Mammon

by J. B. Thomas

  Joe closed the rift. He breathed out, bending over, hands on knees. Sweat dribbled from his forehead on to the carpet.

  Silent shock took the room for a few seconds.

  Ivan lowered his gun. ‘We did it.’ He reached over and offered his hand to Joe. ‘Congratulations.’

  Grinning, Joe shook Ivan’s hand. ‘You too.’ He blinked, and in the darkness his eyes replayed the memory. Among the clouds and lightning shards of his rift, had he caught a glimpse of red hair, a hint of ivory skin?

  He blinked again, shaking his head.

  A sharp cry shocked him. The crowd of mercenaries moved in, all eyes searching the room for the source.

  Then, Grace stumbled forward from the shadows, hands pressed to her stomach. She stared down at the blood leaching between her fingers.

  Ivan ran at Grace, grabbing her as she swayed. He looked into her glassy eyes and the truth hit him instantly. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he whispered. His gaze dropped to the wound – the clean, precise cut that had somehow penetrated the smart suit. ‘Medics! Now!’

  Mammon stepped out into the light, his fingers gripping the handle of a short sword. Its dark grey blade glinted in the light, but its edges seemed dull due to the shadow that it carried – an aura of dark energy. He gave Joe a smile, then he slipped a fresh handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping away Grace’s blood.

  ‘Joe.’ He chuckled. ‘Did you really think that you had me?’ He cast a triumphant glance at the girl, slumped in Ivan’s arms. ‘Don’t waste your time there, boy. She’ll be dead in a few minutes.’

  Joe spun around to the other mercenaries. ‘Kill him!’

  But Mammon arched his back, his body contorting, blending flesh with demonic essence – until he took the form of the Shadow Wolf.

  Joe stared in terrible fascination at Mammon’s mystical transformation: no longer human, but not all spirit, either.

  The creature sounded a roar – rumbling like the peak of volcanic eruption – and the ground shook. Mercenaries pressed hands to ears; some fell to the carpet, writhing at the piercing pain in their eardrums. Then, the roaring stopped and the Shadow Wolf reared up – its head brushing against the ceiling. On four legs, it began a crashing run towards the exit – massive claws gripping the sword, which now looked so small; a child’s toy.

  ‘Fire!’

  Bullets just fell through the ethereal body, smashing into the far wall. The Shadow Wolf plunged on – its path clear as mercenaries leapt aside in terror – and with one last howl, it shot through the exit to be swallowed up by the darkness outside, towards freedom.

  In silent shock, the mercenaries lowered their guns. Trembling, sweaty faces glanced at each other.

  In the middle of the room, Joe began a summoning, speaking under his breath. He stood: eyes open, hands spread. The room began to glow as a bright circle took form.

  Ivan carried Grace across to a chair. He sat down and pulled her onto his lap. With a gentle hum, he began rocking her. Three medics swooped on them. Upon examining the wound, they swapped confused frowns. The lead medic shook his head. ‘I don’t understand how the blade got through her suit! We’ll have to get her straight to surgery.’

  ‘Well? Snap to it!’ Ivan growled. ‘Hurry up!’

  ‘No.’ Joe’s voice boomed from the centre of the room. ‘Wait. We’ll take her to Utu.’

  ‘Well, do it then!’

  Ivan looked down at Grace. She reached up and touched the stubble on his chin. ‘Don’t be angry.’ Her voice was so weak.

  ‘Just focus on me.’ He didn’t like the look on her face. Frighteningly calm. A look he’d seen before . . . in the dying. He remembered his promise to Diana, and a deep panic hit as he pressed his hand against the wound once more. ‘We’ll stop the bleeding,’ he whispered. But her eyelids were sagging, her breaths becoming fainter. Her face was already too pale.

  She tried to smile. ‘I saw something . . .’

  He bent his face closer. ‘What was that, little one?’

  ‘I saw it. I don’t know how to tell you . . .’ As she faded into darkness, her last thought was of the lighthouse and that brief, indescribable moment of peace.

  Ivan’s heart pounded as he traced his finger over her pulse point. She was still alive. His head snapped up. ‘Hurry up, Joe!’

  The rift reached its peak – the light too intense to look into without squinting.

  Next, Utu emerged and looked at Joe. ‘Mammon?’

  ‘He got away.’

  Utu looked over the damage. ‘But how many came through?’

  ‘I think . . . about fifty.’

  ‘Fifty.’ Utu’s voice echoed, his tone grave. ‘And they would have been his best.’ The old priest began a slow walk across the room. ‘A major victory for him.’ He shook his head gravely at Joe. ‘You have no idea. Our struggle has just become infinitely harder.’

  ‘Hey!’ Ivan gave Utu an angry look. ‘There are more important things than that right now! She needs healing – fast!’

  Utu bent down and stared at Grace’s wound. His eyes shone with solemn pity. ‘This is a spirit-blade wound.’

  ‘Can she be healed or not?’ Ivan demanded.

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘Come on, then!’ Ivan stood; Grace secure in his arms. He was already moving towards the rift, when Utu stepped into his way, his hand raised in warning. ‘She will be healed, but she is already absorbing the spirit blade’s energy. You must understand, you must be prepared for this . . . the future will be hard for her.’

  ‘She wants to live,’ Ivan said.

  Joe nodded. ‘We’ll take our chances.’

  Utu lowered his arm and bowed his head. ‘As you wish.’ He turned and led them into the rift.

  THE FIRST PEOPLE I would like to thank are John and Linda: my think tank, support group and critical friends.

  Of course, I want to thank my wonderful mum, who has always been calm, supportive and overwhelmingly positive about this book.

  Thanks must go to Cristina Briones and Abigail Nathan for their excellent, spot-on suggestions and ability to see little things that were invisible to me.

  J.B. Thomas was born in Perth in 1971. Adopted at a young age, she grew up in a beachside suburb with three brothers. Her father – a prominent Perth lawyer, and later, a district court judge – died when she was 14.

  She was inspired to write The Ferryman Chronicles by speculating what life would be like if demons walked among ordinary (and not-so-ordinary) humans.

  She is a fan of Sergei Lukyanenko (Night Watch), Cassandra Clare (The Mortal Instruments), and Suzanne Collins (The Hunger Games). She also is an admirer of Alan Moore (V for Vendetta, Watchmen) and enjoys shows such as Supernatural, Being Human and Dexter.

  J.B. Thomas lives with her husband in Perth, where she teaches English. She is a longtime fan of Great Danes, and when she’s not writing or reading, she watches films, walks her dog, George, and on occasion can be found playing online games.

  Mammon is her first novel.