Holy shit, Octurna had manifested her Sanctuary inside the sunken ship.
Octurna held up one arm, and the ocean boiled as a crimson bolt of lightning shot out at me. It struck the Dryad and incinerated the plant-creature. Below me, the ocean vegetation calmed down and returned to its normal state.
Had the sorceress’ magic display destroyed the Dryad for good, or was she already growing a new body back on her island? It didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was that the mission was over. I was going home.
And buoyed by these thoughts, I swam with energetic strokes toward the sunken wreck.
11
Octurna and I were back in the Sanctuary’s temple chamber where we had first met. A cathedral-like vaulted ceiling stretched hundreds of feet above us, making me feel small and insignificant. Giant columns ran down the length of the space, and flaring torches painted surreal shadows.
The place had been off limits since my arrival, and Octurna had never explained why. What was the real purpose of this spooky temple? What gods did the sorceress worship, and what rituals did she perform within these walls? A furtive glance at the collection of stone gargoyles and other grotesques inside the temple suggested that these questions best remained unanswered.
We now stood in front of the glyph-engraved altar where Octurna had saved my life. The sorceress and I had made love on its hard surface, and she had transferred both her magic and tattoos to me when we both climaxed. Now she would use the same altar to resurrect the dead.
My stomach churned in dark anticipation, and a chill spiked up my spine. I had witnessed some terrifying shit in the last few months, but bringing the dead back to life didn't feel like another day at the office.
Death had been a part of my world since I’d joined the Marines. The memories of fallen soldiers and police officers dominated most of my nightmares. I’d seen the grim reaper’s handiwork too many times to count. I respected his power and hated his voracious appetite. There was nothing noble about death. It was ugly and painful and could strike at any moment. Worst of all was its finality. Death offered no second chances.
Or at least that’s what I had believed until recently.
Some people got another chance. Some people could come back from the afterlife.
Especially if they knew magic.
“Are you all right, Jason?” the sorceress asked in response to my troubled mood.
I nodded, a little too quick.
“Don’t make me regret bringing you along for this ritual.”
My mouth pressed into a hard line. “I risked my life going after your friend’s remains. I deserve to see what you do with them.”
The sorceress eyed me in contemplative silence for a beat, then held up the cup with the slain Guardian’s blood.
“Let us begin.”
Octurna pointed at the satchel that held Diamonique’s skeleton, and I emptied the bag of bones on the altar. I tried to be as respectful about the act as possible, all too aware of the connection the sorceress had shared with the fallen Guardian. I took a closer look at the ivory remains as I laid them out. There was nothing ordinary about these bones. Someone had etched a network of glyphs and other occult symbols into the Guardian’s skull, and I noticed similar patterns on the larger bones. My gut told me these markings weren't created post-mortem but were part of the magical preparation that had kept Diamonique’s spirit in our reality. She had done this to herself to cheat death.
Octurna stepped closer and took in the skull with shiny eyes. “Soon you will stand by my side again, my dear friend. You’ll walk among the living, and we’ll make your killers pay for all their crimes.”
Octurna dipped her fingers into the cup and drew strange symbols and patterns across the skull and the other bones. Whispering words in an ancient tongue, she cast circles in the air.
At first, nothing happened. Then, a scratching noise interrupted the stillness. The bones on the altar vibrated with an unnatural energy and started to move. Like pieces of a puzzle, the remains came together. Femurs snapped into the pelvis, ribs fused with the sternum, humeri connected with the scapulas and clavicles.
I watched in horrified fascination as the skeleton reassembled itself. Octurna circled the bleached remains. Her face was set in determination as she continued to flick Diamonique's blood at the altar, thick drops pearling on bone. Her guttural singsong chant grew in volume and intensity, her eyes rolling up into white crescents, in the grip of the resurrection spell.
The ivory remains shook with power as the blood worked its magic. Tissue regenerated and strands of flesh spun from thin air. Organs reformed, muscle fibers gripped bone, and a web of veins and arteries sprouted into existence. As Octurna’s spell rebuilt her fallen friend, I felt like I was looking at time-lapse footage of a 3D printer in action. A wrinkled bag of skin materialized around the skeleton, then expanded and inflated like a balloon. Fuller now, the thing on the altar looked almost human, but with a slightly unformed edge.
A quick glance at the sorceress told me this ritual was putting her through an emotional wringer. Her eyes gleamed with hope and love and fear. How would it feel to see a dead loved return from the grave? How would I react if I could bring only one of my fallen comrades back to life?
The ritual continued, Octurna’s chanting becoming louder and more intense as she sprinkled more of the blood on the human form of Diamonique.
And then the cup was empty, and the rapid flow of words stopped. A renewed silence fell over the temple.
My heart pounded, my eyes riveted to the altar. A beautiful naked woman lay on the stone slab. Her skin gave off a healthy glow in the halo of the guttering torches, her beautiful breasts rising with each new breath her dormant form drew. Octurna stared at this sleeping vision of female perfection. I had never seen the sorceress both this vulnerable and happy before. She gingerly closed in on the altar, avoiding any sudden moves almost as if she feared it might shatter a fragile illusion.
