He sees his spirit – his original spirit, the spirit he’d grown up with – and joy swells in his heart. She reaches out, but she can't take hold of him, because her hands are made of flame.
Her touch scalds him, but as his clothes are set alight and the fire swarms all over his body, all that he can think about is how he knows this has somehow happened before.
Cross woke on the floor, screaming.
“Easy, now,” Rikeman said. The doctor knelt down, which was obviously painful for him due to his leg brace. Rikeman held Cross' arms so that he couldn't thrash about. A nurse stood nearby with a burn kit.
“What...what happened?!” Cross gasped. He tried to pull himself upright, and that was when the pain hit him, sharp and fast, from the centers of his palms all of the way up to his elbows. Tears welled up in his eyes.
“Eric, please!” Rikeman pleaded. “Stop moving!”
“What’s going on?!” he asked. “Who was that woman?! What did...”
He looked down and saw what had happened to him. Rikeman gingerly held him by the wrists, the only spots on Cross' arms that weren’t covered with dark burns.
Later that morning, the hospital wing bustled with activity as beds were shifted around and the halls were clean. Patients woke from their disturbed sleep to feast on hot food.
Rikeman’s staff consisted of almost a dozen nurses and three doctors who helped the crippled doctor maintain peace and order in the hospital wing of the Southern Claw headquarters. More often than not, he still had his hands full.
The smell of artificial eggs and turkey meat was thick in the air as the patients ate their breakfast. Cross smelled coffee and juice, but even though his stomach growled he was afraid to eat. He was afraid to do much of anything other than just lie there in his bed, still and quiet.
Rikeman had stayed with Cross through the rest of the night and for a significant portion of the next day. He took biometric readings with a thaumaturgic oscilloscope, monitored Cross’ vital signs, and carefully applied burn salves and wrapped Cross' arms just tight enough that the bandages wouldn't slip off.
Cross didn't sleep. He sat with his back a few inches away from the metal bed frame and leaned forward, so that if he started to doze off he would slip backwards and jar himself awake.
Rikeman got on Cross’ case to get some rest, but the warlock just looked out the window and tried to figure out what had happened.
His own spirit had burned him, Rikeman said. She’d somehow slipped out of his control while he’d been asleep. Mages spent years learning to maintain control over their spirits even while in a subconscious state. Somehow Cross’ control, which he'd always taken for granted, had broken during the night.
“It could be a side-effect of that black soup that you went swimming in,” Rikeman said. Cross and Snow had both judiciously decided some years ago that Rikeman had a great bedside manner: he was kind and soft-spoken, not-overbearing, knowledgeable, and only stern when he had to be. Cross didn't know how he managed to maintain his composure so well with a life-threatening injury hanging over his head.
“Maybe,” Cross nodded. “But that doesn't explain the dream.”
He looked around. Cross was gripped by a mental haze. It was mid-morning, he guessed, and the air felt stale and heavy. His eyes stung with fatigue, and his throat was raw. The tube in his left arm led up to an IV stand that he precariously gripped with his trembling hand.
Who was that in his dream? And why did she seem so damn familiar?
“Try to relax,” Rikeman said. His bifocals made him look at least twenty years older than he actually was. Rikeman was probably only in his late thirties, but both the glasses and his salt-and-pepper beard added quite a few years. He picked up Cross' chart with his gloved hands and wrote something down that he saw on his latest reading. “It was just a dream.”
“I don't have ‘just dreams’,” Cross said. “I wish I did. Trust me.”
He’d experienced visions on every major mission he'd ever been on, all of the way back to Wolf Brigade's ill-fated engagement in Blackmarsh in A.B. 20.
He'd never had visions before he'd joined the Southern Claw military, and nothing he'd dug up in his research or from his interviews with other mages gave him any indication as to why he had them now.
