by Kris Greene
For a man his age, Redfeather moved extremely well. One by one the Stalkers came, only to taste the blade of the enchanted dagger. Though it had never before answered to Redfeather’s touch, he wielded it as if it had been made for him.
Redfeather delivered a fatal blow to the eye socket of one of the Stalkers, lodging the blade in its skull. While he was trying to pull it loose a Stalker jumped on his back. As Redfeather struggled with one Stalker, another one latched onto his leg. Together they wrestled him to the ground, while more Stalkers closed in. The thinnest Stalker reached a clawed hand for Redfeather only to have it go up in flames. The Stalker stared at the smoldering nub in shock when the second burst of deadly flames struck it in the side and carried it across the room. The remaining Stalker managed to turn around to snarl only to have its mouth filled with the unforgiving flames. The creature’s burning body danced around the living room before another burst sent it flying into the wall.
Jackson stood in the doorway decked out in black leather and clutching an odd-looking shotgun. The weapon was made of polished silver and crafted to look like a striking dragon. Running along the underbelly and extending from the mouth were three barrels. Jackson took a minute to examine what was left of the Stalker before helping Redfeather to his feet.
“You know when Jonas first came up with this thing, I had no idea how much fun I’d having putting it to use.” Jackson expelled the shells and loaded fresh ones. His eyes traveled from the smoldering Stalkers to Riel, who was staring at what was left of his creations like a grieving parent. “That your handiwork?” Jackson nodded at the moldering corpses. “Makes for a good show, but the craftsmanship ain’t worth shit.” Before Riel could respond, Jackson loosed another burst, barely missing the demon who was scrambling for cover.
Brother Angelo knelt, clutching his throbbing limb to his stomach. “Who are you?” he groaned up at the young-looking black man.
Jackson extended his hand and helped Brother Angelo to his feet. The man looked flushed, but he was able to stand with a little help. “Somebody that doesn’t want to see you die tonight.” Jackson let Brother Angelo rest his weight on him only to be surprised at how light the man was. Cradling the shotgun in the crook of his right arm, Jackson addressed the few Stalkers that were cautiously closing in on them. “You ugly sons of bitches ready to dance or what?”
The Stalkers moved not only swiftly but en masse as they rushed Jackson and Angelo. Jackson regretted his arrogance as he found himself stumbling backward under the wave of Stalkers. He tried to get a shot off with the shotgun, but it went wild and ignited the silk curtains hanging in the front window.
Seeing the wounded High Brother and the now-unarmed man go down renewed the Stalkers’ courage. While they tried to pin Jackson to the floor, the most brazen of the bunch lunged in to take a chunk out of Jackson’s arm. It let out a horrible shriek as its teeth struck cold iron and shattered. Before the creature could retreat, Jackson jammed his fist beneath the thing’s jaw and flexed his fist. The creature’s face went slack when the silver stiletto entered though its lower jaw and came out the top of its head. Bringing his other arm around, Jackson drove a second stiletto through the creature’s eye. The prosthetic arms had been Morgan’s gift to Jackson during his rehabilitation from the vampire attack. The arms were crafted by Morgan’s hands and blessed in the halls of St. Anthony’s. Jackson had proven to be a natural with the killing devices, as the Stalkers were learning.
Brother Angelo tried to get his footing but found that his legs were reluctant to support him. The poison was working faster than he had thought it would. Through his hazy vision he was able to make out Riel standing a few feet away from him. The demon also looked haggard and exhausted, but at least he still had the strength to hold his sword, which at that point seemed impossible for Angelo. The poison had killed all the muscles in one arm and was making short work of the other. Angelo tried to raise his fists, but his limbs felt like they were filled with sand.
Riel’s grip on Angelo’s jaws was so intense that the bones started to pop. “You and your order are done, priest,” Riel said, almost compassionately. “Surrender and acknowledge Belthon as your lord and master and I might be tempted to let you live.”
Angelo looked up at Riel. Though the strength had all but left Angelo’s body, the fire in his eyes burned with intensity. “Even if I die here tonight, another will take my place and ensure that you and your kind are forced back into the pits of hell.”
