by Tim Waggoner
Feeling more cheerful than he had in decades, Conrad whistled an old German drinking song as he withdrew to a safe distance to watch the fun.
* * *
At first Dean thought maybe Sam was beginning to hallucinate smells on top of everything else, but then he smelled it, too—and it was getting stronger. It smelled different than regular smoke, with a chemical tang that made Dean think of a combination of gasoline and sulfur. He looked around for the source, but it was Sam who spotted it first.
“Look!” Sam pointed toward the door.
Dean turned and saw a widening scorch mark at its base, wisps of smoke rising from it as if the wood was being burned from the inside.
What the hell?
As the brothers watched, scorched wood flaked away to black ash and something pushed its way into the room. At first it was covered in soot, but crimson flames flared bright, burning the black stuff into nothing, revealing the body of a small red lizard no longer than one of Dean’s pinkies. The lizard came further into the room, leaving a trail of tiny blackened footprints in the carpet.
“What’s that?” Dean asked. “A fun-sized dragon?”
“I think it’s a salamander,” Sam said, a worried tone in his voice. “And not the kind you find next to a pond. It’s a mythological creature that—”
Crimson fire burst outward from the salamander in all directions, and it scuttled toward the brothers, coming at them like a mobile campfire.
“Does that,” Sam finished.
* * *
Daniel had been keeping an eye on the Winchesters since they’d fought the two-headed monster in the woods the day before. He’d even tried communicating with Sam that night after the brothers had showered and collapsed into bed. Given the right circumstances, Reapers could make contact with humans while they slept. The sleep state was in certain ways akin to death anyway—one of the reasons some sorcerers and psychically gifted humans were able to travel astrally while sleeping—and since Sam was already infected with the dark taint which was spreading and growing stronger with each passing hour, Daniel thought there was a good chance he might be able to contact him, or at least plant a suggestion into his subconscious. But he’d had no luck. Sam had been too weary, his slumber too deep. So Daniel had withdrawn from their room, passing silently through the door—physical barriers meant nothing to his kind—and taken up a position next to their vehicle, where he remained throughout the night. His kind did not tire, and they possessed almost limitless patience. It was a trait they shared with their master.
That morning, Daniel had sensed Dippel’s approach long before the alchemist appeared, and since he was still uncertain whether or not the man could perceive him, he retreated to the room next to the Winchesters’. He was relieved to find it empty.
He didn’t have senses, not in the way humans understood them, so he didn’t smell the wood burning, but he could detect Sam and Dean’s muffled voices, and their tone of alarm was unmistakable. Given the fact that this coincided with Dippel’s arrival, Daniel didn’t need to be a genius to know that something was wrong.
He hesitated less than a second before stepping through the wall between rooms. He emerged into the Winchesters’ just in time to hear Sam speak the word “salamander.” Daniel knew how dangerous salamanders like this—supernatural creatures of an age gone by—could be. He moved toward the creature, hoping that he would be able to reach it before...
Flames burst forth from the salamander’s tiny form, crimson, hot, and terrible to behold. Daniel knew the mystical fire could burn through anything, and nothing could extinguish it, not even a lack of oxygen. It would continue to spread, devouring everything in its path until the magic that fueled it was expended, and no power on Earth—and few powers beyond—could force it to do otherwise.
Daniel could do nothing about the flames that the creature had already kindled, but he could ensure that it generated no more. He moved past Sam and Dean, the former gasping as he saw Daniel go by, and crouched in front of the salamander. He reached through the corona of flames surrounding it—the fire feeling hot even to his fleshless substance—and touched his index finger to the lizard’s head.
A Reaper’s task was vital in a cosmic sense, but ultimately a simple one: to be present at the moment of a human’s death and serve as escort to, and if necessary, advisor about, the afterlife. Death’s servants had many supernatural abilities to help them perform their duties, and one of the simplest was also one of the most powerful: when they wished it, their touch could kill.