“Both you and your spirit seem to be in pretty good condition,” Rikeman said after he'd finished taking his readings. The oscilloscope allowed him to gauge a spirit's general state of well-being. While a spirit had no definable physiognomy to speak of, with the proper equipment one could determine their general power level and emotional state and then conduct further analysis from there. Mages were always cognizant of their spirit’s status, of course, but sometimes things went wrong, and further assistance was needed. “Eric…I’m sorry, but I’m just not sure what to tell you,” Rikeman said. “Both you and your spirit seem to be fine. The trouble is that I don’t know what to expect from you and your…you know, special circumstances.”
“You mean the fact that my spirit isn’t the one that I started out with,” Cross said.
“Exactly. It can make things difficult to gauge because, frankly, we’re in uncharted territory.” Rikeman stood up. His metal brace squeaked as he placed weight on it. A nurse came by and told him that he’d be needed for an operation in a few minutes. “You can stay as long as you like, Eric,” Rikeman told him.
“I thought you guys were supposed to kick non-SC personnel out of here as quickly as possible,” Cross said quietly.
“Yeah, well…” Rikeman laughed, and he smiled sadly. “I wish I had more answers for you, kid. Would you, uh…consider talking to Laros, or another mage on the White Council?”
Cross’ blood ran cold at the suggestion. The level of anxiety he suddenly felt at the notion of letting the White Council run tests on him took surprised him.
“Um…probably not,” he laughed nervously.
“It may be helpful,” Rikeman said after a pause. “I’m not sure what else I can do for you. By all accounts, it looks like you had an incredibly vivid dream, and somehow your subconscious control over your spirit slipped, which resulted in those burns. They’re superficial, and both of you seem to be okay. My readings aren’t picking up anything out of the ordinary.”
“Thanks, Phil,” Cross nodded. “I’ll probably enjoy your luxury accommodations for a little while longer, but I do have a meeting to get to.”
“Take care, Eric.”
Cross stood up after Rikeman walked away. Both of his arms were wrapped in thick bandages that ran from the middle of his fingers all of the way down to his elbows. The skin itched like crazy underneath, and even slight motions made them ache. His spirit had already started the process of healing his skin, and even as he sat there in the dank morning air, with his throat raw thanks to the taste of ammonia and the smell of sickness, he felt her lace damaged tissue back together.
But even though he felt the results of her work, he only barely felt her presence. He got the impression that she was trying to keep herself in the background. Maybe she felt sorry for what she’d accidentally done.
I always worried that something like this would happen. I never thought it would be because of a dream.
He heard the woman’s voice again. It had sounded so familiar.
Who are you?
Cross wondered about the woman’s identity during his trip home. He left in the afternoon. Rikeman had insisted that someone escort him just to make sure that he was all right, but Cross declined. He wanted to wander Thornn on his own for a bit, just to clear his head.
Thornn’s Centertown district was extraordinarily noisy in the afternoon because of the rush made to complete all outdoor work before nightfall. Cross slowly worked his way up steep streets made of hard-packed earth and through cobblestone intersections, and his body reminded him every step of the way that he’d far from fully recovered.
His throat was sore and raw. He’d picked up some sort of cold in the hospital, which, while not s
urprising, was still annoying as hell, and he found himself running out of breath before he’d even made it a few blocks.
Even with magic, we still can’t cure the common cold. Lame.
The buildings in Centertown were made from dark stone and cast in hues of crimson. The tall windows were reinforced with steel bars, and every door was banded in iron. A cross had been laid over every threshold, or else inscribed on the doors themselves. Not all of them were traditional Christian crosses, but it didn’t really matter, because the crosses were placed there as symbols of the struggle against the vampires of the Ebon Cities, and not for any pragmatic measure. It was discovered in the early days of the war that crosses had no effect on the Suckheads, much to the detriment of those who felt confident they’d offer some measure of protection.
Cross smelled fried potatoes and alcohol, smoking meat and onions. The air was chill and the wind was hard, and he tasted exhaust fumes hidden beneath the tantalizing scents of street vendor's wares. Hawkers and doormen yelled out for patrons to get in, quick, and purchase their needed goods before night fell!
