by Ira Robinson
Still holding his fist up, he bent and touched the metal, the cold deep against the sweat clinging to his fingertips.
He shook as his eyes darted all over the room, the pounding of his pulse throbbing his head. He closed them for a second and turned the hex-sight off, returning the area to a more sedate, less stark view, but the glow from his palm shed more than enough.
He stood erect again, knees locking as he tried to keep from buckling over, and he stretched out to grip the side of the door.
Whatever happened, it was not recent. The chill on the metal told him that much.
"Lisa!" he screamed, hesitating for only a moment to listen before shouting her name again.
His knees let go and he moved forward, the muscles in his legs as tight as steel, ready to run, or pounce, if needed. One step in was enough to see the mess in the kitchen, white papers and pans strewn on the tile and counters.
"Lisa! Where are you?"
He made his way to the stairs, avoiding the lamp spilled across the floor, and climbed them quickly, his shoes scraping the wood. When he entered the hall above his eyes spotted the opened door to her bedroom.
He paced through and reached the door in a few steps, sliding to a stop with his free hand on the sill. He swept the room, his eyes roving all over, and his heart dropped at the sight of the stuffed animals spread all over.
A small movement in the corner, beyond the edge of the foot of the bed, caught his glance and he rushed to it, his power flowing causing a brightness so intense he had to squint against it.
The form of the dog laying on the floor in a dark pool of blood forced a gasp.
Oh, God, what happened?
Jessup's legs were moving, though not much, as the dog tried to bring himself up. His head was lifted, watching Carver approach and he growled and moaned at the same breath.
The blood seeped from a gash on his side, sliding down his fur to his stomach, where it gathered, wicked up by the rug.
Carver bent, his hand flaring out and returning the room to the dim blue glow of the night light still in the wall as he touched Jessup's haunch, probing the damaged.
"Where's Lisa?" Desperation made his voice tighten. "Where is she, boy?"
There was no answer from the hound, but he lay his head back down on the carpet again with a whimper, his breath chuffing through his nose with hot liquid, sweat-drops and snot.
Carver put his hands beneath, shifting him as he maneuvered him into his arms and lifted him up. The dog winced and a low groan edged out of him, but he didn't present a fight or try to bite, despite his obvious pain. He was heavy, but at least he was in his smallest form. Strong as Carver was, he could not lift him if he was in his full size.
He carried Jessup through the hall, his eyes glistening with tears. If Jessup had been hurt like this, where was Lisa? What happened to his little girl?
He stumbled as he reached the stairwell, jumbling Jessup enough to make him call out with a bark, but Carver caught himself and remained upright, gritting his teeth through the weakness that threatened to overtake him.
"It's okay, boy," he muttered, more to himself than the shadow in his arms, the seeping of blood crossing over the front of his shirt and open jacket. "It's okay."
He made it to the bottom of the stairs, his cheeks glittering with damp as he put the dog on the couch, gently bringing him to rest with his head against a pillow Lisa loved to cradle while they watched shows or a movie together.
Carver's feet carried him to the door, his hands balled into fists so tight they whitened, his nails digging into the flesh of his palms.
The door, still wide and half-shattered from the force of his opening it, gaped with the light of the lamp above streaming inside. Carver passed through it into the midnight and searched again for any sign of his daughter. The glass tinkled as he stepped on it, the open maw of the window so vast he could step through it right now into the living room.
He opened his mouth and let loose a primal scream, his rage and frustration barreling out as a pillar of light shot from his body into the night.
Chapter 17
Carver wrung the rag out, the water ruddy under the tap, squelching between his fingers.
Coppery and pungent, the blood was finally coming clear.
He tossed the remains of the rag in the hamper and went back to the living room, his eyes on the droplets of bloodstains on the carpet, marking each one until he reached the stairs.
He'd have to change his shirt, too. Jessup bled all over the thing when he carted him down the steps to the couch.
Jessup raised his head only slightly, no longer moaning with the pain he was obviously in; the dog was strong. He'd recover, but he didn't have the same healing abilities as Carver, despite his own unnatural origins. In the two years Jessup had been with them, he had become a dear part of the family, even if the way he wandered into their lives was seemingly random.
Carver suspected he had been attracted to the magic in the area, a suffusion of his own into the space he lived in; Jessup had a sense for that kind of thing. When he came out of the woods, he was little more than a pup, and, of course, Lisa fell in love with him immediately. Carver, too, did not take much persuasion to let Jessup stay.
It was only after the initial few months they noticed how strange he was compared to other dogs Carver had in the past, the way his intelligence shone in his eyes, a glittering in the deep brown not related to the small flecks of gold.
Then there was his true form. It shocked both Lisa and Carver the first time it happened, when Jessup was still young. The rabbit didn't know what hit it, the body of the dog erupting into something massive, a being slavering with strength and agility. He went from, perhaps, twenty pounds to the size of a great Dane within seconds, his hair curling into bristles so tight they could barely be penetrated, skin thickening to the point it seemed nothing could get through it. It reminded Carver of the way a dinosaur's scales might be, or a fish, in some ways.
