Killing Rocks

by DD Barant

  “In a world of magic and monsters,” the Voice intones, “in a time of upheaval and change, a great evil will rise, threatening not only those who live … but the dead as well.”

  Scary music swells. Either this is the trailer for a horror movie, or it’s about to go off the rails into parody. I know which one I’m hoping for.

  “When there’s no more room in Nightshadow … no more Mr. Nice Zombie.”

  I glance around nervously, but most people are still looking up, staring at what looks like a green-tinted comet, streaking across the sky. I seem to remember something about a comet from the original Night of the Living Dead, and it didn’t have anything to do with household cleansers or one of Santa’s reindeer.

  To the cinemyth’s credit, it doesn’t go with the standard zombies-clawing-their-way-out-of-the-grave bit—but then, it’s hard to claw your way through asphalt and concrete.

  The zombies appear from the casinos and hotels, dressed as blackjack dealers and cocktail waitresses, croupiers and bartenders. Their skin is gray, their eyes dead; a few have eyeballs dangling down their cheeks or similar gory nastiness exposed. They’re not so much staggering as shambling; maybe that’s a petty detail, but I’m a detail-oriented person. Especially with corpses.

  And then they change.

  A light flares in their eyes, a sickly green light that matches the light in the sky. Apparently this is a signal from outer space that informs them that they are no longer the brain-eating, mostly brain-dead zombies that like to shuffle from place to place; no, now they’re the new, modern zombies, the kind that like to move at an all-out gallop and are really, really pissed off. Hey, I’d be mad, too, if I came back from the grave and discovered I was stuck in a permanent marathon.

  They lunge at the crowd, clearly bent on mayhem. And then the people around us start to transform—not into zombies, but weres: were-lions, were-bears, were-bulls. Everything but wolves, which tells me that despite the Vegas trappings, this is still a Nightshadow myth.

  The two groups slam into each other. The Voice declares, “A war will be fought, a war for the very soul of a land. Fought on the streets, in the jungle, in the mountains. A war with only one possible outcome.”

  “Not liking where this is going,” I shout at Azura. Shouting seems to be the only way to communicate in the middle of the snarling, howling, bellowing battle that’s going on all around us.

  And then it all changes, jumping to another scene. We’re in the middle of the New York, New York casino’s reproduction of the Brooklyn Bridge, which doesn’t go anywhere but has a great Irish bar in the middle. That’s where we are now, crouching behind locked doors with furniture piled up against them as a crude barricade. Through the cut-glass windows of the door I can see them coming, stalking toward us from one end of the bridge: a crowd of weres, maybe even the same one we just saw fighting for their lives.

  Apparently they lost.

  “Uh, ’Zura? Is zombieism contagious in your world?”

  “What? No, of course not. The underdead are an expression of Order and Death—contagion is a mixture of Life and Chaos.”

  “Guess these guys failed Elemental Metaphysics 101, then.” The same eerie green light shines from the weres’ eyes, and there are underdead scattered throughout the crowd as well. “Pretty sure they’re all playing on the Boneyard Team now.”

  “When every new victim adds to the horror,” the Voice intones, “there can be no escape.”

  Claws rip at the doors. Rotting hands press against windows, which melt away like they were made of ice. Most people don’t realize that glass is actually a liquid; it just flows at such a slow rate that it looks solid, and now underdead magic is speeding up that process, aging it centuries in seconds. I can only imagine what will happen if they get their hands on us—we’ll either dissolve into puddles of goo or become underdead ourselves. Azura and I back away, but there’s nowhere to go.

  A hulking, gray-skinned form smashes through the doors and furniture like they’re not even there. The were-rhino stops and glares at us with piggish, glowing green eyes beneath the curving horn that juts from his forehead.

  Another jump and now we’re running, no longer in the bar but some hotel hallway. I can hear something big and heavy thundering along behind us, though I can’t see what’s making the ruckus until the were-rhino fails to make the corner and smashes into the end of the corridor. Lots of dust and plaster fly around on impact, very cinematic.