Octurna touched Diamonique’s face, disbelief giving way to a big smile when she felt the warmth of her reborn friend’s skin.
The sorceress beamed with unbridled joy as she leaned over the woman and planted a deep kiss on her forehead. I didn’t want to stare, but it was hard not to. The painting of Diamonique had failed to do this woman’s breathtaking Nordic beauty justice. Flaxen hair framed her strong features, her tall and lean frame perfectly proportioned. She made me think of a Viking snow queen—contained, severe, and magnetic in her icy intensity.
Octurna caressed her friend's golden mane. “Wake up, my dear friend.”
Diamonique’s blue eyes fluttered open and focused on Octurna.
The sorceress’ face brightened, but then her happy expression faltered. Something was wrong.
I eased closer to the altar, and my gaze found Diamonique’s vacant expression. She was awake but not present.
“Diamonique?” Octurna asked.
The beauty responded with an animalistic grunt, her eyes empty of intelligence.
“What’s wrong with her?” I asked, feeling like an idiot.
Octurna scanned Diamonique with growing concern. “Something is amiss,” she said.
“You sure? Maybe she just needs a little time. She’s been dead for a century.”
“Confusion and disorientation are to be expected after what she’s experienced. But she is completely blank, almost as if…” Octurna broke off, a dark realization creeping into her striking features.
“Rise, Diamonique.”
Like a puppet, the nude goddess rose from the altar. At six feet, she had about three inches on the sorceress. Once again I tried to be a gentleman and failed miserably. I couldn’t help staring, but I felt only horror instead of lust.
She stood there like a robot, her eyes empty of intelligence.
Octurna flicked her wrist. A moment later, the reborn Guardian was wearing a light blue robe similar to the red one favored by the sorceress.
"What’s going on?” I asked. “Did
something go wrong with the ritual?”
Octurna frowned. “Physically, she is healthy and alive.”
“But?”
“She’s without spirit," Octurna said, her features knotted with concern and disappointment. "She doesn’t have a soul.”
I shook my head. And I had believed this day couldn't get any crazier.
“Any idea what happened?”
“Her spirit should be bound to her remains, but someone severed the connection.”
It didn’t take a huge logical leap to guess who was behind this. “You think the Shadow Cabal is responsible.”
“Yes,” Octurna said, her voice full of dark promise. “The bastards thought of everything. They cut off the link between Diamonique's body and spirit, imprisoned her soul.”
“So she’s out there somewhere…”
Octurna nodded, a dangerous edge creeping into her gaze. “We'll find her spirit and reunite it with her body. Anyone foolish enough to get in our way will pay the ultimate price.”
Octurna’s eyes gleamed with grim determination, making me glad I was on her good side.
The Cabal was about to experience the full wrath of the sorceress.
12
We left the temple and returned to the observation chamber. Octurna instructed Diamonique to approach the gleaming stained-glass windows, a soulless puppet under her command.
“You think Diamonique’s body can help us locate her soul?” I guessed.
The sorceress nodded. “Body and soul want to be reunited—they enact a magnetic pull on each other.”
I remembered how the island in the Philippines had revealed itself when Octurna sprinkled Diamonique’s blood on the windows. It made sense—at least as much as anything magical made sense to me.
“Step closer to the windows, my dear Diamonique. Reach out for them. Show us where you are.”
Diamonique advanced toward the stained glass, her features locked in a blank mask. She held up her arm, inches separating her from the shimmering windows.
“Reach into the windows. Find yourself. Find your soul.”
And she did.
Her fingers dipped into one of the bright windows, and its surface crackled, warped, and elongated. The zombie-like beauty emitted a piercing scream, and I covered my ears.
“Where are you, Diamonique? Reveal yourself to us.” Octurna shouted over the screaming, a shrill note edging into her voice.
The windows splintered into many smaller images before turning into a large window which showed a foreboding, prison-like structure nestled in a densely forested landscape.
Was Diamonique’s soul hidden behind those high stone walls? The image in the window changed and turned into what I assumed was an inside view of the grim facility. Within seconds, I realized I was looking at a hospital. Orderlies and nurses filled the corridors and handed out meds to bedridden patients. Sounds drifted from the hospital into the Sanctuary’s observation chamber—a chorus of coughs and creaking beds that bashed my ears.
The window swept through the hospital like a Steadicam. It zoomed past doctors through a series of padded cells that held drooling patients who wore straight-jackets.
It’s not just a hospital. It’s an asylum, I realized.
The magical camera landed on a beautiful brunette inside one of the rubber-padded cells. Mystical tattoos covered the patient's face. Suddenly, almost as if the woman sensed our watchful gaze, she looked right in our direction.
And as the tattooed patient’s eyes locked on Diamonique, they both broke into another chilling high-pitched shriek. The scene erupted to surreal life. The walls, floor, and ceiling melted and distorted like a Dali painting. The contours of the rubber room liquefied and then flowed toward the window like an incoming tidal wave.
A beat later, the scene froze into a stained-glass tableau.