Riel measured his words. “Possibly, but you won’t be around to witness it. I may have failed in capturing the Nimrod, but your death will ensure that I have another chance at it.” With a triumphant roar, Riel plunged Poison into Angelo’s gut. As the fire from the poison racked his insides, his screams could be heard for blocks.
“No!” Redfeather screamed, drawing everyone’s attention. He knew how important the High Brother was to the order, and if he died then all would be undone.
“I’m on it,” De Mona snarled, abandoning the Stalkers she’d been fighting. Riel was rearing back to take Angelo’s head when De Mona’s claws tore into his shoulder, cutting through flesh and muscle. “Get the hell away from him!”
Riel stumbled to the side and took stock of his shoulder. “Sneaky Valkrin bitch,” he spat. “I see not all of your wretched line has answered the call. If you surrender now, I’ll see to it that Lord Titus shows you mercy.”
De Mona smiled, licking his rich demon blood from her claws. “You know, I keep hearing about how badass this Titus dude is, and for some reason I can’t bring myself to give a fuck!”
When Riel swung Poison, De Mona ducked under the strike and locked his arm under hers. With a twist, she dislocated it at the shoulder, but it only slowed Riel. He delivered a sharp knee to De Mona’s stomach, and when she released her grip on his arm he slammed the hilt of Poison into the side of her head. Before De Mona could recover, Riel kicked her hard in the chest, sending her flying across the room. Almost instantly De Mona was back on her feet, but the war demon had vanished.
Though their master had fled, the Stalkers continued to pour into the brownstone. Jackson tore into the Stalkers with abandon, but it seemed that for every one he slew two more took its place. “This is getting us nowhere. Morgan,” he barked into the earpiece he was wearing. “We need a miracle in here!”
“Ask and you shall receive,” Morgan replied. A moment passed and there was a brief rumbling just before the eastern wall of the brownstone exploded in a shower of plaster and concrete.
Morgan stepped through the wreckage of the wall, coated in plaster. Beneath his jacket he wore a banged-up iron breastplate bearing a Celtic coat of arms on the chest and tattered jeans. The dust and rubble that was still raining from the damage landed on his skin, only to be absorbed, turning Morgan an off shade of gray. The muscles in his arm bulged as he strangled the handle of his jeweled hammer. “Servants of hell,” he began with his hammer upraised. “In the name of my Lord and my family, I cast thee out!”
When the hammer made contact with the ground everything that could break did. The windows exploded, raining glass on everything and everyone. The shock wave from the hammer was so intense that it collapsed what was left of the upstairs banister and the ceiling, burying the Stalkers.
“What in God’s name was that?” De Mona asked, sitting in the corner trying to figure out which way was up. Her entire body felt like it’d been dipped in hot water, but she was alive. Unlike her mortal companions, her demon blood had made her invulnerable to the hammer’s power.
“Justice,” Morgan said, helping her to her feet. “But we’ve no time to celebrate, so I suggest we leave.” He looked at the pile of rubble, which was already beginning to stir. It had slowed the Stalkers, but it wouldn’t stop them.
“That cat don’t look like he’s going anywhere,” Jackson said of Brother Angelo. The High Brother rolled on the floor feverishly, muttering to himself.
“I need to examine the wound to determine if
it’s safe to move him,” Redfeather said.
“Man, them things are gonna be back on our asses soon, and angrier than ever. You better pick him up and let’s skate,” Jackson told Redfeather.
“It burns!” Angelo shouted, clawing at his chest.
“Redfeather’s right; we need to check him out.” De Mona knelt beside him. She could smell the demonic poison rotting his flesh from the inside.
Morgan sighed. “I’ll see if I can buy us a few more minutes then.” Morgan walked to the edge of the pile where a decaying arm sprang free of the rubble. Morgan placed his hands flat on the ground and tried to level his breathing. The ground rumbled slightly and the ground split. Everyone watched in amazement as the Sheetrock and brick began to form a wall from the ground up. The end result was a six-foot wall of mismatched pieces, separating them from the Stalkers.
“How on earth did you do that?” Redfeather asked.
“No time for biology lessons, friend. The wall isn’t very thick, so I suggest you get on with it before our friends break through.” Morgan’s voice was tired.
“Angelo.” Redfeather knelt beside his old friend. The High Brother’s skin was ashen and he was babbling feverishly.