  “Those who survive,” the Voice says, “know only one thing.”

  Another jump-cut. When I see where we’ve reappeared this time, I shriek out of pure reflex and flail about for something to grab on to.

  Azura and I are on the very top of the Luxor, the giant black glass pyramid on the Strip. Both of us have managed to grab an edge and the angle isn’t that steep, but it becomes immediately clear that falling off isn’t what we should be worrying about.

  It’s what’s coming up the sides toward us.

  “Sooner or later,” the Voice says, “they’ll run out of places to run.”

  Zombie weres of every description are scrambling up all four sides of the pyramid: were-cheetahs, were-gorillas, were-crocodiles, a stampede of undead wildlife heading right at us with bared fangs and hellishly glowing green eyes.

  “This is impossible!” Azura snaps.

  I don’t bother arguing. I don’t know how much good my gun will do—or if it’ll even work—but there’s only one way to find out.

  The first shot catches an underdead square in the chest, making a large and extremely messy crater. It also throws him backward, knocking over some of the zombies behind him and sending them tumbling down the glass incline. I try the same strategy a few more times, which produces only semi-satisfactory results; it slows them down, but only on one front and only temporarily. Seems like a head shot is necessary to take any of them out permanently, just like in the movies.

  I always carry extra ammunition with me, but I don’t have enough to take on this kind of assault—hell, the USS Nimitz probably doesn’t have enough. I spare a glance at Azura, and discover she’s holding both my scythes out and open.

  “You know how to use those?”

  “Aim the sharp part at whoever you don’t like?”

  “Sure, get all technical on me.”

  And then the horde is upon us.

  I don’t get a chance to witness just how quick a learner Azura is, because the scene jumps again. Somewhere, an otherworldly film editor is cackling and rubbing his hands together.

  We’re back at the stormstalk bundle, but no longer standing directly beneath it; we’re off to one side, in the shadows. Standing in the center of the cavern with arms raised toward the bundle is a Lyrastoi, his back toward us, his collarwings pierced with rows of gold rings. He’s holding a spear in his hands.

  “But all may not be lost,” the Voice says.

  “Hooray,” I whisper.

  “For there are other worlds, other realities. And for the last two members of their respective races, one of those worlds is their last hope.”

  “Last two?” I whisper. “I count three people here. But we seem to have been relegated back to the audience, which means there’s only one—”

  “The spear,” Azura whispers back.

  And now I notice that the head of the spear is kind of unusual. It’s similar to the obsidian head of the spear Baron Greystar planted in the middle of the road, the one that became the Palace Verdant—but this one is longer, more even, and iridescent instead of black. In fact, it looks oddly familiar—

  It’s the Balancer.

  The gem flares. A swirling miasma of light and shadow rises from it like smoke from a magic cigar. The swirl shapes itself into a gigantic wolf’s head.

  The next words aren’t spoken by Mr. Moviephone, but by the Lyrastoi. “Soul of the Wolf Nation,” he says in a voice nearly as deep and resonant. “I call upon you for one final task.”

  “Have you not asked enough of me?
” the wolf’s head growls. “Have I not given my all for the sake of my homeland?”

  “You have. But that land’s time grows to a close. Death rules unopposed. I am the last of my kind, as you are the last of yours. I offer you a chance for both of us to survive—and for new life for your race.”

  “I am but a spirit.”

  “And I will join you shortly. But I can use the power of the gem and the power of the stormstalks to send both our spirits to another world. We will be reborn there.”

  “Reborn to die again. Alone.”

  “No. We will be the fathers of a new race, each of us. Our blood will spread our essence in the same fashion that the underdead now spread theirs—but this new land will have no underdead. And one day, both our races will be as numerous as they once were.”

  “So all will be as it once was?”

  “No. The voyage will change both of us, how I cannot say. All I can promise is that your tribe will run free again.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Help me to rend the dimensional veil. Between us, we will tear it asunder…”

  The wolf’s answer is to surge upward, toward the root bundle, and seize it in his jaws. The Lyrastoi rears back and launches the spear into the bundle as well.

