WITCHMAS_A Marshal of Magic File

by Chris Lowry

  They succeeded most of the time, but couldn’t hold back the ravages of time.

  Tombs that dated from the early 1800’s dotted the landscape that too up most of an odd sized city block.

  And the gates were open.

  “Ready for this?” I asked myself as much as Elvis.

  “I wish I had more to offer,” he said.

  “Just be prepared,” I told him. “I can’t communicate with the dead like you can.”

  “You didn’t do such a great job with the living.”

  He was right.

  I’d tried to make an alliance with Beth’s Coven, but they didn’t show up.

  I couldn’t blame them really. She was a weak witch, new to this world, and her Coven was the weakest in NOLA. Partnering with the Dixie Mafia was a desperation move, and my asking for their help made me feel all the more desperate.

  I could have asked the Normanii for help, but the vampire conclave demanded their attention.

  And Knu wouldn’t interfere, or couldn’t. I wasn’t sure which was closer to the truth.

  The fact that she shared so much with me about the Judge surprised me. I couldn’t think about that now though. I needed my faith, my confidence.

  It was just me against the witches and whatever monster they had conjured to Memphis and scattered to New Orleans.

  I wished I had a Valkyrie by my side.

  Fighting with my sister in law would have helped. She was one of the most powerful Battlemages I had ever known and her spell was the one that scattered these creatures to the wind.

  She had done it to save me, to save us when we busted up the spell, and now she wasn’t talking to me.

  What do you do with a wizard who doesn’t want to be found?

  Especially one who dated Odin and who probably was hiding out in Valhalla even as I stood outside the wrought iron gates of a historic cemetery.

  “Get in there scardy cat,” I said under my voice.

  “I can’t move until you do,” the ghost answered.

  Each journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. So, does each battle.

  “Full Frontal!” I screamed and poofed into the middle of the cemetery.

  Screw walking.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  “You came alone?” Gloria sneered. “You are a fool.”

  I blinked back the déjà vu and brought a spell to mind.

  She stood in front of a raised stone tomb turned into an altar. Hannah was tied to it, passed out or ensorcelled. I couldn’t tell which from here.

  Gloria had the stone knife in one hand, and a closed fist with the other.

  “Phyllis,” she nodded.

  The Voo Doo witch stepped out of the shadows and blew white powder into a cloud that drifted over my face.

  “I’ve spent the last ten years building up a resistance to Iocane powder,” I quipped, wiggled my fingers and knocked her out.

  Guess the time for talk was over.

  “Marshal,” Elvis warned.

  Then the demon stepped over her corpse.

  It was a soul catcher, modelled on the scales of justice and based on the Greek goddess Themis. In some reliefs, she is pictured as a beautiful woman with justice on her mind.

  In the one’s we don’t allow humans to see, she is a monster with large flat scale plates where her hand should be.

  Guess which one showed up that night?

  I caught a bit of luck though.

  The ritual hadn’t started.

  A soul catcher needs souls, and setting the ritual in a place of the dead seemed like a bad idea.

  The demon took a swing at my head and I ducked under the whistling plate.

  “Marshal,” Elvis called out again.

  Gloria began chanting, raising the knife over her head and concentrating on a symbol carved in the stone of the tomb. A resurrection glyph.

  Designed to bring back the dead.

  Like the body of a thirty-thousand-year-old saber toothed tiger. Or the couple of thousand people buried in the cemetery.

  A couple of thousand souls that would satiate even the most hungry demon soul catcher.

  And make the witch her mastered it more powerful than ever.

  The powder Phyllis blew lingered in a cloud and I could see the outlines of shapes in it. People shapes.

  The demon lunged forward and I skittered a couple of force spells off its hide, which it was kind enough to ignore.

  “Ghosts,” shouted Elvis.

  I vaulted over a burial vault and slid behind a mausoleum shaped like the Parthenon. It wasn’t lost on me that I was hiding behind Greek reliefs modeled on the monster that chased me.