“And God said let there be light . . . it is in the light that we all walk. Where is the light? Why can’t I see the light?” he rambled.
“Dude looks bad,” Jackson said, standing over the men. Jackson had retrieved his shotgun and was filling it with fresh shells.
Morgan gripped Angelo’s breastplate and ripped it down the middle as if it were made of plywood. On the High Brother’s chest there was a dark web surrounding the wound and slowly making its way up the length of his body. “It’s the work of the cursed blade. I’ve heard tales of its evil, but sadly I know of no way to treat it.”
“The healers will know,” a meek voice said, startling everyone. At first they saw nothing but a patch of distorted reality, which began to solidify, revealing a small man. His skin was as pale as an albino, dark curls crowning his round head. Eyes as black as space looked up at the band of warriors nervously.
“You’re the thing I saw at Sanctuary.” De Mona pointed at the small man.
“I’m not a thing; my name is Finnious, Fin to my friends,” he corrected her.
“How did you get here?” Redfeather asked.
Fin paused as if he wasn’t sure whether to answer. “I hitched a ride on the transport when you left to come here.”
“Impossible, we would’ve seen you.”
“Not if I didn’t want you to.” Fin faded into almost nothing, then became solid again.
De Mona sniffed him, trying to figure out what was off about the small man. “You have no scent. Every living thing has a scent, even the vamps.”
“It’s because I’m not alive. Not dead, but not alive,” he told her.
“A wraith?” Redfeather took a step back.
Fin sighed. “Yes and no. It’s complicated and I don’t have time to explain. We must get Brother Angelo back to Sanctuary so the healers can tend to him.”
“Doesn’t look like he’s going to make it,” Jackson pointed out.
“He must,” Fin said with such conviction that it surprised everyone. “With the death of the High Brother comes the death of the order.”
“What are you talking about?” De Mona asked.
“No time. We have to go,” Fin insisted.
“But how—” Redfeather’s question was cut off by Angelo’s screaming.
“I rebuke thee, Satan!” Angelo howled. His face was slick with sweat and his skin had begun to pale.
“Hold him steady,” Redfeather said.
“You have no power over me!” Angelo shouted deliriously. “It burns,” he continued, trying to claw at his stomach. Seeing that Redfeather and De Mona were having trouble holding Angelo down, Jackson grabbed his arms and pinned them above his head.
Redfeather examined the wound. The poison had marked its passing with a series of webbed veins snaking across Angelo’s chest and arms. Redfeather gently prodded the wound, causing pus to run from it and across Angelo’s heaving chest. “It is even worse than the stories.” Redfeather wiped his hands on his pants and crossed himself.
Just then Angelo let out a bloodcurdling scream. His body was contorting at uncomfortable angles and there was blood-laced foam starting to trickle from his mouth and nose.
“We should take him to a hospital,” De Mona suggested.
“No, No hospital. Angelique is sending a healer. All we have to do is make it back to Brooklyn,” Fin said.
“There’s no guarantee that he’ll make it without some type of treatment. Isn’t there something we can do?” Jackson asked, staring curiously at the traces of the fast-spreading infection.
“Nothing that I know of,” Redfeather confessed.
“Maybe I can help,” Finnious offered weakly.
“The wraiths have power over death, not life,” Redfeather pointed out.
“And as I said, I’m only half wraith. Let me try,” Fin almost pleaded. With a nod Redfeather moved to the side so that Fin could kneel beside Angelo. Feeling everyone’s eyes on him made Fin nervous, but he tried to shut their stares out so he could concentrate.
Finnious had worked the trick on birds and other small animals but never on a human. As carefully as he could, he laid his hands on Angelo’s wound. Angelo bucked, but De Mona and Jackson managed to hold him still enough. Finnious pressed harder against Angelo’s wound, sinking his fingertips into the cut. He could feel the poison from the blade working its way through Angelo’s body, killing everything it passed. If the poison made it to his heart all would be lost.
“Who’s going to look after the children if I go home?” Angelo pleaded.
“Hold tight, Angelo; you’ll be fine.” Redfeather tried to sound sure of himself.