  The roots crackle and spark with energy. The wolf savages the bundles with his jaws until it begins to bleed lightning. The outline of the Balancer gem, now buried deep inside the bundle by the spear, is still visible as it throws off a brilliant, pulsing light.

  Then everything blows up. It is using the language of a big-budget movie, after all.

  Fade to black. No Voice, no studio logo, no announcement that it’s coming soon to a theater near us. Azura and I are standing beneath the root bundle once more, which is looking pretty intact after that explosion. Well, they are roots—I guess they grew back.

  “Are you suddenly craving popcorn and a large Coke, or is that just me?” I ask. “That had everything but Nicholas Cage in a starring role—”

  “No,” Azura says. Her voice is shaky.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No, no, it can’t be,” she says. Her voice breaks on “can’t.”

  “Take it easy, it was only a story. Even if it’s partly accurate, it all happened a long time ago—”

  “No, Jace, you don’t understand. That wasn’t a myth, not like the others.” Tears course down her cheeks. “That was a prophecy. That’s how my world is going to die…”

  NINETEEN

  We hunker down and talk. It seems Azura’s plan of disrupting Ahaseurus’s spell has hit a major snag: It isn’t being focused through the root bundle after all.

  “It is powering the spell,” Azura says. “But that doesn’t help us. I can’t do anything to stop it—it would be like trying to halt a river with my bare hands. I need to get to the equivalent of a dam, where the power is being collected and channeled—that, I can manipulate.”

  “And that’s not here. Okay, let’s table that for a second and go back to the whole apocalypse thing. Explain.”

  “The myth we just observed. It’s more than a story from my world, it’s a story from yours, as well. Your home away from home, I mean—the one full of pires and thropes. It’s the story that links both places together.”

  “So the Lyrastoi and the wolf—the place they came was here?”

  “They were the progenitors of the lycanthrope and vampire races. Changed by the transition to another world, but still essentially the same.”

  “But—there have been pires and thropes here for centuries.”

  “Yes.” Her voice is sad. “Surely you’ve noticed that the flow of time is different in different realities? The story we experienced is a myth to you and a prophecy to me, Jace. To you, it is something that happened a very long time ago, in another reality entirely. To me, it is something that hasn’t happened yet—I’m not only from another dimension but another time. And I’ve just seen how my world will end.”

  I hate time travel almost as much as magic; it confuses everything. “Look, I refuse to believe in all that predestination crap. Past, present, future, whatever—we’re still in charge of making our own choices, and I choose to kick the snot out of Ahaseurus and put the brakes on his DIY empire. How about you?”

  “I don’t know … while I was aware of the power of the Balancer gem, I had no idea it housed the spirit of the Wolf Nation.” She shakes her head. “And the gem must be what Ahaseurus is using to focus the spell.”

  “The last time I saw it, it was bonded to a sword, not a spear—but it was a sword that could manipulate time, so that makes sense. Okay, new plan: We find Ahaseurus and take the Balancer gem away from him.”

  “Oh, absolutely. That should prove to be immensely easier. We’ll just waltz right in there and ask him, shall we? Excuse me, Mr. Immortal Wizard, sir, would you kindly give up the source of your power? We’d just like to borrow it for a bit.”

  “Hey, watch it, Tink. I’m the pessimistic, cynical half of this team, okay? You’re the one in charge of goodness, lollipops, and flashing your sugarplums.”

  “Right. Sorry. Didn’t mean to let watching my world die kill the mood.”

  “It’s not dead yet. Besides, we have a man on the inside now, remember?”

  “Tair. You really think we can rely on him?”

  “Only if we make sure his own interests are at stake. Then he’ll be as reliable as a raccoon with an open garbage can.”

