by Lee Isserow
He reached into his pocket and felt the rough edges of a coin, the metal warmed by a night and a day against his thigh. He palmed it, and removed the hand from the pocket, balling it up into a fist.
Reluctantly, he lifted that fist to his mouth, placed his lips against thumb and first finger. There were words he had been told it needed to hear, words that were etched into his mind's eye, words he would not dare let himself forget. He whispered the words the coin was waiting for, and felt the rough metal disk in his palm react. It was generating heat within his grasp. Light began to shine out from between his fingers, and he kept a tight clasp on it, knowing it was not time, not yet.
He had to wait forty five more seconds.
Wait for heat to rise, and the light to peak.
Then it would be time.
But the coin was not subtle, as it prepared itself for the task ahead. The glows and glimmers that escaped from his fist were starting to draw attention. He thrust the clenched hand into his coat, and instantly became paranoid about the shopkeepers and patrons alike that appeared to be staring in his direction. They were muttering to one another, he had inadvertently become the topic of much intrigue and speculation for one and all.
He was glad to have shrouded his identity, but even though they could not tell who he was, and certainly wouldn't be able to pick him out of a line up, they could definitely tell that he was up to something. The whispering to oneself might have been usual activity for some of the more peculiar shoppers at the market, but the glowing fist most certainly was not.
Thirty seconds. He scanned the crowed, and saw the flat tops of six, seven, then eight heads over the top of the stalls. Someone had alerted security, and they were coming towards him, rectangular skulls, grey skin. Damn homunculi. . .
The first came out of the stalls, sending a display of trinkets flying as the creature's arm thundered through the air towards him, fingers primed to grab the arm stuffed in the coat.
Twenty seconds. The second emerged, then the third, the rest not far behind. He took a breath, flexed the fingers of his free hand, spun on his heel, and threw his palm up in the direction of the closest homunculus.
The shadows from within the creature's body burst out of its mouth, then coiled back and became solid in an instant. They punched the giant man-made man in the face, then the darkness whipped around him like tentacles, wrapped up its massive arms and tied them tight to the body, lashed around its legs and pulled the great grey man down to his knees. It fought for freedom, but the grip the shadows had on him was too strong.
Ten seconds. The other homunculi came for him, unperturbed by their kin's plight. No thought for their own safety either, for they had no thoughts. They had a purpose, and subduing the shrouded man ahead of them was that sole purpose.
He knew it would take too long to bind them all, and timing was everything. He made a judgement call, a split-second moral decision. After all, they were not men, but creations. Even if they were not coming for him, they had limited lifespans, would never know love nor fear, and would disappear from existence into a pile of dust before the week was out. . .
He threw his hand across from one to the next. Each of the homunculi fell into the shadows that lay below their feet, disappearing into the realm of darkness where they would live out the rest of their short lives. And when those lives ended, their dust would blow through the shadows for the rest of eternity.
The onlookers froze, their eyes wide, none willing to intervene with whatever the shrouded man intended to do. He pulled the hand from his coat, the light gleamed, blinded one and all as he flung the coin into the fountain.
Light filled the market from wall to wall, climbing up and up, the glows doing their best to reach a ceiling that did not exist.
When the light faded, and those in the market regained their sight, the man who commanded the shadows, who dispatched with the homunculi, who made the fountain explode into light with some unknown magick, was gone.
But the magick in the waters, that would pervade. It had become bonded at the subatomic level, as it would remain until he had finished his task, done what needed to be done. There was no turning back now.
Next time, at the next location, they would likely be expecting him. And as the days went on, many would be injured, some might even die, but he could not let this perturb him.
Nothing would stop him―nothing could stop him.
After all, he was the Prince of Darkness.
The Prince of Darkness is available
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