Despite its diminutive size, the salamander was a creature endowed with powerful magic, and it fought the Reaper’s influence, but in the end, no matter how hard the struggle, all must bow before Death. The salamander shuddered once, curled into a ball, and grew still. Its magic fled with its death, and since it was no longer protected against its own flame, it was instantly cremated.
With the salamander destroyed, there would be no new flames, but those that had already been released were spreading rapidly. Daniel knew he’d only managed to buy the Winchesters some time.
Without turning to gauge Sam’s reaction to what he had done, Daniel stepped toward the burning door and passed through it. No longer would he hide from Dippel. It was high time he did something about the alchemist. He didn’t know the full extent of the man’s dark powers, but in the end he would surely prove no match for one of Death’s chosen.
“Greetings, my friend.”
Dippel stood outside the door, as if he had been waiting for Daniel. The alchemist held a polished dark blue stone in his hand, and with a cold smile he thrust it toward Daniel. The two were so close that Dippel’s hand entered Daniel’s chest, burying the stone deep within his ethereal substance. Daniel had never known pain. If he had, he would have known that this wasn’t a pain of the flesh, a simple series of signals transmitted along a network of nerves, this was a pain of the soul, and it washed away Daniel’s very self and swept him into darkness.
* * *
Conrad held the Lapis Occultus up to his face and peered into its dark blue depths. He couldn’t see the Reaper’s spirit, of course, but he could sense its power pulsing within, and he felt a swell of triumph. He heard a woman’s voice whisper through his mind, cold as an arctic blast. You have done well, my servant. Now complete the task you embarked upon so long ago.
Conrad was disappointed. He would rather have remained to watch the hunters burn in the salamander’s unquenchable flames. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the opportunity to use one of the incendiary lizards, and he’d really been looking forward to enjoying the resulting holocaust. Still, one had to tend to business before pleasure. Especially when said business was done in the name of a goddess of death.
He inclined his head. “Thy will be done, my lady.”
He tucked the Lapis Occultus—which idiot scholars had long mistakenly referred to as the Philosopher’s Stone—into his jacket pocket and headed for his car. The Lapis Occultus possessed many useful properties: turning base metals into gold, healing illness, and prolonging life. And with the right adjustments, it also made an extremely effective prison for a Reaper.
Conrad had one stop to make before presenting the Reaper’s spirit to Catherine. He needed to acquire more NuFlesh, and he owed Peter Martinez the unguent he’d promised him. Conrad Dippel was many things, almost all of them unpleasant, but a breaker of vows was not among them.
Beautiful clouds of crimson-tinged smoke billowed into the sky as he got into his car and pulled out of the motel’s parking lot. He was concerned that Martinez might be tempted to over-apply the unguent once he got hold of a fresh supply. If so, the results would be... unfortunate. Still, what did it matter? After today, Conrad would have no more need of Martinez or his NuFlesh. Soon his mistress would be free to walk the Earth, and devastation and despair would follow in her wake.
It was going to be glorious.
* * *
Sam didn’t know if it was his proximity to the
shadow figure or the worsening of his condition, but he was able to make out some details of the being’s appearance this time. Not much, just a suggestion of body shape and facial features, enough to make him think the figure was a shadow man. He watched it step toward the salamander, crouch down, touch it, and then straighten and walk through the blazing door as if it and the fire that was rapidly devouring it wasn’t there. Sam wasn’t certain what the shadow man had done to the salamander, but as near as he could tell it was dead, burnt to a crisp by its own flame. The fires it had already produced continued to rage unabated, however.
The room’s smoke alarm began shrilling a high-pitched warning that was as annoying as it was unnecessary.