The crowds were thick as everyone scrambled to get home or take care of last-minute business before the sun went down. Even with all of Thornn’s defensive measures, there was still a war going on, and it paid to be careful. While no official curfew existed, it was well understood that anyone who chose to remain outdoors after dark was taking his own life in his hands.
Cross was almost to the intersection of Glocker and Pine, which with a quick turn to the right and a trek up the hill would take him into the Grange district and straight to his lonely apartment.
He hesitated. The muscles in his back were tight, and his nerves were on edge. He had the feeling he was being followed.
His eyes went up and traced the shadowy outlines of stout stone buildings covered in concertina wire and iron walkways, structures connected to one another by networks of arcane wiring. Churning storm clouds hovered in the darkening skies. They wouldn't bring rain: it hadn't really rained since before The Black.
Cross felt eyes on his back. His gauntlet sat firmly on his left hand, and his spirit, who’d been so reclusive and quiet since the incident in the hospital, suddenly flared to life. She was a cloak of anger that ignited Cross' skin as he spun round to face his stalker.
The little boy jumped back in fright. Based on the unkempt state of his clothes and his filthy skin, Cross deduced he was some sort of street urchin. A few more children stood in a nearby alleyway, and they laughed and smiled at the boy…until they saw the flames that tore away from Cross' open hand. The would-be thief screamed.
"No!!!" Cross shouted.
Black fire screamed out towards the child. Cross felt a hot and searing wind that scalded his eyes. In his mind's eye, he saw the child on fire, saw him scream and tear out his own hair as he tried to put himself out
just like the boy back at Ramsey's safehouse, just a little boy
he sees Snow, burning on the train
"NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!"
Cross gripped his gauntleted wrist with his free hand and pulled it back towards himself. Fire swept across his chest and stomach. His clothing smoked.
Given the choice between pressing the attack or burning a hole in her host's chest, his spirit called back the flames, and they went out moments before Cross would have caught on fire.
He fell to his knees. His heart hammered, and his fingers clenched. Something molten burned in his stomach, and he felt dizzy. Panic seized his chest.
The boy stared at him in horror. Nearby townsfolk jumped back out of the way, and Cross heard screams.
He also heard whispers. Like the voice of his spirit...but they didn't belong to his spirit. They were someone else’s voices.
Black voices.
What's happening to me?
He ran, and at first he didn’t even realize it. His lungs burned and his legs ached. He ran through alleyways and backstreets, and he pushed his way past anyone he ran across.
Trails of vapor followed in his wake. Spectral faces leered at him. He heard their idiot wails and felt their phantom breath. He turned and faced them, succumbing to the fact that he would have to fight…
And then they were gone. Cross stood alone on the street, flushed with sweat, but his skin felt dull with cold. He was out of breath, and suddenly the world was quiet, even as people came to their windows and balconies and gathered down the street to look at him. The Watch would be there soon, undoubtedly.
Full night approached. Cross turned and walked home, as quickly and as quietly as he could. He couldn’t stop shaking. Whispers lapped at his mind like a cold touch – it wasn’t his spirit, but something else, something so dank and fearful that even she recoiled at its touch.
The shadows were long all of the way back to his apartment. He kept checking over his shoulder to see if it was just the lost spirits he heard, or if someone really was there behind him. He worked through the topiary paths and twisted roads in the Grange, and he kept the looming north walls in sight as he made his way up the last stretch of stone steps, carefully avoiding the thirteenth step, just as he always had. He held his HK in hand as he came to his own house, a squat flat located on top of an abandoned bookstore that had been converted to a wood and cement storage facility for the city.
Every shadow stared back at him. Every twist of moonlight that leaked through the purple clouds looked like a wraith.
