Hexomancy

by Michael R. Underwood

  But keeping creatures off of Eastwood was a harder task than Eriko was making it look. Ree was practically jumping around the street, pushing spirits back, cutting down those that broke from the pack to attack Eastwood, who was in full-on Duel of the Fates mode with the Strega.

  The pair cut and thrust and jumped and spun, the Strega’s strikes aggressive, risky, which Eastwood met with careful, defensive blocks and cuts. Eastwood liked to figure out an opponent’s weakness and then go for the kill, a fighting style oddly more measured than his frequent devil-may-care attitude toward the weird and wonderful world of magic.

  Ree wanted to clear out the spirits so she could dive in to help Eastwood, end the duel before one of the Strega’s strong-arm strikes could push past Eastwood’s defenses.

  But the spirits kept coming.

  Drake sniped dust devils out from around Ree, keeping the creatures from overwhelming her. Drake was scarily good at firing where she had just been, providing covering fire despite the chaos of the melee. It was an utter delight and ass-saver to see the Precise Shot feat at work.

  Ree speared one spirit through the gut and tripped another, spinning her blade to finish it off. She saw Darth Atropos blow right through Eastwood’s defenses and slash him across the left shoulder. The arm went limp like someone had shut it off, and he retreated, fighting one-handed.

  Do or do not; there is no try, she told herself, and jumped into the fray, raising her blade to catch Darth Atropos’s downward slash, which would have taken Eastwood’s head. The blades met, clashed, and the blade cast the inside of the Strega’s hood red, the face still shadowed.

  “Foolish girl. His fate is inevitable; it has been foretold. You broke my sisters, but I cannot be stopped. He has decreed it. If you give him up, I may let you live.”

  Ree pushed the Strega’s blade away and backed up, giving herself space. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

  Drake fired into the duel, but the Strega swatted his shots away with ease, disdain clear in her movements. She was a quicksilver juggernaut, confident and inexorable.

  Why the Strega didn’t just send Atropos first, Ree couldn’t say. But that’s how it went. Everything worked in threes, a progression. Might have something to do with elemental association. Hex storms associated with spring, spring Strega, spring equinox. The magical world was full of often-imperceptible rules and traditions that bounded magicians and monsters into habits, nervous tics turned into ontological boundaries.

  Less thinking, more fighting, she told herself. She kept her movements as small as possible to give herself the time to counter Darth Atropos’s incredible speed.

  Eastwood reentered the fight, pressing the Strega from the flank, making her parry around her back and over her head while she assaulted Ree. But it barely slowed her down.

  The Strega pushed Ree’s parry over to her right side, then chopped at her neck. Her buff jacket turned most of the blow, but she lost feeling at her shoulder, like someone had toggled that part of her body off. Reeling, Ree watched through watering eyes as the Strega turned toward Eastwood, raising dust as she spun, raining blows down on him like lightning strikes.

  Ree took a quick survey of the field. Several of the gunslingers were injured, clustered back by the saloon. Luisa and Abraham fought back-to-back, bloodied but holding on. Eriko was slowing, but still rocking, always two steps ahead of the creatures.

  Until one materialized right into her blind spot. The action was too far away for Ree to reach her, so instead she reached forward and imagined a bolt of energy lancing out at the dust devil. A phaser appeared in her hand, and she fired, disintegrating the creature, a cloud of dissolving pixels breaking on the woman’s shoulders.

  Eriko turned and saluted Ree, then resumed her dance.

  But saving one gunslinger’s back had put the other in jeopardy.

  Eastwood was on the ground, his lightsaber gone.

  “Hey, you!” Ree yelled, too pressed for time to come up with a quip. She dashed forward and swung at the woman’s shoulder level. The Strega turned and parried the blow, quick-stepping in a circle to turn and push Ree’s blow through, sending her off balance and toppling to the ground beside Eastwood.

  Ree brought up her lightsaber, guarding both of them. Drake shot again, and the Strega parried the shot, sending it lancing into the hip of Abraham. Luisa leaped up to cover him.

  “You all need to get out of here,” Eastwood said. “I’m the one she wants. I won’t let anyone else die for me.”