The door was aflame, as were the curtains around the window and the legs of the table. Sam lunged forward—nearly losing his footing thanks to his numb leg—and snatched up the laptop before the fire could claim it. Although he didn’t come in contact with any of the flames, the heat that emanated from them was intense, and his skin stung as if he’d received an instant sunburn. He stepped back, closed the laptop, and tucked it under his arm. He’d been just in time. The blazing curtains fell onto the tabletop, igniting it.
“Let’s try for the window,” Dean said. “If we break it, we can jump through. We might get a little singed in the process—”
“No good,” Sam said, shaking his head. “This is magic fire. If even a single small flame touches us, the fire will spread across our bodies until we’ve been reduced to ash!”
Sam felt as if his brain was running at near-normal speed again. Amazing how the threat of immediate incineration focused one’s concentration.
The room was rapidly filling with acrid smoke. The air had an oily texture, and breathing it in was like inhaling ground glass. Sam thought it would be a race to see which would kill them first: the flames or the poisonous smoke.
“Get your gun.” Dean ordered.
Sam didn’t question his brother. His gun was still underneath his pillow, while Dean’s rested on the nightstand next to his bed.
Gun in hand, safety off, Sam said, “Now what?”
“Motel walls are notoriously thin, right? We concentrate our fire on one spot and shoot our way through to the next room.”
“But what if someone’s—”
Dean shouted, “Look out!” and fired a round high into the wall, so if it went all the way through, the odds of it hitting anyone on the other side were small. He waited a moment, then said, “That ought to do it.” He began firing at the center of the wall between the two beds, and Sam joined him.
The Winchesters were practiced marksmen, and more importantly, they had a great deal of experience shooting under adverse conditions—like when some monster or other was trying to rip their faces off. Their aim was steady and true, and plaster flew out of the wall in large chunks. They both emptied their clips, but while they’d chewed away a good-sized hole, could even see into the next room, it wasn’t large enough to crawl through. Ammo spent, both brothers reflexively tucked their pistols into their waistbands. The gun metal was hot, but it was nothing compared to the flames at their back.
Sam could feel the flames, almost as if he was lying on a frying pan with the heat turned to high. He could almost feel his flesh back there starting to blister. He figured they had seconds left, if that, before the salamander’s fire engulfed them.
Dean rapidly cast his gaze around the room. If anyone else had been present to witness him do this, they might have thought it a sign of panic, but Sam knew his brother’s mind was working at warp speed, trying to come up with a way out. Dean usually put up a front, acting as if he was a regular everyday Joe whose most intellectual pursuit was watching foreign porn movies on pay-per-view. In reality he was highly intelligent, and a master of strategy and tactics. If anyone could find a way to escape this death trap, he could.
“Hit it!” Dean shouted.
Before Sam could ask what he meant, Dean ran toward the hole they’d shot in the wall and threw himself at it, shoulder first. He thudded against the wall in a shower of plaster and white dust, grunted, then stepped back to try again. Sam joined him this time, and after two more blows, the wall crumbled under the impact, and the two of them tumbled into the room next door.
Sam moaned. His shoulder screamed with pain, and he thought he might have dislocated it. At least he wasn’t burning to death. He gave the laptop a quick glance. He’d done his best to shield it with his body as they broke through the wall, and as near as he could tell, it had survived the trip intact. The two of them, however, were covered with plaster dust and bits of wall insulation.
He looked at Dean. “Hit it? That was your big plan? What if there’d been a support beam in the way?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
Luckily, the room was empty. For an instant, as they broke through, Sam had feared they’d find someone there, lying on the ground, bleeding from a dozen bullet wounds.
Dean got to his feet, reached down, and helped Sam to his. Sam cradled his right arm to his chest to guard the shoulder, and looked back at the hole. The fire had spread to the rest of their room, and was already coming their way. A cloud of harsh-smelling smoke billowed through the hole, setting off the smoke alarm in the room, and Sam knew if they didn’t get out of there fast, they’d be charbroiled.
They headed for the door, opened it, and plunged into the parking lot and the blessedly smoke-free air.
