Galefire II : Holy Avengers

by Kenny Soward

  Lonnie kept his eyes on the pavement. One lurching step after another. Part of him wanted a cigarette. Part of him wanted to vomit just thinking about it.

  Something snarled in the streets behind them. It sounded close.

  “Your magic didn’t work.”

  “Ghoulkine are determined creatures. Now let’s pick it up,” Selix said, pulling him tighter and setting a quicker pace.

  Lonnie kept up, but it hurt. Every time his left foot struck pavement, a sharp pain shot up his side. His eyes watered. Chills wracked him, yet he continued to sweat. Still, they made progress. In a few minutes, they were through the upper West Side and heading toward downtown.

  “You okay?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll get out of this, believe me.”

  A scuffling followed them up the street. The sound of claws against the warm pavement. Rasping breaths. Snuffling grunts.

  Lonnie started to turn them around, but Selix resisted.

  “Don’t, Lonnie. Let’s keep going.”

  “No. I want to see. I want to know.”

  ”Fine.”

  They hobble-turned and peered back the way they’d come.

  Something crouched on the corner, elbows and knees jutting out. Gray skin shone beneath the lusterless light, pocked and patchy with tufts of black, bristly hairs. A snout probed and sniffed the ground.

  Another came, stick-legged and teeter-walking out from behind a parked car to stand in the middle of the street, dragging a fast food bag around one of its clawed feet. It, too, was covered in a patchwork of grayish fur, bristling as it moved. Haunched at the shoulders, it reared and jutted its snout upward. Sniffed at the air. Jerked when it caught their scent. It angled in their direction, pointed with a slender arm.

  It made a hacking, laughing sound. A hyena sound. A jackal sound.

  Ghoulkine.

  The thing crouching on the sidewalk jerked its face up and crawled toward them.

  Lonnie didn’t need to be told to move his ass. Together they turned and lurched into high gear.

  Selix panted. “We have to get to Main Street.”

  “Why?”

  “The clubs are letting out. Too many people. Too many lights. Too real for the ghoulkine.”

  And while Lonnie wanted to escape the thing crawling up the sidewalk, he wanted to protect Selix, too. Tell her to go on without him. That he would stay and hold the monsters off in a feat of heroics. Hah! What a joke. He’d be no better holding those things off than the first time he’d tried toppling Taco Casa Guy in front of Wischer’s Auto Parts.

  Yet, he'd done it. Proved it back in Rose Park, too. But how to control the runes? How to raise them?

  They heard Main Street long before they got there. Part alternative rock, part thudding bass, women laughing and guys calling out; cars revving in the after-club traffic. In his old, fake memories, Lonnie had come here a couple times with his wife after finding a sitter for the Shrimp. He remembered how much he enjoyed the acoustic bands. Just sitting with his woman and a micro brew after a long, hard work week. Letting the wound-up tension ease away, the pressure of the daily grind sloughing off like wet dirt.

  As prey, the noise meant safety.

  They emerged from the shadows at the corner of 13th and Main and turned right. The sounds of the raucous crowd blossomed around them. It was difficult to hug the buildings with people everywhere, most of them amassed along the fronts of the clubs or crossing the street between the slow-moving cars.

  The guys were casual or hipster, the women in jeans or fall skirts or ass hugging minis. Casual to fancy blouses and flashing jewelry and an occasional hippie-centric individual, a University of Cincinnati student trying to be different, but not too different. Many of the woman wore pinned up hair and carried their shoes as they looked perplexed about the location of their cars.

  Lonnie cringed as the club goers noticed them. Staring. Gaping. Others held bemused expressions. If he could have gotten any smaller, he would’ve. Lonnie hunkered beneath the blistering gazes, but Selix remained unfazed. Her mouth drew into a tight line, hair falling loose around her head, giving her a tousled pixie look. Her cold blue eyes picked a path through the bare legs and khaki sea, more concerned with keeping Lonnie on his feet and avoiding the stumbling drunk patrons escaping the clubs with significant others (or not so significant ones) on their arms. At cross sections, Selix searched the dark side streets, looking for any sign of the ghoulkine following them.