The blonde goddess thankfully stopped screaming as soon as the contact with the outside world broke off. Spent, Diamonique collapsed, and I caught her limp form before she hit the flagstone floor. As I lowered her to the ground, Octurna shot me a grateful look.
“Who is the chick with the ink? And what just happened?”
Octurna shrugged elegantly. “Diamonique found her soul.”
I gave her a long glance, my mind filled with questions. “So the Cabal is keeping Diamonique’s soul in a nuthouse?”
“The Murtaugh Hill State Hospital. It opened its doors in 1864 in time to admit soldiers from the Civil War. Doctors didn't understand post-traumatic stress during those days, and they treated patients with lobotomies and electric shocks. Over the years, many of its patients died there, and the hospital staff buried their bodies in mass graves on the property.”
“Sounds like the place has some bad juju.”
Octurna nodded in agreement. “Which is why the Cabal took over the facility. It’s the perfect nexus of dark energy. Wherever there is human suffering, their black magic finds fertile soil.”
“I’m still having a hard time wrapping my mind around this whole thing. Why would a secret magical society run an asylum?”
“To lock up their enemies.”
I cocked an eyebrow.
“I thought the Cabal murdered their enemies?”
“Sometimes it’s better to discredit your enemies than to destroy them and turn them in martyrs and heroes. While we had this chat, I scanned the list of patients committed to the facility in the last few decades.”
Talk about multitasking. Her windows acted both as a surveillance system and a magical version of Google.
“I’m guessing you found something interesting.”
“All the current inmates are people who tried to blow the whistle on the Cabal’s secret dealings. Brave souls who sensed that something was wrong with the world and attempted to expose the enemy. Most of their patients are former journalists, police officers, and private detectives. Folks who had caught a glimpse behind the curtain and were ready to share what they saw.”
And that’s why the Cabal shut them down. Painted them as crazies and had them committed to a psychiatric facility.
Warehousing enemies in mental hospitals wasn’t a new tactic. The Soviet Union had routinely locked up dissidents in asylums, treating political opposition as a psychiatric problem. The Cabal had copied a page from their playbook. Or maybe it was the other way around. By committing them to a mental hospital, the Cabal turned potential whistleblowers into crazed conspiracy theorists.
Octurna’s words made me think of Keira and the story which had almost gotten her killed in Malibu. An intrepid reporter like her could have ended up in a Cabal asylum.
“So all the patients in this facility…”
“Knew the truth, and they were ready to doing something about it.”
The thought of such a hospital existing in the freest nation on Earth, a country I loved with all my heart, made me sick to my stomach.
“And what about the lady with the tats?”
“Those tattoos are wards designed to trap a soul within a physical body.”
I pondered this for a second. “So Diamonique’s soul is inside that woman?”
Octurna nodded as she scanned another window. I followed her gaze and saw a faded black-and-white photograph of the same woman from the asylum. She wore an old-fashioned dress and stood in front of a garish poster that featured a crystal ball with an eye inside, rays of mystical energy emanating from its center. Bold letters read: “Experience the Psychic Wonders of Madame Zamorra.”
“The picture was taken in 1913. You're looking at Nicole Zamorra. Not a mage but a human with acute psychic abilities who tried to make the public aware that the Cabal was responsible for the first World War.”
I felt sick at the thought.
Octurna continued, “Sixty million perished in a ritual designed to send the world into a dimension of darkness. The Guardians thwarted the ritual but our victory came at a terrible cost, thinning our ranks and paving the way for the rise of the Shadow Cabal.”
&nbs
p; “Let me get this straight. The Cabal hunted down Diamonique, killed her, and imprisoned her spirit inside the body of a medium who could hold her soul.”
“Yes. Then the Cabal warded Nicole Zamorra’s body with tattoos, trapping Diamonique’s spirit in the psychic's body. The human brain can’t house two souls for any length of time. It must’ve pushed poor Nicole to the brink.”
I was still wrapping my head around all of this when a different thought occurred to me. “How come the psychic hasn’t aged at all in the last century?”
“The same reason I don’t look as though I’m over a hundred years old.”
The penny dropped. “Time flows differently inside the asylum. It’s kinda like your fortress.”
“I’m afraid so. The hospital once was a real building, but the decades have altered the place, turning it into a living organism of sorts. You saw how it responded when it sensed our magic.”
“What about the outlines of those people in the melting walls?”
“Previous victims, souls the building consumed.”
I tried to wrap my brain around the horror of it all. “You’re saying this asylum is an organism that eats its patients?”
“Eventually. It feeds on the patients’ misery until there is nothing left for them to give. And then they become part of the building. This wouldn’t be the first time the Shadow Cabal employed such a living house of horror.”
One of the stained-glass windows filled with new images. I watched as three mages entered a decrepit, gothic mansion. Judging by the dated style of their suits and hats, I was witnessing a scene from around the time the Guardians were hunted down, right after World War I.
Once inside the spooky mansion, the intrepid trio took a few cautious steps. They had crossed about half of the room when the floor dissolved beneath their feet, turning into a thick, gelatinous mass that devoured them like a swamp. They screamed in terrible agony, the syrupy, swirling floor growing red with spilled blood.
Night Slayer 2: Monster Quest Page 11