07- Black Blood Brother

by Morgan Blayde

  Staring at me from fifteen feet away were two men. One of them had silver eyes with vertical pupils showing his true nature. He was dragon in human form, like me. His suit was white, his shirt black, and open at the neck. His wild thatch of hair was also white, but not with age. His face was unlined, with a hawkish nose.

  He told his partner, “I’m leaving him to you. Play all you want, but be sure and kill him.”

  His partner had to be a Villager; the one who’d opened the shadow-portal. He was also black and white, but reversed from the first man. The Villager wore a black suit with white shirt. The hair that could be seen was black and slicked back. In addition, he wore a black longcoat and a white, tasseled scarf. The Villager’s face was concealed by a white ceramic mask, expressionless, glossy, with eyes holes full of darkness. I was reminded of the masks used to decorate many movie theaters.

  This mask hadn’t made up its mind yet whether to laugh or cry.

  My attention was drawn to the concrete underfoot again. The magic circle paled from ink-black to sepia, and then evaporated completely.

  As did most of the tattoos on my skin.

  Clothed, I couldn’t see them fade, but the raw magic circulating in my body let me sense the stripping away. Across my shoulders, the Demon Wings tattoo that hid me remained in place, as did the Lotus-and-Dragon tattoo on my right forearm. The demon magic tattoo and the Red Lady’s goddess-powered tattoo had survived where the purely dragon magic ones hadn’t.

  They’d allowed me to fight my way into their trap, cunning bastards.

  SIX

  “The biggest regret of my life is that not

  enough people roll over and die for me.”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  It had taken all the power of the spell-circle to strip away nearly all of my spells. The Villager’s shadow magic was clearly far more developed than mine.

  The cheatin’ son of a bitch. Now I’ll have to pay money to get needled again. That’s a lot of pain and bother.

  I let go of the Demon Wings spell to make the enemy think they’d been totally successful, instead of mostly. It gave me a weapon in reserve. I became visible to them as the portal finished collapsing in on itself. It vanished and I was cut off from the restaurant. Outpowered. Vulnerable.

  And still, the silver dragon hauled his precious ass away, running for a distant exit. It didn’t matter if he got away for now; I’d seen his face and could find him again. But there’s something about an enemy’s exposed back that compels me to shoot.

  If only I could summon one of my PX4 Storms to hand…

  Hmmm. Maybe I can, in a way...

  I extended a hand, closing my fist loosely, as if I held a semi-automatic. Dark shadow pooled in my palm. I formed a copy of my favorite gun, made of shadow magic. In my mind, I held the image of every functioning part, having stripped and cleaned the Storm’s any number of times. The shadow took on weight borrowed from my conviction that I truly held such a weapon. A moment of weakness swept over me from the amount of magic the weapon pulled out of me.

  The Villager darkened into a coal-black cloud that leaped across space, reforming in my line of sight. He was protecting his contact in the Dragon Court. As the Villager returned to human form, one thing was different: the expression on his white ceramic mask had changed. The eyebrow ridges arched in surprise. The mouth had become a shocked O, as if to say “Oh my, how clever of you!”

  The PX4 Shadow Storm bucked in my hand, spitting black-shadow casings as I unloaded at the Villager. The rapid-fire shots were eerily silent as my gun muzzle belched flame-shaped shadow. Another oddity, the weapon didn’t kick in my hand. The expended casings danced on the concrete floor a little, then melted onto it. Like a spreading contagion, more shadow seeped from the concrete, a spreading stain, like blood from the former spell.

  Or Freak Face is reforming the portal.

  That meant I had to watch out for a reformed gate hitting me from behind, tossing me into some alien, inhospitable dimension.

  Cunning of him. But then why is he staring at the floor that way, like the returning spell has nothing to do with him?

  Annoyingly, my slugs ghosted through his body, doing no damage I could see. My gun sent out round after round, as if I had an infinite supply of slugs in the magazine. That was cool, but I hate being ineffective. I reabsorbed the shadow gun and summoned my demon sword. Tied to my soul, it was a weapon Freak Face couldn’t keep from me.

