Shadow People

by James Swain

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  Peter shifted his gaze straight ahead. “Keep watching.”

  A witch’s powers were derived from nature and employed all of its destructive elements. Wind, earth, fire, and rain were all part of a witch’s repertoire, along with the ability to hold sway over wild animals. Which of these powers Holly would use was anyone’s guess. If Peter had been a betting man, he would have put his money on an owl swooping down out of a tree, and ripping the shooter’s face clean off.

  He would have lost the bet. A menacing black storm cloud formed overhead. A bolt of lightning sprang out of its belly and pointed a crooked finger at a large oak tree in Peter’s line of vision. The oak tree burst into bright orange flames. Not ordinary flames, but ones of incredible heat. The shooter hiding behind the tree emitted a blood-curdling scream.

  Bull’s-eye, Peter thought.

  The shooter ran out from his hiding spot with his clothes on fire. Garrison came crablike up the hill.

  Peter pointed at the burning man. “There’s your shooter.”

  “Tell your witch I said thanks.” Garrison rose to a full standing position and took careful aim. Several shots rang out as he tried to take the shooter out. “Damn,” he swore.

  “Keep firing at him.” Peter rose from his crouch, and started up the hill.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Guess.”

  “I’m ordering you to stay here.”

  “Sorry, I don’t answer to you.”

  “You don’t know what’s up there. This may all be an elaborate trap.”

  The words struck Peter as being prophetic. Since Friday night, he’d known that he would meet up with a serial killer who’d do everything in his power to kill him. The whole thing was a trap, courtesy of the Order of Astrum, and he was about to step right into the thick of it. To be forewarned was to be forearmed, and he felt ready for the dangers that lay in store.

  “I’m ready,” Peter said.

  He ran up the hill as fast as his legs would carry him.

  60

  The scene at the top of the hill was reminiscent of a war movie. Two police cruisers were parked on the gravel driveway in front of Munns’s house with their windshields shot out and their front tires deflated. Each had sunk into the ground like a wounded animal.

  Both cruisers had contained a single uniformed officer. Both officers now lay on the driveway with bloodied legs, tending to their wounds while aiming their guns at the front door of the house. Seeing Peter approach, they cautioned him to get down.

  “Are you guys going to be okay?” Peter asked.

  They gritted their teeth and nodded. Their faces were filled with pain compounded by the anguish that they hadn’t stopped Munns.

  “Who are you?” one of the officers asked.

  “I’m working with the FBI. I just took out the guy with the hunting rifle who was shooting at you.”

  Peter looked toward the house. “Is Munns still in there?”

  “Yeah, he’s in there, and so is the woman he’s holding hostage,” the second officer replied. “We just heard her begging him not to kill her.”

  Rachael was still alive. But for how long? Light was streaming through the downstairs windows, and Peter tried to place where the living room was located. He decided that it was off to the left of the front door. He imagined Rachael bound to a chair and Munns about to end her life. He hadn’t come all this way to let that happen.

  I’m going in,” he said. “Wish me luck.”

  The officers did not protest. They knew that something had to be done. He cautiously approached the front door. He supposed he could have grabbed one of the officers’ guns, but he’d never shot a gun before, and didn’t think now was a good time to start.

  Not that he needed a gun. He had a weapon far more powerful. He thought back to the night his parents had perished. Rage filled his body like so much poison, the demon boiling up from within. His shoulder hit the door. The hinges gave way, and his momentum carried him into the foyer. He made a hard stop and looked into the room where he’d guessed Rachael was being held prisoner. His guess was on the money. She was there, bound to a chair.

  So was Munns. He’d wrapped a thick piece of rope around her throat, and was pulling it taut, causing her eyes to grotesquely bulge out. Those same eyes were begging for mercy.

  Evil did not know mercy. Nor did it know kindness, or love. Munns spun around to glare at his intruder. “I know you. Your name is Peter Warlock, and you were sent here to stop me.”

  Peter wasn’t the only one who’d been warned. “That’s right. Let her go.”

  “Not on your life.”

  Munns pulled the rope tighter while grinning sadistically. Rachael was jerked out of her chair as the life began to leave her body. Her eyes shifted to Peter for the first time.

  Save me, they said.

  A yell came out of the young magician’s mouth. It did not resemble any sound that had ever come out of his mouth before. He charged across the living room, having decided to tear Munns apart and throw his limbs out the front door for the wounded cops to see.

  His fist crashed into Munns’s jaw and snapped the serial killer’s head. He’d never been much of a fighter growing up, preferring to talk his way out of tight spots. Now the opposite was true, and he wanted nothing more than to beat Munns to a bloody pulp.

  The rope dropped from Munns’s hand. Kicking it away, Peter struck Munns again. The sound of Munns’s nose breaking was loud and sharp. Blood poured from his nostrils like they were wide-open spigots. He started to lose his balance, and appeared ready to fall.

  Peter should have stopped there, but the demon was having none of it. He struck Munns with all his might, the blow sending him across the living room and sprawling onto a couch. Munns lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. He looked dazed, and gasped for breath as Peter came forward, prepared to finish him off.

  “Stop,” Rachael said.