  “Git!” Marianne said, recalling the wounded gunslingers. Drake covered their retreat, the spirit posse diminished, but big enough to keep tying up the cowboys.

  The pair got to their feet, glowing spirit blades up and active once more, blue and green matched against red.

  “That means you two, too,” Eastwood said, blades whirring, the Strega a match for both of them at once, her blade moving exactly where it needed to be to cover her from every angle. Darth Atropos had obviously spent a lot of time with a blade, and the Force or Hexomancy or something kept her one step ahead of the game. She didn’t even look like she was pushing herself all that hard, though if she was maintaining the Hex storm and the assault on the Dorkcave, that’d explain where the rest of her focus was going.

  “How we doing, Shade?” she asked, hoping for better news in the real world.

  “They just keep coming, Ree. Not as many, but Grognard’s getting real ornery. He wants to leave.”

  “No can do. Keep it up. Maybe throw some of Eastwood’s weird, dangerous crap at them.”

  “I heard that,” Eastwood said, dodging back and leaping forward with a thrust. Darth Atropos parried down into the lunge and then lashed out with a roundhouse kick to the face, dropping the cowboy in a heap, spiritual dust rising around him.

  Ree cut at the woman’s head, trying to flow through to where the woman’s blade wasn’t. She didn’t get the headshot, but she cut into the cloak. The woman’s hair flipped free, draped down over her eyes in classic heavy-metal-baddie fashion.

  Recognition hit Ree like the fist of an angry god.

  The haunted features, the curly hair. The upturn at the edge of her mouth.

  Ree’s voice cracked as she said, “Mom?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Darth Atropos

  Branwen didn’t respond. There was no recognition on the woman’s face.

  She raised her blade, pointing it at Eastwood. “The Duke has ordered your death. His will be done.”

  Just a whole lot of hate.

  The Strega lunged, and Ree parried on instinct, backpedaling as fast as she could, late to every parry, the blows sending shock up her arm. Ree jumped to the side, covering herself with her blade, and saw the Strega cut through the pillar at the corner of the saloon, spinning with a snarl.

  Ree came up, ready to face the spirits that had doubtlessly been flanking her.

  But they were all gone, the street empty. Ree heard the sounds of engines from behind the saloon, then the howling of winds.

  Must have let them go to focus on us. It was nice to be worth someone’s full attention, especially when that person is your brainwashed undead-or-something mother, returned to exact revenge on behalf of the Dork Lord of Hell that controlled her soul.

  Or something. Ree was waaaay off book here, making it all up as she went.

  Dear Dad,

  Not that I’ve told you any of this, but Mom’s back, and she’s gone all Dark Side. I’m really afraid that the only way I’ll be able to keep her from killing Drake, me, or Eastwood, is to kill her. And that’s way easier said than done, though saying it would make me barf up my stomach and lower intestine.

  If you could arrange for the universe to give me a break, maybe some cosmic paternal counterforce or something, that’d be awesome.

  I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I hope I get the chance to say so in p
erson,

  Your Loving but Harried Daughter,

  Ree

  Branwen chopped and slashed and stabbed at Ree, who could barely keep up with her parries as she tried to circle back around to let Eastwood back her up.

  “Mom, it’s me. It’s Ree. Your daughter!” Ree kicked at her mother’s leg. The woman took the blow and stepped back to gain her balance. Ree took the opportunity to jump back and talk. “You sat me on your knee and we watched Star Wars a hundred times. You’d crawl in bed with me when I was sick and we’d listen to the BBC Lord of the Rings tapes.”

  Branwen charged again.

  Ree’s voice grew strained as her focus wavered. “You made me a Princess Leia outfit when I was four and the wig was so itchy that I broke out in hives.

  “Don’t you remember any of that?”

  Eastwood swung at Branwen’s back, and the woman ducked to roll beneath the blow, cutting at Ree’s knee. The blade passed just over her kneecap, cutting through the buff jacket and slicing through her thigh. The blade wasn’t really a lightsaber, but her leg wasn’t really her leg. The pain was sure as hell real, though. Ree put all of her weight on her other leg, holding her guard down to keep her mother at bay.