  The sword appeared in my hand, a length of black, meteoric iron with a red haze throbbing around it. In my direct possession, a mystic connection formed; I could hear the screams of all the souls it had devoured over time. I was flushed with the sword’s endless hunger—a hunger that would willingly devour my soul should I let my guard weaken. As long as that bond existed, the sword’s feeding would boost my power. Even if the steel couldn’t hurt Freak Face, its demon aura could still give him damage.

  My sword agreed. Hell, yes!

  The pattern on the floor quickly darkened, almost complete now. I ran across it, taking the fight to the Villager. He ran to meet me. We closed with each other on the outer edge of the pattern where runes faded in like invisible ink on heated paper. I had seconds before the gate could be used against me. For all I knew, he might be calling for reinforcements.

  There’s a depressing thought.

  My sword slashed across his waist, through a gap created as his torso actually separated, avoiding contact with my weapon. Now I was seriously pissed. Absolutely no one is allowed to out-fight me.

  It simply isn’t done.

  My sword snarled, a sound like raging, swarming bees. It said, Stand still and die, you unhappy meal! The voice rang in my head. I doubted the Villager could hear it. That joy was mine completely.

  The Villager held up a hand, requesting a pause. It might well be stupid to give him a chance to do anything, but I was curious. Maybe he was going to offer me a bribe. I watched him open his coat and fan it a little. Inside, hanging on the lining where he could reach them, were rows of white ceramic masks like the one on his face.

  He chose a mask without looking, lifting it up so he was two-faced. Without revealing his true face, the new mask went on while the old mask came away, stashed back inside his coat. The expression on his face-mask was different now—a mean scowl that silently announced: I’m going to kick your ass!

  “Ready now?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  I unleashed a barrage of blows from my demon sword’s black iron length; slashing, bashing, and chomping like a food processor from hell. A haze of red demon energy shimmered in the wake of the blade, forcing Freak Face to be careful about pulling the pieces of himself back together.

  Disks of shadow appeared, concealing the back of his hands, miniature shields that extended six inches past his fists. He back-fisted my demon sword with his left shield, filling the air with red sparks. Stepping into me, he jabbed with the forward edge of his right shield. Instinctively, I pivoted hips and shoulders, letting his strike pass me without touching. Pulling his hand back in a curve, the right shield’s edge creased my coat. There was a stab of cold. A tear appeared in my coat and underlying shirt. The skin felt flash-frozen—a sensation not unlike getting slashed by a blowtorch.

  The shock might have stunned anyone else into a loss of timing, but I’d known pain intimately for years. I ignored it, and willed my demon sword to alter length, collapsing into a long dagger, then reforming to its original length.

  The demon blade’s voice spiked in my head. Hey, what the hell!

  Suck it up, buttercup.

  With the break of contact between sword and shield, Freak Face slipped to the side, off balance.

  I leaned in and stabbed.

  Playing contortionist, spinning, waving, he evaded the demon sword.

  It howled in my head, furiously disappointed.

  I slammed a thought into my weapon. Cut that out. I’m trying to concentrate here.

  Stealing my idea, the
Villager made the shield on his right hand much bigger. I backed away, a curving path that let me watch for the portal. I was surprised Freak Face hadn’t hit me with it yet. Maybe he hadn’t brought the spell circle back to life after all.

  We studied each other in one of those pauses that can sometimes appear mid-battle when everyone realizes everyone is fucked.

  I said, “I know what you’re thinking. ‘Why won’t he die?’ My enemies have been saying that for decades, those still alive.”

  I used the pause between us to seep shadow out of my body, forming patches of armor to protect me from the kiss of his shields. From the movement of his head, I knew he’d taken notice.

  He let the shadow shield on his left hand fade out, growing a sword in his left hand. He was either left handed, or more likely, as a warrior, had trained himself to be ambidextrous. His whole body went into black mist, that snapped right back out again, accomplishing a nearly instantaneous change of masks. The rage was gone. A smile greeted me.

