Harbinger Island

by Dorian Dawes

  Kara returned her gaze to the moon. She couldn't take her eyes off it. "Significant, huh?"

  "Magic and nature tend to work in tandem," Veronika said. "When something's up with one, the other reacts. Knowing this island? Shit's going down tonight."

  "Good shit or bad shit?"

  "Hard to tell. Yiggie's flipping their lid right about now, though. I can feel their anxiety seeping into me."

  Kara shut her eyes and clutched her stomach. "Do you feel sick inside?"

  "No …" Veronika said the word slowly, then tilted her head, squinting at her. "That's a strange question - whoa, whoa!"

  A dark spot was leaking between Kara's legs. Kara gave her a desperate look, her face contorting into an expression of agony. Angry scarlet tears dripped from the soiled area between her legs and splashed onto the pavement. They shimmered black in the moonlight.

  "What's happening?" Kara whimpered, and then she screamed.

  "Holy fuck, you're bleeding." Veronika rushed over to Kara to stabilize her.

  Kara could only scream. She felt like something had taken a hold of her insides and was squeezing them for all she was worth. She clutched Veronika's arm so tight she thought she might break her.

  Veronika held her steady, easing her back into the car. She whispered the words to a quick healing incantation. Shimmering lights appeared at the edges of her palm and she placed a hand against Kara's stomach.

  "That won't work, flesh-thing," Yiggie whispered into her thoughts. "Your healing magicks are not enough."

  "I'm open to suggestions!" Veronika snapped.

  Kara screamed again, louder. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Her body shook with uncontrollable spasms, even as Veronika desperately tried to stabilize her. Her mouth opened and a long hoarse gasp escaped her.

  "Red … tower. Red … tower!" she managed to get out, before another long whimper of pain.

  Veronika held her closely by the shoulders, eyes wide and panicked. "What the hell is she saying?"

  She attempted to channel her healing energies directly on the spot of the wound, pressing her hand flat against Kara's crotch. Blood soaked her fingers and stained her shawl. She began chanting softly to herself, putting as much energy into the incantation as possible.

  Kara's spasms slowed, then stopped. She reached forwards with a bloody hand to touch Veronika's cheek. Her fingers left crimson trails as her hand faltered. Veronika grabbed her hand and held it there.

  "Thank you," Kara whispered, before slipping out of consciousness.

  Veronika checked for a pulse. She was still alive. Thank the gods. Now to figure out how to keep her that way.

  "Stay with me, girl." Veronika climbed into the driver's seat of Kara's car. "We're going for help."

  * * *

  Dayabir's room was trashed. Clothes had formed their own genealogical layers over the carpet after weeks of sitting where they'd been thrown. Several plastic garbage bags remained tied up by the door where they'd likely never make it to the end of the road. A stack of pizza boxes stood knee-high by the computer desk. All of it was testament to things Dayabir had meant to do, but often found that he lacked the energy or motivation for. Cleaning felt impossible when he struggled to find the will or energy required to get out of bed.

  Justin tried not to make too much commentary on the state of the room. He knew about the depression, and to a lesser extent shared the same symptoms. Looking through the carnage it'd wrought on Dayabir's life angered him.

  "How are the meds working?" he asked.

  Dayabir crawled into bed, shoving aside a pile of t-shirts. He shrugged. "What's it look like? I am clearly living the glamorous life."

  Justin smirked and flopped down alongside him. He nuzzled his head against his boyfriend's wide chest. "You're doing your best. That's all that matters, all right?"

  Dayabir wrapped both arms around him. "Best's not enough. Not when people need me."

  "Helena." Justin pursed his lips. "Listen, don't let her get to you all right? She's got a stick up her ass a mile -"

  "Justin! Come on!" Dayabir shoved him off. "Really?"

  "Sorry." Justin sat with his back to the wall and rubbed his face with his palms wearily. "I'm biased. I'm going to take your side."

  "There are no sides," Dayabir said. "She's got a right to be scared. Her dad worked for Syracuse."

  "And now he's gone …" Justin trailed off. "I get it. We don't even know how deep this goes. Look, why are we even involved? I've barely got my own shit together, I'm not equipped to handle this."