  Eastwood took point, slicing and stabbing with his good hand.

  “Listen, damnit! It’s me, Eastwood! You got me out of more scrapes than I could count, pulled me literally out of a gutter and out of the bottle, and now you’re what, a puppet for the Duke? Do you know what he’s made me do, what he’s put me through to get you back?”

  “That woman is dead. The Duke has shown me what must be done.” Branwen stepped back and leveled her lightsaber at Eastwood. “You must die.” A blast from behind took Branwen across the shoulder, her blade too far away to block.

  “But first, the adventurer.” Branwen turned and shot spirit force lightning at Drake. The electricity came out red, and the smell of sulfur filled Ree’s nose once more. Somehow, the Duke had taken her mother’s specialized Geekomancy and super-charged it with his power, Hexomancy layered on top of her existing power. Or maybe she had always been that powerful.

  Drake half jumped, half fell off his perch, missing part of the blast. But not nearly all. The errant hero writhed on the ground, red energy arcing off him and onto the circuit-board streets.

  “No!” Ree plodded forward, putting weight onto her injured leg. Pain stabbed out like a grenade exploding inside her muscles, but she pushed onward. She cut at Branwen, Eastwood on her left, pulling the Strega off of Drake.

  “You deal with me first! Don’t you dare ignore me, ignore him. Do you know what you did to to my dad? Your husband? It nearly broke him. He worked seventy-hour weeks for years when you left, trying to make ends meet.”

  Ree cut and slashed, parried and pushed, her anger giving her strength. “We moved a half-dozen times, chasing opportunity after opportunity. He was lost without you, and so was I. All so you could go off and get yourself killed and brought back as a monster? No fucking way. You wake the fuck up so I can yell at you properly.”

  Working together, Ree and Drake found a rhythm. And slowly, they turned the tide of the fight. Eastwood stayed mobile, pressing Branwen when she tried to isolate Ree. Ree kept her weight on her good leg, refusing to give ground.

  Branwen knocked Ree’s blade aside with a double-handed slash, powering through Ree’s guard. Branwen followed it up with a spinning back kick that knocked Ree off her feet. Ree landed hard, biting her lip.

  Pain spilled over as she lay crumpled on the ground, bruised, cut, and tired.

  With Ree out of the way for a moment, Branwen tore into Eastwood. Eastwood swung his dead arm out to take the cut. This time, the blade didn’t just pass through and kill the nerves, it sliced the geek’s hand off at the wrist. Eastwood cried out, dropping to his knees.

  Branwen brought her blade up, ready to take his head off. And with the rig he used to get into Spirit fried, there’d be no tether, no golden parachute. It’d be game over.

  Yelling louder than she knew she could, Ree reached out with her free hand, and a wave of energy knocked both Branwen and Eastwood off of their feet. Ree stood and plodded forward, feeling like a busted-ass Terminator, but a Terminator nonetheless.

  “Stop now, Mom. This is the man you love. If you won’t wake up for me, won’t wake up for Julio, do it for him. Someone in your life has to be important enough to you for you to push through the Duke’s bullshit. The mom I knew was a loving woman, who taught me compassion, to love humanity for all of the wonderful things we’ve done, to focus on joy, and to look for the best in people. That’s why I’m not going to give up on you, even if it kills me.”

  Ree lowered her blade, leaving herself defenseless. This was a Jedi fight, so she’d take the high road. Because she couldn’t do the other thing, couldn’t strike down her own mother.

  “You’re giving up?” Branwen asked, raising her blade for the killing blow.

  “No. I’m believing.”

  Something passed over Branwen.

  Her voice came out thin, uncertain.“Ree?”

  “Yes, it’s fucking Ree! Are you still in there?”

  Branwen stepped back and shut her blade off. She raised a shaking hand to Ree.

  “My little girl,” she said, and every bit of tension dropped out of Ree like rain out of a cloud. Her mother wrapped her in her arms for the first time in more than fifteen years.

