit his tongue.
Too long. If I had run that project, I would have had it done by now. But, no, this brainless brute gets to have all the fun.
“And Father approves?”
“Of course he does. We developed the plan together.”
Together!
Magdon burst into laughter. “Every time I think about it, it makes me laugh. Building an army using their own young.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “You have to love the beauty of it. Six months from now, a horde of little shadow beasts will be cr
awling or flying around on their itty, bitty bat wings. Ahhh, good times. We’re almost there, Lexi. Father’s glorious plan unfolds.”
“Yes…glorious. So, brother, what is next?”
Magdon leaned forward, pushing out the painting’s canvas a half inch. “The insect plague, knives in the dark, death and destruction. You know, the fun stuff. Get the different human factions blaming each other then sit back and watch the mayhem. It’s been a long, tedious wait, but mankind has finally developed the tools to bring about their own subjugation. Once they’ve plunged their world into a state of permanent shadow, we will rule.”
What is all this permanent shadow nonsense? No one has mentioned this to me! How do the orbs work into the plan?
“Ah, yes, the insect plague. So, Thargen, is involved then?” Alexander pretended to rub his chin to hide the building tension in his jaw.
“Of course. Has been since the beginning.” Magdon turned his head and nodded to someone off screen. “Ooh, hey, gotta go. Seriously, though, let me know when you plan another one of your little stunts so I can be more prepared.”
Little stunts?
“Are you not going to ask about the orb production and shipments?”
“Oh, yeah, right. The orbs. I’ll ask next time.” Magdon retreated into the frame, losing perspective and dimension until his fat, lifeless face stared from the canvas.
Alexander paced the length of his office. My brother did not know the effects of the orbs, why? He did not want any information regarding their production or shipping schedule. Again, why? Why is father working directly with him? Knives in the dark? And Thargen knows about this grand plan? What is going on?
Just put it out of your mind, Alexander, Gothrodul’s thoughts intruded. Think of something else. Or, better yet, put on the news to see if they are still talking about St. Matthew’s. That’ll cheer you up.
Alexander shrugged and turned on the TV, looking for a report on St. Matthew’s. Instead, a woman with long brown hair and an obnoxious voice cackled into the screen from the set of some strange kitchen.
Blast. Someone changed my channel. Alexander grabbed the remote and flicked through the stations. Judges, soap operas and talk shows dominated the daytime cable lineup. What is all this tripe? Where is the ne—ah.