  "Neither am I," Dayabir said, "but I'm here. Hiding under the blankets is tempting, but I don't think it's going to make our problems go away."

  "But what if it did?" Justin attempted to smile.

  Dayabir stopped him with a glower. "It won't. Cuddles and kisses can't stop people from trying to hurt us."

  "Then what's the point of cuddles and kisses?" Justin slumped over, looking genuinely defeated.

  Dayabir kissed the top of his forehead. "Because I feel like it."

  They positioned themselves so that they were nestled in a mound of pillows and scattered blankets stacked against the wall. Dayabir held him close beneath one arm.

  The messy room looked all the more hideous beneath the blue glow of the computer monitors, but for whatever reason it felt safe. It was their own personal slice of ugliness. Justin felt comforted by that.

  His phone buzzed beneath him, interrupting the moment.

  Dayabir kissed his cheek. "What is it?"

  Justin read the text quickly. He leapt out of bed. "It's Kara. Something's wrong. They've got her at the Historical Society. Gloria says to come. Now."

  * * *

  Bartleby felt the sun had set too quickly on the bus ride back to Wakefield. The drive shouldn't have been that long. He looked out of the window and into the night sky to see the moon hanging low and heavy, and he shuddered. The thought occurred to him that time and space itself had been bent, distorted to keep him from arriving in Wakefield. The bus made a chilling shrieking noise as it pulled to a halt in front the Wakefield Station.

  Bartleby noticed only one other passenger besides himself. The man was bundled in several layers of clothing, his face obscured by heavy worn scarves and a hoodie pulled tightly over his eyes. The man hurried to his feet and brushed past Bartleby, eager for the door.

  As Bartleby reached for his bags he looked up to notice the man staring in his direction. Ice gripped at his heart. He'd felt a stare like that before, the type that shoots right through you and you can feel it picking around at the layers of your soul like looters around a garbage bin. The man held a gloved finger to his lips.

  "Uncomfortable omens," Bartleby chortled grimly.

  He didn't bother looking for any sign of the man as he got off the bus. Encounters like these usually ended with the person having vanished from sight with little to no explanation for what had occurred. He'd long ago taken it to mean the universe had sent along a messenger of warning, or perhaps whatever divine forces lurking out there in the cosmos were fucking with him.

  There was one man waiting on the bench outside the bus station. He wore a long black coat and a wide-brimmed fedora that cast a low shadow over his eyes. His features were briefly illuminated by the embers on his cigarette.

  Bartleby froze, eyes narrowing into tiny daggers of hate. "Warden."

  Warden looked towards him and smiled. "And the beast returns home. Good evening, Bartleby."

  "I'm armed. I've picked up a few tricks in Oakridge that you might be interested in," Bartleby warned.

  "If cantrips and bullets were enough to kill me, we wouldn't be having this conversation, and you know it - so quit your bluster, Bartleby, we've got business to discuss. Winterchild. What do you know of it?"

  Bartleby adjusted his bags in his arms so his gun would be easy to reach in case the old man tried anything. "Government conspiracy theory involving experiments on children roughly thirty years ago. I've trawled the Reddit
posts. Nobody has anything concrete so I've assumed it's about as fictional as chemtrails or the Illuminati."

  "You think the Illuminati is fiction?"

  "Aren't they?"

  Warden flicked his hat and smirked. "Yes, but the bigwigs like people to think otherwise. So long as they've got everything blamed on a scapegoat and their anti-Semitic viewpoints, they don't notice the world going to hell around 'em. But you're too smart for that type of low-level nonsense, aren't you?"

  "What is this about, Warden?" Bartleby impatiently tapped his foot.

  "What if I told you I've got concrete evidence of those experiments, the type of stuff that'd expose the government and blow our whole secret little world wide open?" Warden smiled wickedly.

  "I'd say whoever had possession of such evidence, were it to even exist, would be in remarkable danger," Bartleby said. "Warden, has something happened? Do you need help?"

  Warden threw back his head and laughed. The laughter turned into lengthy coughing and hacking, the type where you can hear the person's insides rattling around. Bartleby half-expected to see something come flying out of the old man's lungs - blood or phlegm, or maybe something else entirely.