  Lonnie caught bits and pieces of conversations, things that stung through the chest pain.

  “…roaches come from?” someone said.

  “Somebody call pest control,” said another.

  A young woman giggled.

  “Do they need help?”

  “Fucking gross…”

  On his left, Lonnie saw two women fighting across the street. A tall, bleach-blonde had a handful of brunette hair and was pulling her opponent to the ground while their friends pointed with their camera phones and surged around them. Onlookers shouted their encouragement. Nearby, a couple frat guys with university T-shirts chest bumped.

  Beer splattered across his neck. Ran down his back.

  "Assholes," Lonnie murmured, a wry grin lifting the corner of his mouth.

  His lungs threatened to hack. His chest hurt so bad he wanted to cry. Fuck it. He let the tears go, let them roll down his cheeks and over his grin.

  He collapsed.

  “No, Lonnie, not—”

  “Is he okay?” A young woman rushed forward, tucking her purse beneath her elbow as she reached for Lonnie.

  Selix warned the woman to be careful, but she changed position expertly, sliding her arm around Lonnie’s waist and gripping him by one of his belt loops.

  “I’m an ER nurse,” she said. “I can help. Is he shot?”

  “No,” Selix sputtered, wary even as she fought for possession of Lonnie. “We’re okay. I’m just taking him home.”

  A man said, “C’mon, Lisa. Leave the homeless people alone.”

  Lisa glanced over her shoulder. “Fuck you, Tom. This guy’s in serious condition. I’m not leaving him alone.” And then Lisa studied Lonnie’s pallid face, the blood on his chin. She put one palm against his forehead, her expression struck with worry. “He’s going into shock. He needs an ambulance right away.”

  “We’re fine,” Selix insisted, pulling Lonnie out of the nurse’s grip.

  Lonnie wanted to laugh, two women fighting over his junkie ass, but things got fuzzy again. His head swam. His mouth dried out. He held on with all his might. Still, he slipped.

  “But, this man needs attention,” Lisa said, insistent.

  “I said back the fuck off.” Selix hissed the words with such vehemence the woman let go of Lonnie and retreated, horror on her face.

  Selix gave Lonnie a quick lift to get beneath him and they continued along Main Street, away from the crowds and gawkers and drama; and help.

  The sidewalk curved to the river. The going, easier. Lonnie felt something in his chest loosen. His breathing eased.

  “What…did you…do?”

  The corners of Selix’s mouth turned upward just a fraction, a smile both wicked and amused. “I showed her the motherfucking dragon, that’s what.”

  Lonnie’s vision curled in on itself in folds of shadow, and he blacked out.

  Chapter 7

  The healer in her vivid white robes removed the last of the bindings from young Mardokh’s (no, Lonnie’s) arms, releasing a foul stench into the air. Lonnie wrinkled his nose at the stuff, holding his limbs out in disgust. She wiped the putrid brown poultice away with a warm, wet rag, and that felt good. Oh, yes, that was very nice. What remained were little pink marks along his forearms. Angry puckers of skin. A reminder of his failure in the testing chamber earlier that week.

  "That will be all," the Master said, and the healer gathered her dirty bandages and exited the study. It was a messy place, filled with scrolls, clockwork turnpages, and vario
us scribing utensils which included hollowed demon claws and human skin.

  The little metal slivers had nearly cut him to ribbons. His only defense had been to cower in a corner. Pathetic, he knew, but he’d not been ready. The Master hadn’t warned him he was to be tested that day.

  Not fair.

  The Master leaned in, inspecting his arms. Her gray hair stood in a topknot on her head, and her stone-colored eyes inspected his damaged skin. She made a tsk sound and nodded. Lonnie couldn’t tell if she was satisfied at his healing progress or disappointed in his performance.

  “You forgot everything you learned. Just like that.” She shook her wizened head. “The power of the runecraft. A little breeze blew it from your mind, and you let it.” She made fluttering motions with her fingers.