  I shrugged. “You like a challenge? Well, it’s a bad idea; I’ve yet to find a swordsman who can keep up with me.”

  He tilted his head sideways, weighing my words while trying to freak me out with the spookiness of the killer mime routine.

  Damn, this guy is good.

  With a burst of speed, he launched himself at me, his sword and shield almost touching each other—offense and defense combined.

  I dipped low and angled out of his way so his own shield blocked his view of me. I slashed low with my demon sword, going for his exposed legs.

  His shield dropped low.

  The demon sword hit the shield and bounced back. The red demon energy crackled over the shield. Chips of shadow fell to the concrete and misted away. The surface of the shield wavered slightly, the shadow magic weakening a moment. I brought my sword hammering back to the shield, hoping to break through. He kicked his own shield so it came smashing at my face, but angling my sword deflected the shield over my shoulder.

  His shadow sword stabbed at me, sliding under my guard. The tip skidded across my shadow armor, turned away.

  I went in with my tip, aiming for the eyeholes in his mask.

  He flinched back. It looked for a moment like he’d clumsily dropped his sword. The sword hung in space, floating. Its tip zeroed in on my heart. Demon sword and shadow blade clashed, dancing, engaging in spurts. The Villager’s blade no longer needed to act defensively; Freak Face was well out of range, not really part of the fight anymore—except through magical manipulation. I had shadow armor, but couldn’t afford to be reckless. It was only a matter of time before he realized his weapon’s touch could absorb the shadow magic of my armor, and mist it away.

  Letting my body fight on auto-pilot, I concentrated and formed a hand of shadow above his head where he couldn’t see it. The shadow hand was a technique the Old Man had taught me. Since youth, whenever I cussed in his presence, he’d form a hand like this one behind me to slap the back of my head. It really used to piss me off. I willed my shadow hand to fall onto the top of his mask, gripping it tightly. I tried to rip the mask off him, or failing that, force his head down so he couldn’t direct his floating sword.

  He batted at the hand. Touching it, the shadow-shape was dashed to nothing.

  Without his attention, the shadow sword he used exploded. He’d packed a lot of power into it, giving it density and strength. The concussive release of that magic thrust me back, lifting me off my feet. I hit the concrete floor and scraped backwards a few yards. A lesser man would have dropped his demon sword—and maybe gotten stabbed by it. I just held on tighter while scrambling to get my feet under me and keep an eye out for the next attack.

  Freak Face went still, then billowed out as black mist, only to reform as human. The ceramic mask had a new expression, a joyous grin. I think the exploding sword—and my getting dumped on my ass—had inspired him. His cupped hands came up, palms toward me. Black shadows filled them.

  I threw myself sideways, rolling for all I was worth.

  Black balls of shadow followed me, exploding against the concrete floor, cracking it, spraying stone chips. He was shadow-forming hand grenades. The drain on his magic had to take a heavy toll. I just hoped he ran out of magical strength before I died.

  Rolling with the sword slowed me too much. I sent it into the ether, knowing it would find its way home to my Malibu armory.

  A wall loomed over me. I hit it. I was out of running room. Fortunately, there came a break in the detonations chasing me.

  As Freak Face went all black cloud, whirling at me, closing the distance, I smiled back at him. And jammed my hand into the drywall next to an electrical outlet. I grabbed wiring and yanked a cable free. It didn’t break; places are wired with lax cabling in the walls. I brought a loop of cable to my mouth and bit. The saliva helped the grounding. As the casing split, I tasted zinc. My mouth burned. Broken casing dribbled down my chin. I heard high-pitched buzzing and smelled ozone.

  The Villager reformed. He stood over me. His mask had changed expression again; the eye-holes small and round, eyebrows raised very high, his mouth another tiny hole. I interpreted this to mean he was surprised as hell by what probably looked like attempted suicide on my part.