  Peter raised a fist. One more blow was all it would take to end Munns’s miserable life.

  “I said stop,” she said.

  “I’m not done with him.”

  “He’s taken enough punishment. Please don’t hurt him any more.”

  “I was planning on killing him,” he heard himself say.

  She let out a gasp. “No—don’t do that.”

  “You want him to live? Come on. He was going to kill you.”

  “That’s not what I said. I’d love nothing more than if that horrible man was dead. But that still doesn’t give you the right to beat him to death. No one has that right.”

  There was no rage in her voice or sense of outrage over what Munns had done to her.

  “You’re not angry at him?” he asked.

  “Of course I am. But my anger doesn’t justify taking another life. Would you mind untying me? The ropes are cutting off the circulation in my arms.”

  Peter was impressed that she could be thinking so clearly. As he started to untie her, Garrison rushed in through the front door, gun clasped in both hands. He zeroed in on Munns. He was still lying on the couch and had shut his eyes. Garrison aimed at his chest.

  “Get up,” he said.

  No response. Garrison pulled back an eyelid. Satisfied that Munns was no longer a threat, he holstered his weapon and crossed the room to where Rachael sat. “I’m Special Agent Garrison with the FBI. How are you feeling?”

  “Hello, Mr. Garrison,” Rachael said politely. “All things considered, I’m doing fairly well, thanks to our friend here.”

  “Peter does good work, doesn’t he?”

  “I would say so.”

  “There’s an ambulance coming to tend to a pair of wounded police officers outside,” Garrison said. “I’ll have them take you to the hospital as well.”

  “Do you think that’s necessary?” she asked.

  “It’s always smart. You know, as a precaution.”

  Her arms free, Rachael touched her rescuer. “This is
going to sound funny, but I had a dream about you the other night. Isn’t that amazing?”

  So the spirits had talked to Rachael as well. Peter undid the last of the knots and offered her his hand. She stood up too quickly, and fell back into the chair. He pulled her upright.

  “Be careful,” he said.

  She thanked him with a smile. “I’ve never had a guardian angel before.”

  “Is that what I am?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’ll feel better when you’re safely out of this house.”

  Peter spied movement on the other side of the living room. Munns had woken up, and was going through a terrifying transformation, his body tearing out of its clothes. His fingers grew into talons, and lizardlike scales appeared on the back of his hands. He didn’t look human anymore. Grabbing Rachael, Peter pushed her out the front door.

  Garrison went next, loudly complaining.

  Peter slammed the door in the FBI agent’s face, locking it.

  “Stay outside, and don’t look through the windows,” he warned.

  “What’s going on?” Garrison said through the door.

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  He returned to the living room. The transformation was complete. The bearded faux college professor was nothing but a memory; in his place, a monster served straight up from the depths of hell. In his hand was a Swiss Army knife, which turned into a gleaming sword.

  Now I know what a gargoyle on steroids looks like, Peter thought.

  61

  The water in the vase on Holly’s coffee table had turned a dreamy whitish color. Like a storm cloud, the water twirled and danced. Holly recited the magical words that would let her once again spy on her beloved Peter. The water cleared, and she leaned forward, filled with anticipation.

  She gasped. Peter was inside a strange house, fighting to the death with a hideous giant reptile. The reptile looked half human, half alligator, with a head shaped like a monkey’s, and talons instead of fingertips. Incredibly strong, it was tossing poor Peter around like a rag doll.

  To his credit, Peter was fighting back. He’d never been much of a scrapper, not that Holly had ever seen. But now he was using his fists with real skill, and landing solid blows against his opponent’s skull. It thrilled her to see him in this mode.

  Only there was a problem. Peter’s blows were having little to no effect, and seemed to be making the giant reptile even more enraged. Throwing Peter to the floor, the thing began to stomp on Peter’s chest.

  Holly shrieked.

  Witches weren’t supposed to do that. Nor were they supposed to cry, or fall madly and hopelessly in love. But Holly had fallen in love, and now her emotions were on full display.

  A loud banging on her front door caught her by surprise.

  “Yes? Who is it?”

  Her next-door neighbor, asking her if she was all right.

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Burt,” Holly said.

  Mrs. Burt asked if she should call the police.

  Holly jumped off the couch. The last thing she wanted was the police in her apartment and seeing her wall of potions and herbs. There was no law against being a witch, but it could still lead to unpleasantness with the landlord and even eviction if she was not careful. In the vase, Peter was back on his feet, whacking the thing with a poker he’d pulled from the fireplace.

  “Come on, Peter, smash its head in,” she urged.

  “Is someone in there with you?” Mrs. Burt asked through the door.

  Holly threw the dead bolt, and cracked the door. Mrs. Burt stood in the hallway wearing a pink bathrobe and curlers, cell phone at the ready.

  “Is someone hurting you?” her neighbor asked.

  “No, Mrs. Burt, no one’s hurting me. In fact, I’m by myself.”

  Mrs. Burt stuck one eye to the door. “Why, isn’t that amazing! You have a movie playing inside a bowl of water! How on earth is that possible?”