  "Help? You're asking me if I need help?" Warden said hoarsely. He took another long drag on his cigarette. "You can help me into fucking hell, Bartleby Prouse. No, I'm quite fine. I've got contracts with angels. The government won't fucking touch me. Your students, though? They might have a hell of a time in the next few months."

  Bartleby dropped everything he was carrying. Fuck the gun, he thought. He wanted to roast this man alive. His anger flashed so hot that the incantation became unnecessary. Blue flames crackled and emerged into a swirling sphere hovering inches over his palms.

  "What have you done?" Bartleby bellowed.

  "Are those …?" Warden murmured, eyes widening. He dropped his cigarette and stood, crushing it beneath his heel. "The Fires of Urza? Well, color me impressed. I underestimated you, Professor."

  "So help me I will turn you to ash!" Bartleby roared. His voice had taken on an otherworldly quality, menacing and hollow.

  Warden clicked his tongue and shook his head. "I do think you'll try, but you don't have time. Do you know a girl named Kiera? Cora?"

  "Kara." Bartleby shifted out of his aggressive posture, though still kept the flames burning bright.

  Warden snapped his fingers. "That's the one! She's got an appointment to keep at a red tower. Someone's going to have a bouncing baby horror and lots of folks are interested in crashing the birthday party."

  "You did this …" Bartleby whispered. He repeated it, yelling it this time, the flames rising high and licking his forearms. "You did this!"

  "These wheels were put into motion long before I came to Wakefield. No, from what I heard her mother did this horrible thing to her. And I thought I was bad at parenting!"

  Bartleby almost took the man's head off on the spot. He refrained, canceling the spell. The flames vanished. It wouldn't do to burn through all his energy in a fight right now.

  Warden tipped his hat to him. "Smart man. There may be a way to save her. Heard the Blackerly clan had come up with a way to funnel and store otherworldly presences. Might not help with the pregnancy, but may rid you of some unwanted pests at the baby show. I'll keep in touch. Tell the kids I said hello."

  He walked away, whistling a jaunty tune. Bartleby watched him, shoulders heaving until the man disappeared into the night. He returned once more to his coat and bags. He grabbed them quickly and hurried into the bus station.

  There was a bathroom near the entrance. Bartleby burst through the doors and threw his suitcase against the tiled wall. He tossed it open and withdrew a map of Wakefield. It was yellowed with age and there were several red circles he'd drawn throughout the years over key areas, looking for patterns in events for some discernible meaning. His fingers shook as he hastily plastered it over the mirror and held it in place with a quick spell.

  "Red tower …?" he murmured. "There are no towers in Wakefield!"

  He stared for several minutes at the map. His fingers remained permanently fixed to the edge of his glasses, tapping the frames nervously. His whole body felt agitated, full of frantic energy that had no place to go but bounce around like an old laundromat dryer ready to collapse into pieces.

  "Wait …" He drew his finger from the Blackerly place, a building he'd circled nearly a decade ago, all the way to the Black Goat Woods where in the center, the trees met a large clearing. "The Blackerly place is where it began."

  Bartleby reached into his pocket and snatched out his cell-phone. It rang once, twice, and then finally he heard Gloria's agitated voice answer. "The Historical Society is closed for the evening! Go away!"

  "Gloria, it's me. Is Kara with you?"

  "Bartleby? Yes. Helena brought her in a few minutes ago. Dayabir and Justin are on their way."

  "Do you know what's wrong with her?"

  "She's displaying all the signs of a geas curse. She has a task to fulfill, whatever that may be. Otherwise, she dies."

  "I know what that task is and I know where she needs to be, but we can't let her go through with it. Chances are it'll kill her either way."

  For the first time since Bartleby had known her, the old Mexican woman sounded frightened. "What's happened to her? Who's done this?"

  "You know the Blackerly place? Thirty miles out into the Black Goat Woods is a clearing. There's an old silo. She might have mentioned something about a red tower. I think that's what she means."

  "That silo was owned by the last surviving member of the Blackerly family …" Gloria trailed off. "I don't like this."