  Gloria’s voice grew higher as she started for the apex of the spell.

  I figured I had ten seconds, maybe twelve.

  “Cowabunga!” I whipped around the corner of the marble, shot a force of air straight into the soul catcher and knocked it back.

  The wind circled around and lifted up the top of a tomb and I jumped on it like a surfboard, cruising straight for Gloria to disrupt the spell.

  Phyllis shot me.

  Literally.

  With a gun.

  What kind of witch brings a gun to a spell fight?

  I felt the slug pound into my shirt and heard the shot as I careened off the slab and bounced off a tomb.

  My divine wind died out and the marble cracked into a hundred pieces as it fell into another.

  Phyllis stood up higher, and waved up the marble detritus and shot it toward me as I struggled to breath.

  “Marshal!” Elvis called out.

  “You keep saying that,” I gasped.

  I rolled down and out. The shower of razor sharp rock pinged into the wall I was just leaning against and rained down on me.

  “Try to say it sooner!” I chastised the ghost.

  “Like now?”

  “Now?”

  I didn’t see him nod.

  The Soul Catcher lashed out with a scale, caught me on the side and pounded me through the air to land in a heap on the other side of the cemetery.

  Ouch.

  I stood up, saw the knife start to fall and had just enough time to think a thought when Harold showed up.

  Phyllis may have brought a gun to the fight.

  I brought a two-ton saber tooth tiger.

  Technically, I didn’t bring him, but Beth and her Coven rode in like the cavalry.

  They weren’t much more than a distraction.

  But Harold was the real deal.

  He plowed into Gloria and knocked the Sidhe on her ass.

  I would have cheered, but I was still having the whole trouble breathing thing. I managed a gasp though, so the thought was there.

  Beth, Angie and one of the WWE women held Phyllis in a triangle of spells, each winging one at her one at a time while she held them off like a master in an old karate movie.

  “At the same time!” I screamed instruction.

  It came out as a wheeze.

  Softer than a wheeze.

  Gloria shrieked and sent a spell toward Harold. He sidestepped it and one of the Maine Coon Cats, two hundred pounds of feline slammed into her back.

  I wanted to cheer again, but saved my breath and poofed back into the fight instead.

  Three of the other Coven zapped the Soul Catcher with spells, but they weren't strong enough to do more than irritate it.

  I heard a roar and turned to see Harold back away from Gloria with a long bloody gash in his flank.

  The Maine coon Cat was down, looked like he was out of the fight forever.

  Phyllis shot a spell into Angie and caught her of guard. The little witch went sprawling. Her collapse distracted Beth, who took a shot to the solar plexus that set her crashing back into a marble statue.

  That was going to leave a mark.

  The GLOW witch let out a banshee yell and rushed the Voo Doowoman. Phyllis screamed and cast out more of the powder in an expanding ring of wind.

  It twirled among
the tombs and swirled around the gathered spirits drawing them in until the air over the cemetery was heavy with the weight, like a pregnant storm cloud ready to downpour.

  Gloria backed the Saber tooth into a corner and drew back her hand with a tiny black ball of energy, a death spell. The cat was trapped.

  I zipped a spell and slapped her hand, caught up the black cloud and splashed it across the Soul Catcher.

  It couldn't bellow, couldn't moan, couldn't make a sound as it arched up in agony and fell toward the alter.

  I zinged Hannah up and away from the stone, smudging the ritual spell as I did, rendering it useless.

  Hannah fetched up against the side of a marble sarcophagus.

  "Watch her Elvis."

  The ghost shimmered over her to do what he could.

  Gloria shrieked in rage and shot a wall of force into me. I planted my feet and redirected it, added myown and scooped up the cavalry Coven to lift them over the walls and out ofharm’s way.

  “You think you've beaten me human?” Gloria gloated. “This changes nothing.”

  She windsurfed to the alter, and whisked Phyllis up and over toward her.