* * *
Dean wanted to head straight for their car, hop in, and go gunning for Dippel, but Sam dissuaded him.
“We have to help get everyone to safety,” he insisted.
Sometimes being good guys really sucks, Dean thought, but he knew Sam was right, and they spent the next fifteen minutes running around, pounding on room doors and shouting “Fire!”
They found less than a dozen people, including cleaning staff. As it was close to ten a.m., most of the Wickline Inn’s patrons had already checked out or left for the day on whatever business had brought them to Brennan. By the time a fire truck and EMT van arrived, Dean was confident that they’d managed to get everyone out of the motel and a safe distance away from the blazing structure. He and Sam watched the firefighters do what they could to put out the flames, but mere water had no effect on salamander-fire, and within a short time, the motel was nothing but a blackened, smoking ruin. One good thing: when the motel was gone, so was the fire. As Sam had predicted, once their power was spent, the flames burned themselves out. It seemed that whoever—or whatever—had created salamanders had been smart enough to realize that a creature that generated unstoppable devastating flame needed some kind of off switch. Lucky for them.
When they were certain the firefighters and emergency medical personnel had everything under control, Sam and Dean headed for the car, got in, and pulled out of the parking lot. One good thing about the place being destroyed: at least they didn’t have to settle the bill.
“I’m glad you managed to save the computer, but we lost all the other stuff we had in the room, including our extra clothes. All we got left is what we got on, which smells like smoke, and the crap we bagged up in the trunk, which smells like Frankenrot. I guess no matter what we do, we’re going to end up stinking until we can find time to hit a department store.”
“I’d rather stink than be stuck in a burn ward,” Sam said.
“No kidding.” A thought occurred to Dean. “What happened to the salamander? It looked like it died right after it burned its way into our room. Are they supposed to do that?”
Sam didn’t reply right away, and Dean wondered if his brother had slipped into another one of his mini-comas again. But when he glanced over at him, he saw his eyes were open.
“There’s something I haven’t told you.”
Dean’s stomach dropped. He hated it when Sam did this to him. Both of them had a tendency to play things close to the vest at times, but Sam was the proverbial still waters that ran deep. When he finally felt compelled to confess somet
hing, it was usually because whatever it was had gotten so bad he could no longer keep it a secret. Dean steeled himself for whatever Sam was going to say next.
“I have death vision.”
Dean stared at his brother for a long moment.
“Say what?”
ELEVEN
On the way to NuFlesh Biotech, Dean pulled into a coffee shop drive-thru and Sam ordered a large coffee with five shots of espresso. Then he changed his mind and got seven shots instead. Dean ordered a large pumpkin-flavored drink with whipped cream on top. When Sam raised an eyebrow at his brother’s choice of beverage, he said, “What? They only have pumpkin in the fall.” As far as Sam was concerned, Dean might as well have gotten a milkshake, but to each his own. Besides, he wasn’t one to be lecturing anyone about making healthy choices. His caffeine intake was verging on insane, and it still barely kept him functioning.
Dean had taken his revelation about possessing “death vision” fairly well, all things considered. Probably because he was planning to force Dippel to tell them how to cure the infection spreading through Sam’s body. Dean always felt better when he had a clear course of action to follow. But even though Sam had been the one to bring up the possibility in the first place, he wasn’t confident that Dippel would know of a cure, or if he did, that he’d share it with them. As old and powerful as Dippel was, they’d be lucky to kill him, and there likely wouldn’t be any time for questioning beforehand. There was a good chance this would be Sam’s last hunt, and while he had faced death on numerous occasions—even experienced it a few times—he knew this time it would stick. There was no Cass to heal him at the last minute with angelic powers, no mystic artifact, spell, or potion in their possession that could counteract the death-infection. Even if they had such an item, Sam wasn’t sure he’d want to use it. Magic that powerful came at a high cost, and it often had unexpected—and tragic—side effects. Like with Trish.