  “It wasn’t a little breeze, Master. The chamber—”

  A wooden cane cracked across his forearms. Not only wood, but infused with the Master’s own runecraft, swirls raising on her skin as she sent a jolt of power through the weapon and into Lonnie.

  He yowled. Jerked. Pressed his arms against his stomach to protect them.

  The Master, seeing an opening, repeated the violence, this time against his shoulder.

  Lonnie leapt out of the Master’s reach. He brought his right hand over his left, writing a ‘T’ shape with his index finger across his knuckles. A series of bumps raised, growing together and turning a shade of deep blue. The letter formed. Power swelled within him. He imagined his skin morphing into the hard stone walls of the keep. And when the Master’s cane struck him a third time, again in the shoulder, the pain was far more diminished.

  “You forgot everything.”

  “No!”

  The Master pointed her cane. “Then why do you look like you walked into a nest of devil wasps?”

  Lonnie’s eyes fell to the floor. “I wasn’t ready for the chamber.”

  The master twirled the end of her wicked little weapon at Lonnie. “You’ll never be ready, son. That’s why you must always be ready. Does that make sense to you?”

  Lonnie heard the wisdom in her words, but he was at odds with using violence to solve problems. His mother taught him that diplomacy and kindness had its own power. But he wasn’t in his learning chamber listening to Mother’s teachings. No, he was the Master’s today, and she demanded different results. It was important to please her, because in pleasing her he pleased his father, thus fulfilling the sacred duty of every Prince of Xester who’d come before him. “I understand.”

  His voice must not have convinced the Master, for she shook her head and tsk’d again. “You are the weakest Bet-Ohman I have ever known. Yet, you are the strongest.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Repeat the lesson.”

  Lonnie swallowed, remembered the words. “Right hand over left, defense. Left over right, fight. Fists together…” There were several combinations of sweeps one could execute. One done from elbow to fingertips sent the power out and away. Reverse sweeps, from fingers to wrist or elbow, held the magic within and helped form defensive protections. No one master cast them the same. Lonnie had only learned seven of them. Surely, Mother would see no harm in mastering such a skill. Runecraft was simple and strong, not always violent.

  It was even beautiful.

  Somewhere in the middle of his recitation, the cane raised and descended. This time, Lonnie quickly brushed his palms together, recharging the most recent rune he’d called. The letter shape burst across the back of his hand and knuckles, and the power swelled inside him. His skin grew stony hard, and when the wood connected with his temple, it snapped and flew to pieces.

  “Good,” the Master said, a half pleased smile forming on her crusted lips. But then a blade appeared her grip. She held it up for him to see and then thrust it at his belly. A telegraphed move, but still painful or deadly if Lonnie allowed it to strike. Instincts taking over, he clapped his hands hard, the sound ripping through the chamber. The defensive rune practically jumped off his skin this time.

  The blade struck his stomach and snapped.

  The Master chuckled, looked at the useless handle, and tossed it. She pointed her finger at Lonnie, having run out of weapons, and grinned. “Very good. Very good. You have quick instincts, but you must steady your emotions if you are to wield the power consistently."

  “Mother says—”

  “To the Pits with what your mother says! Your mother does not have to defend the Bet-Ohman name. She does not have to protect herself or your family. The rest of us do that work.”

  Lonnie glared into the Master’s sharp eyes before lowering his head. “Yes, Master.”

  “Your job is to learn your lessons. Let nothing distract you.” She raised an eyebrow. “Especially not a woman. You’ll have time for that later.”

  “Yes, Master.” Lonnie had no female prospects. Some of the girls he trained with caught his eye, but he’d barely kissed a girl. Yet, his father and mother both hinted at finding a suitable life partner soon, at least someone to share the burden of ruling whatever backwater province of Hell Father placed him in. He was approaching steel-age, after all.

  And the Master wanted him to train, train, train.

  The scene melted away, memories sliding through Lonnie’s fingers. First, the strange red-black stone walls. Next, the thick carpets and shelves filled with clockwork tablets on runecraft. He and the old woman stood facing one another beneath the coal gray clouds of Hell’s sky. Lonnie reached out to clutch the Master’s withered hands, but she sunk into the sand without changing her expression, leaving Lonnie alone.