  They reached the Soul Catcher at the same time.

  I prepared a stall and stun spell to stop her from teleporting out.

  She zigged when I thought she would zag.

  Gloria stabbed Phyllis in the heart with the stone knife and sent up a shield around them.

  Though I had destroyed the first ritual, the Sidhe had abackup.

  She drained the essence from Phyllis and tapped into thedemon trapped inside the Soul Catcher.

  A soundlike the wail of a woman torturedin hell echoed across the cemetery. The painand anguish of the witch bound with the demon was heart wrenching and soul crushing.

  Gloria extracted both of their life force into herself in one huge gulp of air.

  "Be seeing you darling," she called out.

  I sent a shot toward her but too late.

  She had already disappeared.

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  "Nothing from nothing leaves nothing," Elvis sang.

  I stared at the empty space on the edge of the graveyard. Gloria was gone and so was the body of the Scales, the soul monster. Phyllis lay at odd angles, arms akimbo, head thrown back, mouth etched in a permanent scream I hope she carried into the afterlife.

  I'd have to take her body to the Judge.

  Hannah hobbled on wobbly legs and wrapped her fists around my biceps.

  "That was...intense," she said in wonder, eyes glazed.

  "We survived."

  "Uh-huh," she reached up and pulled my lips to hers, planted soft wet kiss on mine.

  After a moment, she stepped back, stronger now and a little more recovered and shook her head, like waking from a dream.

  "My kisses can have that effect on people."

  "NOLA man," she gave me a half grin. "Things great crazy up in the Big Easy."

  A pair of headlights cut across the graveyard, a giant black Suburban that looked like a Hollywood movie version of secret government agency parking next to the gate.

  "Trouble?" I asked.

  Hannah shrugged.

  "That starts with T, and that rhymes with D, and that stands for Done," the ghost chimed in.

  "Any luck on that memory spell?"

  She nodded, but didn't get the chance to say what kind of luck that might be. Pointed in the right direction, cure, or book sitting on the side of her sofa. Digby popped out of the back door of the SUV, flanked by a couple of walls of human flesh.

  Seriously, where did they recruit these bodyguards? Ex-NFL combine players-R-US?

  The trio weaved their way through the piles of dust, Digby smiling and concerned at the same time. His hair didn't have a strand out of place.

  "Marshal," he chirped.

  "Digby."

  "Digby Richmond," he held out a hand to Hannah. "Damn glad to meet you."

  "Hannah," she introduced herself.

  "The Watcher, right? Did I get that right? I'm still learning about all of this."

  "You're here Digby?"

  The two mountains of meat shifted closer to their boss. Guess that came out a little harsher than I meant.

  "Right, Daddy says I need to focus and stay on point better. Always be improving, that's my motto. One of them, anyway. Dad says he can't hold off the authorities any longer. You have about five minutes before several departments descend on this place en masse."

  "That was nice of him to warn me?"

  "I know, right? Weird. You ever wake up to your Daddy one morning and realize he's got all this stuff up in his head and you just wish there was a way to scoop it out and put it in your own?"

  "Gross," Hannah held her head. “I’ve had my fill of zombies."

  Digby shivered.

  "I didn't mean it so grotesque like that, but more like a knowledge transfer. I spent most of the past decade thinking Daddy was just a criminal and thug. Turns out, he's got a lot more going on than I thought."

  "Three minutes," grunted the bodyguard on his right.

  "Right. Got to go, Marshal."

  Digby held out his hand and shook mine, then Hannah's again. The duo began to escort him back toward the SUV, when hell broke loose.

  It was in the form of flashing lights and roaring engines, all sliding to a stop around the entrances to the graveyard. A helicopter thumped in the distance, sound growing louder as a spotlight danced across the pavement searching its way toward the headstones.

  "Is your watch slow Digby?"

  He held it up and glanced at the silver face, shrugged.

  I extended the thought and poofed us all a couple hundred yards away in a blink.