  The ceiling LED lights flickered and died as the circuit breakers blew. The wiring I chewed went dead as well. I spat it out. The warehouse was now lit by the battery-powered emergency lights and the electrical jags dancing over me that my dragon magic hoarded, refusing to let the charges grounded. By the flickering strobes, I saw the white of his mask, his shirt, and the long-tasseled scarf he wore.

  Lunging to my feet, I flushed the raging current into my arms, and down to my hands. They crackled, hidden in the blaze. I punched into the Villager’s body. One fist, then the other, rapid-firing my attacks, backing them with half-dragon strength. Freak’s clothes burst into fire. I felt his flesh sinking under my blows. I heard ribs break. And with every blow I landed, I pumped electrical fire into him. He staggered backwards, patting out flames, trailing a raw roar of agony.

  A black disk appeared between us. This shield looked sloppy, ragged edged, its outer surface rough and pitted. He’d definitely overextended his power.

  I kept up my attack, step after step, my burning fists slamming the shield dead center. Every strike burned layers away, fading its darkness. Cracks appeared. Shards dropped out. The barrier went shapeless, tearing like wet tissue. Apparently, dragon lightning was highly potent against shadow magic. Which seemed odd because I carried both in my body, and my shadow magic and dragon lightning co-existed well.

  The last of the shield misted away and I went through, hitting him once more. He fell and sprawled. I aimed a kick at his head, clipping the mask. The top half of it shattered.

  He shifted into black mist and retreated faster than I could run.

  Son of bitch!

  I screamed at him. “Get back here, you fucker!”

  He didn’t. I lost him in the distant darkness. Moments later, a far door opened, the same one the silver dragon had used to escape. Now I’d lost them both.

  “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!”

  “Caine!” It was Dimitur’s voice. “Over here. I’ve reformed the portal.”

  Ah, that’s who reactivated the spell circle.

  One thing puzzled me. “From the other side of a closed portal?”

  “I’d like to say it’s because I’m really good, but your shadow magic touching the spell circle gave me a reference point to make contact. Are you coming or what?”

  “Afraid I’ll run out on the check?”

  “It was a thought.”

  I had a couple of thoughts of my own: How long have you been there, watching me get my ass kicked. Were you hoping I’d die? Did you consider helping me for a second?

  Wreathed in a diminished web of electrical jags, I walked toward Dimitur’s voice. As I neared the portal’s threshold, I saw him standing on it, the back half of his body immersed in the gate. His expressionless
face studied me. He said, “You just fought off one of the most powerful shadow mages I’ve ever sensed.”

  “And burned my tongue.”

  “I don’t know if that was dumb luck or skill…”

  “Burning my tongue?”

  “Surviving the mage. But the attention you draw is a good reason for you not to date my daughter.”

  “Tell her that,” I said.

  “It’s less dangerous telling you.” He angled aside.

  I slid past him, through the portal. The falling, fluctuating gravity welcomed me, and then I was back in the restroom.

  I sighed. “My crepes are going to be cold now.” I expended the excess electricity I hadn’t used up. The last whole sink exploded, and a mirror as well. Suddenly, I felt better.

  SEVEN

  “I can be cranky without a morning blowjob.”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  “Caine, get your bony ass out of bed. We’ve got things to do.”

  The angry, female voice snapped me awake. Half asleep, I reached into the ether to summon a PX4 Storm while yelling into my pillow. “Die, bitch!” I squeezed the trigger. No trigger. No gun. My hand was unaccountably empty.

  What the hell?

  Memory surfaced from the fading haze of sleep. My tatts were gone. I was cut off from my armory. Most of my spells were gone. And I was in need of a morning blowjob. And coffee. In that order. I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. The curtains were drawn across the balcony entrance, cutting off the daytime view of the Strip. The only light came from the next room.

  “Get me coffee.”

  “Room service is on the way.”

  I closed my eyes again. “What time is it and who are you?”

  “It’s late, and you know who I am. Imari.”

  Imari. The First Sword. Commander of our demon forces. My right hand in the Clan.

  I could have figured that out on my own. If I cared. If I wasn’t still half asleep. I asked myself what the odds were that she’d go away and let me return to sleep. I did outrank her.