  In the real world, he was dying. He faced this with a vague sense of disappointment. He’d just learned something about his power. Something he could actually use for once. But he’d probably die before he ever got the chance.

  The scene shifted.

  Walls burst upward, sending grains flying everywhere. Lonnie cast his eyes skyward to see a cavernous roof rolling over him. A mural was drawn there depicted demon minstrels and white-winged angels cavorting through a gutted sky. Lonnie’s eyes fell as the chamber took shape. Two levels filled with tables and seats where patrons sat in quiet darkness. Naked women and men, beauties, delivering carnal wine in precious decanters that would be priceless on Earth.

  Patrons sipped from chalices, and they sipped from the beauties, too, through straws sunk into their veins.

  This place was for entertainment. An amphitheater. A pleasure house.

  Something shoved Lonnie in the chest, and he fell into a high-backed chair overlooking a wide stage. Much older than the boy learning the ways of the runes, Lonnie wore a light steelcore skirt and boots, both impregnable and decorative. His shirt was fashioned of the same steelcore scales. His chest and arms thrummed with power, rune power.

  At this age, he'd gained some mastery of the sweeps. He could call them as he wished. There were certain patterns and combinations. Ah, the answers!

  “Will you look at her,” someone said.

  Lonnie shifted his attention to the man sitting next to him. He jerked back in his chair. It was the Brit! The same handsome fellow as before, only his hair was longer and braided fancifully over his shoulders. He wore similar attire to Lonnie’s only far less decorative. And his name, the Brit. That wasn’t real was it? No, that wasn’t his Hell name, but that's what Lonnie would call him for now.

  The Brit, annoyed, jerked his head toward the stage. Lonnie obliged, following his gaze to where a single figure stood like a spike of white in the darkness.

  She was tall and willowy, dressed in a plain ashen gown which pooled on the floor over her bare feet. A cascade of colorless hair flowed as straight and fine as spider silk over her shoulders. Around her neck was a thick steel collar, polished to a shine and reflecting the stage light in broken fragments.

  Lonnie eased forward in his seat, his eyes drawn by the brilliant figure. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Aye, it is. A dragon voice. Can you believe that?”

&
nbsp; A slow drone rose through the space. The chair and floor vibrated beneath him. A progression of keys rang out in a sad, staccato pace. Some sinister instrument played deep within the pleasure house.

  The dragon voice raised her eyes and pierced everyone with their blue, crawling over the patrons, burning them alive. She took a breath. Exhaled in a high rising note, a soft tone, capturing ears and drawing even the hardest and cruelest of them out of their seats to hang on the possibility of the next note.

  As she sang, her gaze roamed closer to Lonnie. He held his breath. Wiped a tear away before the Brit could see it. His emotional reaction was not so surprising. His mother had opened his heart to such things.

  And then her eyes found him, caught him up, and obliterated him in their piercing heat. The note changed, following the steady pulse of a melody, interlocking with it and pulling out verses in the old language of demons and succubi.

  He understood a few of the words, but they did not matter.

  It was the sensation they evoked. Riding the wind on the back of a wing-beating dragon, twisting higher and higher, sleek scales undulating to the rhythm of the song rushing through his head. He wanted to be near the woman on the stage, wanted her to sing to him without the gawking crowd. If he could only share one night with her.

  When Lonnie opened his eyes, he was still looking at Selix, but in a different world.

  He was back on Earth, dying.

  Chapter 8

  Lonnie awoke with a gurgle and a cough. He sat against something hard. A rough lip of cement cut against his lower back. They were hiding in a sunken alcove tucked under a building’s edge. Lights from the city’s athletic stadiums filtered in through the chain-link fence that covered the alcove’s upper half, indicating the river was close. An air-conditioning unit hummed nearby and the ground was slightly littered.

  He shifted, took a deep, pained breath, and coughed hard for a minute before settling into a comfortable slouch. Selix crouched on the opposite side of the alcove. Her slim silhouette stood, eyes shining with worry.