It was that black liquid in the Bonespire, I know it was, Cross thought, but the notion of going back to the hospital, or of finding Black or Ash or even Warfield to get help, was terrifying.
Cross felt tiny, cornered at his own doorstep. He expected something to melt out of the shadows at any moment, to fold around him like an oily cloak and swallow him up.
I’m losing my mind. I brought something back with me, and no matter what I do I can’t make it go away.
He opened the door and slammed it shut, and then he locked it for the first time in years. His flat was a mess of books and maps and spare clothes, stripped-down weapons and a punching bag, a table for drawing and a coffee maker that hadn’t worked in ages. The lone window allowed just enough bloody light in for Cross to see the motes of dust that drifted in the air.
For a few minutes, everything was quiet. Cross sat down on the mattress on the floor and promptly fell asleep.
But the whispers returned. The ghosts waited for him in his dreams.
SIX
DIGGING
Cross went to find Black and Kane the next day. He hadn’t slept for more than an hour.
It didn’t occur to Cross until after he left his apartment that he’d missed the meeting with Elias Pike, the Southern Claw officer that his team reported to. He wondered if Black and Kane had met with Pike on their own, or if Pike would even allow that….he hadn’t been thrilled about Cross’ decision to form the team and leave the Southern Claw in the first place, and he’d been doubly disappointed with Cross’ choice of teammates.
The team had used some funds to purchase a run-down manor to serve as their base-of-operations. It wasn’t much, but it was large enough that any of them could sleep there if they needed to, and there was enough extra space to store all of their munitions and equipment, as well as the Darkhawk.
The building was only three-stories tall, and it was made from pale marble that had been scorched in a vampire attack over a decade before. The previous owners had been a band of merchants fronting for the crime syndicate called The Triangle, a group of weapons and drug smugglers who used the place as storage for their various illegal wares. Even after The Triangle agents had been arrested and sent to Black Scar and the building had been stripped of all of its contraband, the structure had remained unused for over three years. No one could afford the upkeep on such an old building, and few wanted to own something that at some point had likely been exposed to chemical narcotics and experimental arcane-bio weaponry. Cross, Black and Kane decided there was nothing to worry about, especially since it meant they got
the place at a discounted price.
Cross approached the manor from the north. It rested against the southern wall of the city, atop a narrow hill that bordered a low stone wall. Grim statues of dragons sat like sentries at the gates.
The entire perimeter hummed with thaumaturgic presence. The network of hex rods and cold iron wire deterred most undead intruders, and there was enough visibility between the house and the perimeter wall that anything lucky enough to get that far was likely to be noticed, since they would probably be on fire by that point, thanks to the outer defenses.
Cross held up his hands so that the arcane glyphs on the exterior wall could read his bio-signature. The ten-foot wrought-iron gates swung open with an ominous creak.
The open grounds were cool green, an expansive lawn littered with broken bits of stone, toppled Gothic statues and drifts of leaves that caught in the chill autumn wind. The old well had been abandoned long before they’d even taken possession of the manor, and they’d converted the gardener’s shack into a munitions shed, a magically locked wooden building filled with blades and rifles in case someone outside had to arm themselves in a hurry.
The manor itself was a dark and imposing structure. Marble columns stood at the top of the wide stone steps that led to the massive front door, and every window was bound in iron lattice and laced with concertina wire. The roof was flat and surrounded with razorwire coils, and the second story balcony was reinforced with sandbags and sacks of holy soil.
Cross always thought of eyes when he looked at those windows. The stone was brick red and covered in scorch marks. The outer walls of the manor had already been damaged when they’d purchased it, and they’d decided to leave them be. Truth be told, no one had really expected they’d get much use out of the place, and to a certain extent they were right, since it was rare for the team to spend more than a week at a time at the manor before they were away for twice that long, trekking into The Reach or the Bone March to engage the Ebon Cities. It had become a fancy warehouse, a secret hideout, of sorts, just like Cross and Snow had pretended to have when they were kids.
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