  Teleporting. Movement at the speed of thought. It's incredible when you have a ton of power to do it. Not so much when it's unexpected.

  I was ready for it.

  No one else was.

  Hannah collapsed in the street with a shriek as she lost her balance. The left bodyguard bent over and threw up his lunch into the gutter. The right one fainted. Only Digby seemed unaffected.

  "That was so awesome!" he squealed.

  We could see the strobing lights outside the graveyard up the street. We were outside of a perimeter that law enforcement established, so we were safe.

  "Hey man, hey man," a small tour group bustled over to us. "That was some cool magic! Can you do that again?"

  "I saw someone do that in Vegas," sniffed another in a haughty voice.

  "Street magicians are bums," another muttered.

  "No man, right out of nowhere. Bam!"

  Hannah climbed up and found her street legs again.

  "Body?" Elvis whispered in my ear.

  Crap. We forgot the witch inside the fence. The cops were going to stumble over it any second, and then things would get complicated.

  "You steady?" I took Hannah by the shoulders. "Can you make it home?"

  She nodded.

  I turned to Digby.

  "They're going to have questions about your truck."

  He waved it off.

  "Daddy will take care of it."

  "Hey man, do something else," one of the tourists clamored.

  I stuck my hand in my coat pocket.

  "Pick a card," I told him and jerked my hand in the air with a shower of sparks.

  I poofed while they were distracted.

  Over the body in the cemetery. At least I got the location right.

  "Freeze! Don't move!" I looked over at a rookie cop, gun shaking in his hand as he aimed it in panicked terror.

  "Hands in the air," he screamed again.

  "You said don't move."

  He pulled the trigger. I watched his finger go white on the metal. This was going to hurt.

  We appeared in front of the Judge just as the bullet him my Kevlar laced tee shirt. I plopped over backwards on the hewn stone floor of his chambers, and landed on the stiffening body of the witch.

  "You couldn't have done th
at a second sooner?" I groaned and rubbed my sternum as I got up. Pain radiated from my lower left ribcage, and I could tell it was going to bruise.

  The tee shirt was designed to stop penetration from bullets, claws and anything that tried to get inside my skin to the tender bits and morsels. The magic and Kevlar weave could do that, but the force of the blow still had to be dispersed somehow, and I hadn't figured out the magic of the quantum physics yet to redirect it.

  For now, it manifested as pain. Lots of pain.

  But at least I wasn't leaking.

  I crawled to my feet and stared at the Judge as he sat in his stand. I could see now that it was modeled on a throne, and once your eyes are open to something, you can't unsee it. It looked pre-Celtic in origin, an ancient design that probably served as a daily reminder of what he had to do to get his power.

  He stared at me with overlarge eyes from behind the round spectacles and didn’t speak.

  I didn’t say a word, just nudged the dead witch closer to him.

  I could still see the ghost of an image on his face, the general he had been in the past. But a dozen thousand years tend to make you look different.

  I supposed only because he did indeed look different.

  An old man, no, older than I had even imagined. A wizard who had seen more death than anyone save the Grim Reaper himself, if he was indeed real.

  If there were dragons, and gnomes and leprechauns, I suppose there was a harbinger of death, perhaps even one of the four horsemen of legend.

  He sighed.

  It hurt me to hear it.

  So much pain in that sigh, so much pity, all directed at me. The Gnome could see the future.

  I suspected the Judge planned it.

  Shaped it.

  Set the inevitable upon its course and sat back.

  Not like some uncaring god playing with the lives of mortals. More like a guardian who stood at a gate, holding back the forces of evil.

  I’d been to War before.

  I know what it can do to a man’s mind, even one made strong by magic.

  Constant battle makes a soul weary, or worse yet, the quantum aspect of battle changes the very nature of the soul. Exposure to the worst things in the Universe, the most vile and evil things man can imagine or not change the very nature of the magic we have inside each of us.