  Closing the door in her neighbor’s face was not the proper response, and Holly had to think fast. “It’s the latest technology, Mrs. Burt. I bought it online.”

  “The figures inside the water are so lifelike! When I was growing up, the big thing was owning a color TV. Times have certainly changed. What do they call it?”

  “Water movies.”

  “What will they think of next?”

  “Good night, Mrs. Burt. Thanks for checking up on me.”

  “I’m here if you need me.”

  Her neighbor shuffled off to her apartment. Holly shut the door, threw the dead bolt, and returned to the couch. Peter and the thing were still doing battle. They had destroyed the room they were in, the furniture in splinters on the floor. Peter’s face was a bloody mess and he was favoring his left arm. The thing had definitely hurt him. Holly had naturally assumed that Peter would win simply because Peter managed to somehow always come out on top.

  But what if she was wrong? What if Peter had met his match, and was about to lose? The very thought threw her into a tailspin. Her aunt had warned her against interfering in Peter’s affairs, and Holly put the warning right out of her mind.

  Water shiny and oh so bright, do my bidding this darkest night,

  Give the strength to the boy I love, so that he may vanquish …

  Her cell phone slithered across the coffee table. Caller ID said Milly. She decided not to answer it, and continued.

  … this thing that would end his life.

  Let him fight with the strength of …

  Her cell phone flipped off the table into her lap. It had enough force behind it to tell Holly that if she didn’t answer it right now, there would be hell to pay down the road. Flipping it open, she politely said, “Well, hello, Aunt Milly, how are you?”

  “Leave Peter alone,” her aunt replied sternly.

  “I will do no such thing. Peter needs our help.”

  “Stay out of it, damn it!”

  Holly could not remember her aunt ever cursing at her. Not that Holly had been an angel growing up—few witches were—but harsh words had rarely passed between them. She had crossed over an invisible line, yet refused to back down. “Give me one good reason why I should.”

  “Because you’re going to royally fuck things up,” Milly said.

  Holly nearly fell off the couch. The f bomb? From her aunt?

  “I’m just trying to help,” she stammered.

  “For the thousandth time, Peter does not need our help.”

  Her aunt could not have been more wrong. The giant reptile had put its slimy hands around Peter’s throat, and was choking the life out of him. Peter’s knees had buckled, and his face lost its color. He began to sink into the earth one excruciating inch at a time.

  “He’s going to die,” she whispered into the phone.

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Are you seeing the same thing I’m seeing?”

  “I most certainly am. And so are the others. Max, Homer, and Lester are here with me.”

  “You’re scrying on Peter and me?”

  “That’s right. As they say, two vases are better than one.”

  “You all see the peril that Peter’s in, don’t you?”

  “He’s not in any peril.”

  “Aunt Milly, are you blind?”

  “For once in your life, stop questioning me.”

  “What about the others? What do they say?”

  “They agree with me. Peter will be all right.”

  Holly started to cry. Peter was dying before her eyes, and her aunt was forbidding her from doing anything to prevent it.

  Her aunt spoke again. “There’s one more thing you must do, my dear child. You must stop watching. Something is about to happen which you are not supposed to see.”

  “Stop treating me like a child.”

  “Listen to me. It’s for your own good.”

  “Good-bye, Aunt Milly.”

  The cell phone hit the wall and shattered. She’d been wanting to get a new one anyway. Kneeling on the floor, she pre
ssed her face against the vase as Peter was pushed farther into the floor. She would have watched even if it had turned her blind, her love for him was so great.

  62

  As Surtr squeezed the life out of Peter’s body, the young magician began to slip away to the next world. The experience was peaceful, almost serene. Not dead yet, but getting close.

  His eyes snapped open. He stood in a black forest filled with dense smoke. Hanging from the trees were corpses of men who had not pleased their master and now hung there for eternity. From the distance came the battle cries between the forces of good and evil that had been taking place since the beginning of mankind.

  It was dusk, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he found himself staring at a throne made of human skulls on which sat a man well over seven feet tall. Dressed in a black hooded robe, the man’s once handsome face had been grotesquely melted on one side like a worn-down candle.

  Peter had two fathers. One biological and one … demonic. The black forest was residence to the second, whom he knew simply as the wicked one. Two thousand years ago, the Devil and his counterpart in heaven had struck a deal, with each of them sending six of his sons to earth to see which would prevail, the forces of evil or the forces of good. Lucifer had cheated, and made his six sons immortal. The earth had never been the same since.

  “Hello, Peter,” the wicked one said.

  Peter grunted a coarse greeting under his breath.

  “Not happy to see me, are you?” the wicked one asked.

  “Our meetings never end well,” Peter replied.

  “You are a stubborn young man.”

  “Do I get that from you?”

  A wind whipped through the clearing, causing the hanging men to twirl from their ropes.

  “You’re losing,” the wicked one said. “That’s unacceptable.”

  “He’s much stronger than me, whatever the hell he is.”

  “His name is Surtr, and he’s the eternal guardian at the gates of hell. The Order of Astrum sent him to earth to do away with you, once and for all. The fair-haired girl was nothing more than bait.”

  “What threat do I pose to the Order?”