  "A grim connection, to be certain," Bartleby agreed.

  "Where are you?"

  "Bus station. Long story. Get to the silo. I'll meet you there." Bartleby hung up the phone.

  He snatched the map off the mirror and shoved it back into his bags. He'd have to come back for them in the morning. He ensured his gun was still holstered and that his magical implements were still tucked safely on his person. He'd need all his spells and tricks tonight.

  Bartleby reached once more inside his bag for an extendable rod and a thick piece of blue chalk. He also retrieved a blue lipstick he never wore. He took a deep breath before drawing several symbols within a circle on the greasy, shit-stained floor with the chalk, then copying the exact same symbols on the grimy bathroom mirror.

  Only those who knew little of magic would decry his methods as unorthodox. The initiated understood full well that each ritual, each little gesture, had a specific purpose, and they'd go beyond unorthodox to call him a raving, over-ambitious madman. For tonight, Bartleby danced with darker powers.

  The reflection in the mirror copied his movements, until it didn't. A wicked smile passed over the man in the mirror and the color of his eyes shifted to that same pale blue as the lipstick. A faint glimmer of a set of eyes behind the first occasionally revealed the inhuman face that lay beyond. Bartleby wanted to recoil in horror, but dared not set foot outside the circle. He stood strong, clenching his shaking fist.

  "Bartleby Prouse," the man in the mirror chuckled. "Twenty years, has it been? You don't call, you don't write …"

  "Enough," Bartleby said in a hoarse whisper. "I've a job for you, Ariel. Two jobs, in fact."

  "Is that any way to greet an old friend?" Ariel shook their head. "I'm no errand-boy, you know. Though I do enjoy your requests. I never knew one so full of passion and hate. Last I heard, the police never found all the bodies. I guess I'm … just that good."

  Bartleby tapped the rod sharply in the center of the circle where he stood. The reflection recoiled. Ariel snarled, their mouth opening far too wide. Bartleby shuddered visibly seeing his own image display such inhuman behavior. He had to remind himself that it was only a guise of the demon's. Lesser wizards had fallen prey to such tricks and lost themselves to Ariel's machinations and insatiable bloodlust.

  "Enough!" Bartleby yelled. "I've little time f
or your petty foolery. Take me to the silo near the old Blackerly house."

  Ariel made a sweeping bow while glaring hatefully from behind the glass. "As you command."

  Bartleby closed his eyes. He'd only done this once before. Some might argue that for real wizards, closing spatial dimensions is easy enough to master with practice, but Bartleby was not a real wizard - merely a man who had amassed a series of cheap tricks and imitations, and had the psychic talent to pull it all together. This was going to be unpleasant.

  "We've arrived, lamb-chop." Ariel's voice clung to the air, sickeningly sweet.

  "Worse than a fucking hangover," Bartleby said, opening his eyes, allowing the dizzying nausea to subside. His head felt like it'd been split in two and his stomach was about ready to unleash its contents.

  He was now standing in front the rusted old silo. It looked about ready to collapse under its own weight. It was the only building that could be seen for at least a mile, standing vigil over a barren, empty field.

  "Aw is the little fraud feeling sickies?" Ariel teased. "Too bad. Release me, for I've other more interesting clients awaiting my services."

  "I still hold dominion here," Bartleby growled. "And I'll have yet another task for you before the night is over."

  Ariel sighed. "It better be good. I'll have you know I have crushed armies, brought empires to ruin, stood toe-to-toe with gods; I resent being reduced to your Uber driver for the evening."

  "Venture inside the silo and tell me what you see," Bartleby said coolly.

  There was a momentary silence. The inside of the silo flashed a brilliant ice-blue light, then faded. Bartleby's ears were filled with inhuman chortling.

  "Bartleby. Dear impotent, daring Bartleby … you are ambitious, aren't you?"

  "What is it?"

  "Have a look for yourself."

  Bartleby closed his eyes to allow the vision to be imparted to his psyche. He saw a series of interconnecting runes and sigils, all drawn together in a crisscrossing pattern as elegant as any he'd ever seen. Invisible to the naked eye, they lined each wall on the inside of the silo.