Finnious visualized the wound in his mind, touching the ruined nerves and muscle. Working backward, he began trying to regenerate the damaged tissue. He first reconnected the muscles and then the flesh, backing to the surface of the wound. Just when it looked like he was making progress, the poison doubled its efforts. The darkness moved from Angelo’s gut, snaking its way up Finnious’ arm.
“You must break the connection.” Redfeather watched in horror as Finnious was engulfed from fingertips to shoulders in darkness.
“I won’t,” Finnious yelped as the pain in his arms grew more intense. He felt like he was going to black out at any moment, but he couldn’t let Angelo down. Even when the darkness had spread to Finnious’ face he maintained the connection.
“Too late to call in the cavalry, too late,” Angelo gasped. He looked up at Finnious and for a minute his eyes were sane. “You’ll carry it for me, won’t you, Fin?” Angelo grasped Fin’s arm. The priest’s grip was surprisingly tight for the condition he was in. “Keep it safe for me, huh?”
“Brother Angelo, please—” Fin’s words were cut off when Angelo grabbed him roughly by the back of the neck.
“Promise me you’ll keep it safe. Say it!” Angelo demanded in a deranged tone.
Fin had never seen Angelo like this and it scared him so bad that he almost wet his pants. “Okay, whatever you want. I’ll keep it safe.” He looked at all assembled hoping that someone would help him, but everyone was too shocked to move.
Angelo smiled peacefully. “I knew I could count on you.” In what came as a shock to everyone, Brother Angelo pulled Fin to him and kissed him on the lips. Fin struggled against Angelo, but the High Brother held him there. Angelo coughed, but instead of blood there was a brilliant light. The light spilled from Angelo’s mouth and down Fin’s throat, turning his insides into molten fire. Fin screamed and thrashed, but Angelo would not release his hold. When the connection was finally broken, Finnious lay panting in the corner, staring at the now-rotted corpse of his mentor.
“Fin, are you okay?” De Mona reached for him, but the boy scrambled away from her.
“No, no, no. If you touch me, I�
�ll die,” Fin ranted. He seemed to be afflicted with the same madness that had come over Angelo. Fin tried to pull himself up using one of the dressers, but his hand passed right through. It was as if he could no longer maintain a solid form.
“What the hell is wrong with him?” Jackson asked, backing away from Fin when he staggered next to him.
“It must be an aftereffect of whatever Angelo did to him. We must get both of them back to Sanctuary; they’ll be better equipped to handle this.”
“He’s right, but I don’t think we can get everybody there on our bikes.” Morgan motioned towards Jackson, then himself. “Do you have a car?” he asked Redfeather.
“No,” Redfeather said, wishing he’d listened to his grandson about purchasing a vehicle.
“We can hot-wire the transport,” De Mona suggested.
“Good idea, but the front door is on the other side,” Redfeather said, pointing to the wall that was beginning to web from the Stalkers’ blows. It wouldn’t be long before they broke through.
“Then we’ll make another,” Morgan said, raising his hammer. “Stand clear,” he told them. With a grunt he tossed the hammer through the far wall of the living room, destroying it. As gently as he could, he scooped Angelo’s decomposing body into his arms. “This way.”
“Wait; I lost the dagger in there. It’ll—,” Redfeather began but was cut off by Jackson.
“Do you no good if you’re dead or in prison. Now, you can do what you want, but I wouldn’t want to be here if those shitheads get loose or the police show up. I’m outta here.” Jackson stepped through the hole in the wall followed by Morgan and Fin, who was having trouble walking. He almost stumbled, but De Mona caught him under his arm.
“Man’s got a point, Redfeather.” De Mona helped Fin through the hole.
Redfeather looked around at the remains of what had been his home for so many years and thought about how much it reflected his life. The promise he’d made to his son before he died rang in Redfeather’s head and his fear of the dark forces was replaced with rage. In his heart he had known that one day this might happen, and he had tried his best to keep Gabriel from his legacy and ignorant of his history. But in trying to shelter him Redfeather had left his grandson vulnerable. Somewhere out there the young man whom Redfeather had sworn to protect was at the mercy of the vile trident and it was his fault. He knew what needed to be done to protect not only his loved ones but also the world from the wrath of the Bishop. But knowing didn’t mean that Redfeather would be able to go through with it when and if the time came. Fighting back the tears of a foolish old man, he went after the warriors.