  * * *

  So we go back the way we came; amazingly, the tunnel we dug hasn’t collapsed yet. We retrace our steps, coming up with a rough plan as we go. Even though the last time I saw the Midnight Sword it was bonded to the Balancer gem, I’m pretty sure Tair still has the blade—he’s not one to give up an advantage unless he has to. Swapping the gem for a position in Silver Blue’s organization makes sense, but he would have held on to the Sword as insurance.

  The fact that Ahaseurus has the Balancer bothers me, though. It’s clearly the item he came to Vegas to purchase, but if what Tair told me is true, Silver Blue wouldn’t have sold it to him. Which means Mr. Blue has either switched sides or been killed—unless, of course, Tair is lying to me.

  And then there’s Stoker.

  I still have the number he gave me through his televised message. I’m a little surprised he admitted to acting irrationally, but I suppose it makes a convenient excuse for trying to paralyze every thrope and pire in the world. I doubt his goals have changed, though—and while I believe he’s sincere about wanting to protect me, Ahaseurus is about to give him the planet on a platter. No way he’s going to help me screw that up. Tair apparently will, so I’m going to have to trust him whether I want to or not.

  When we get close, Azura casts the spell that makes us look like golems again—though we’re so covered in mud we could almost pass anyway. If Tair isn’t waiting for us, we’ll have to find him, locate the Balancer gem, then use him to get close enough to grab it.

  Sure. Easy. As a plan, it lacks the drawbacks that something more elaborate might have—things like information, preparation, equipment. Luckily, we won’t have any of those pesky details hanging around to trip us up.

  We exit through the concealed hatch, close it after us, step up to the tarp, and it pull it aside.

  Tair isn’t waiting for us.

  Ahaseurus and Stoker are.

  * * *

  They don’t give us a chance to fight back.

  I have a split second to realize that Stoker’s holding the Midnight Sword before he rams it through Azura’s heart. Her eyes open very, very wide, and she makes a choked little gurgle. Blood seeps from the corner of her mouth.

  I do my best to blow Ahaseurus’s head off, but the only sound my gun makes is the click of the trigger and the dull thud of the hammer hitting the base of the shell.

  “Idiot,” Ahaseurus says. “The spell that banishes fire was the first one I ever learned. Here’s one that’s a little more recent.”

  H
e gestures and says three words that I hear clearly and immediately forget. The world goes away.

  I don’t lose consciousness, though. It’s more like all my senses, from sight to touch, have been turned off. I’m floating in a gray void with the world’s worst head cold and a full-body shot of novocaine.

  Even my time sense is gone. Have I been here only a few minutes, or only a few years? I don’t know. What I do know is I have plenty of time to think about how badly I’ve screwed up.

  I underestimated Stoker. I don’t know how he wound up with the sword, but I’m guessing Tair underestimated him, too. Us human types can surprise you.

  I wonder who’ll eventually come out on top, the terrorist or the wizard. Ahaseurus would seem to hold all the cards—but as Stoker just proved, he’s not someone you should dismiss. Ever.

  He’s probably my best hope at this point. He told me once that killing me would be a crime against humanity, and he meant it; he won’t let Ahaseurus simply execute me, not without a fight.

  I know why I’m here. Organized serial killers are all about control; the longer they can impose it on a victim, the more they enjoy themselves. He’s put me in this limbo to emphasize the fact that he’s in charge and I’m helpless.

  Big mistake.

  My primary weapon isn’t my gun, my scythes, or my knowledge of martial arts. It’s my mind. He’s left me with access to my greatest asset—and I’m going to make sure he regrets that.

  Eventually.

  * * *

  I don’t know how long I’m in there. When reality does come back, it’s as sudden as a slap in the face; I’m standing in a hallway, one I recognize. It’s the one just outside my apartment, on the world I was born on.

  I still can’t feel my body, though, or control it. That’s because it isn’t mine; even though I’m looking through its eyes, hearing with its ears, I’m just a passenger.

  And Ahaseurus is driving.

  “What do you think?” his voice whispers in my mind. “Shall we pay your home another visit, see if anyone’s there?”