  Ree dropped her own spirit-blade and returned the hug, her face hot with tears. “Thank gods, Mom. I thought you were all the way gone; it wasn’t you anymore.”

  “It wasn’t. Wasn’t all of me, at least,” Branwen sobbed. She squeezed Ree tighter, injuries flaring. But Ree did not give one flying fuck about those, because her mom was back. The woman who had left a lifetime ago, who had first introduced her to Star Wars, who had taught her to be a storyteller. It was like the return of a phantom limb, all pins and needles, but with such a sense of familiarity and comfort she could just fall asleep right there.

  Except.

  “Drake!” Ree said, pulling back from her mom. She rushed over to the adventurer, forgetting her injuries. She took the fall well, rolling through the accumulated dust from the spirits and checking Drake’s pulse.

  “He’s still breathing.”

  “Shade, get him out, if you can. He’s hurt here; he needs some of that soul goop he makes. I’m working on getting everyone out of here.”

  “I can’t leave,” Branwen said. “He’ll know. Hells, he’s probably already on his way. You two need to go, now. He’ll wipe my memory again, and keep sending me after you. I’m sorry.” She looked to Eastwood. “You’ve crossed him too many times, Tony. This isn’t like with the Frats, or the Clone Wars fights. He’s calling in all of his cards to get this done. The Dork Lords are turning on him, think he’s weak, can’t keep his house in order.”

  Branwen’s eyes darkened, her lip curling in a snarl. She took a breath and the darkness passed. “The Strega are all souls he’s claimed and put to work. He’s got another dozen where we came from. He enhances their power and warps their minds with prophecies and this sense of purpose, blows smoke up their asses about preserving the balance. It’s a demonic Room 101, wrapped in chains and force-fed hate. You can’t resist, not for long. You can’t help but take in his poison. It gets in your blood, in your head. He’ll keep sending the Strega, as many as it takes. You have to run, now.”

  “I’m not letting you go again,” Eastwood said. “Not after all of the lines I’ve crossed to bring you back. Let the Duke come.”

  “You rang?” spoke a deep, resonant voice.

  Hairs on the back of Ree’s neck shot out like she’d been electrocuted. Ree turned on her good leg to see the Thrice-Retconned Duke of Pwn, Chief of the Dork Lords of Hell, standing in the street, his midnight-black suit in perfect condition, red-gray skin and a too-wide smile under his
fedora.

  “I didn’t expect that you’d be able to shake her free of the memory curse I laid. That was quite impressive. But I see everything my Strega see, so it doesn’t matter what you remember. In fact, this whole prophecy, this year of skirmishes, has done me a great deal of good, as now I get to settle two accounts at once.”

  “Go choke on DVDs of Highlander 2, asshole,” Ree said.

  “Charming,” the Duke said. “Come now, Branwen. We have bills to collect.” He stepped forward, a hand held out, palm up.

  Branwen grabbed Ree around the wrist, squeezing tight. “No. I’m not turning on them. Punish away, do whatever you want. But you’re not going to make me hurt them again.”

  “Oh, but I am,” the Duke said.

  “Not likely,” Eastwood said, pulling out a sphere in chrome and silver, the size of a softball. “This is an aether bomb. Are you familiar with them?”

  The Duke said nothing, just took a step back.

  “I thought so. This goes off, it will crater ten city blocks of Spirit. And when the Censors come along to figure out what happened, they’ll get a whiff of your influence, and then all of Spirit will come to you looking for reparations, including those tech bigwigs,” Eastwood said, pointing up to the towers of Apple, Google, and more, well within the range of the bomb.

  “Where did you get an aether bomb?” the Duke asked.

  “It’s impressive what you can find when you tell people that you’re aiming to kill one of the Dork Lords of Hell. Seems like you’ve racked up an even bigger list of enemies than I have. And that’s impressive; just ask Ree.”

  Ree laughed, half in agreement, half nerves. Okay, mostly nerves.

  “Here’s how this goes,” Eastwood said. “You make a move, I set off the bomb and a statistically significant portion of Spirit gets wiped off the map, all signs pointing back to you. The Dork Lords offer you up on a plate to assuage the Censors, and your empire goes poof.”