Speed, power, grace. That was Jessup, and to see him laying on the padding of the couch, the billowing of his breath as he tried to cope with the pain of the horrendous gash across his side, made Carver duck his head in sadness.
The gauze was in place, though he wondered if the hair would let it stay attached. He had little experience in treating a dog for an injury like this, but the wound had stopped seeping, thanks, in part, to the ointment Carver slathered on. It would, he hoped, help heal the damage faster than it would otherwise, and at least had the property of being able to staunch even the heaviest of flows swiftly.
He ran his hand down Jessup's snout, his fingers tracing the lines as the dog lay his head back down again against the soft cushion.
It would have to do. He had too much to take care of and so little time to get it all done.
Thankfully no one had shown up, despite the bright flare of light and power he wasted when he fell to his knees outside. He blew energy he might need in the coming hours, but there was nothing he could do about that now.
Focus. Maintain focus and things will work out.
He kept the mantra in his mind, but it did little good. His stomach heaved at the thought of Lisa being gone, and he had no idea who had stolen her.
That she was taken was obvious. The gun laying on the floor had been shot, the expended shell peppery and aromatic after the trigger was pulled. Had Lisa been the one to pull it? There was no way for him to tell, but he hoped it was her, and that whoever she was aiming for would never feel the same again.
The grass, slicked wet with dew as the cool air signaled the coming approach of dawn, showed some footsteps, though who they belonged to he didn't know. Lisa's shoes were by the front door, untouched and unlaced. It was her only pair, so she must be barefoot.
Had her kidnappers come in through the window? The shattered glass was, for the most part, outside, scattered everywhere. Only a few shards remained inside, and could have simply been from the bits around the frame falling after the impact occurred
.
He carried a few of the bigger pieces to the front light, the intense dazzle reflecting off of the glass in his hands. A couple of the edges showed traces of blood.
His bones quivered at the sight of it, his throat thickening as his saliva turned to gravy in his mouth. If this blood were hers...
Carver whipped handful against the wall, shattering them apart with a satisfying crash.
No sign of ripped clothing, thank God, though she was probably in her night gown when she was taken.
Who had done this?
The window being broken from the inside showed him they did not use it to gain entry, so how had they gotten in? If they were demons, the wards he placed around the perimeter of the house should have prevented them from coming in, and Lisa certainly would not give something like that access.
If they were humans, even possessed, they would not have been able to bypass the hexes without effort, and they were still in effect when he came home.
No, something else was going on here. Something he didn't understand, but needed to discover. He was in the dark as much as he ever had been, and that had to end. The veil of ignorance was as thick as the night outside, and he would not tolerate it remaining any longer.
The basement door banged against the wall as he slammed it open, trouncing down the stairs two at a time until his feet slapped the bottom, and he went into the storage room nearest his den.
The sheathe of the two-foot blade attached easily to his belt, the weight of it easy to compensate with his strong legs. He put the second strap in place over his thigh, giving it little chance to bounce, while allowing him freedom of movement.
He ripped it from the scabbard, the metal snick echoing through the chamber. He held it to the light and traced the long edge of it, the ancient writing etched into the core of the steel deep scars on an otherwise unmarred form.
He didn't know how old the sword was, but when Malachi saw it, he said it was an object of great esteem, something used by many soldiers through the centuries.
It would taste crimson tonight, if Carver had anything to say.
The weight of the thing was perfectly balanced, and he shifted it to get a feel for it again, having been in storage for so long the hilt was dust covered. The blade was potent still and felt good in his strong hands.
He slid it in place at his midriff and searched through the top few boxes, not sure what else he should grab that might be necessary.
By the time the light was switched off and he made it upstairs, the few items in his hand threatened to fall and he had to shift them around to keep hold.
The tiny box went into his waist-pack first, dark wood grain embedded with the symbol of an eye in bas-relief along the top. It smelled a bit like cedar, musty with age and storage, as he slipped it inside the canvas.
A leather pouch with herbs was next, followed by the tiny golden whistle he traded the sweat of a demon for. It was shaped like a dragon, its narrow wings folded to its sides.
He zipped the pack up and set it to his abdomen, sliding it to the side without the sword so it would not interfere if he should have to pull it out.
Jessup whimpered, his bass vocalization spreading through the living room, his legs coming underneath him as he moved off the couch. He shook a bit as he stood, but within a few seconds he had his footing and stayed straight. He ambled to the door and sniffed, his nose close to the carpet where the gun once laid, the singe marks a bruise on the deep plush cream.
"You should lay back down, Jessup," Carver muttered, but did not try to shoo him away. He grabbed a glass from the cupboard and let the tap water flow into it, then sucked down as much as he could in one gulp.
The cool water relieved a little of the tension in his throat, but his stomach did not appreciate it. The acid rumble of his insides matched the nerves and anger, his brows coming together so hard they almost united as he considered where he needed to go.
He didn't know where Lisa was, and with Malachi... gone, too, he could not use his friend as a source of information. That the bastards had taken his girl the same night someone killed Malachi was unmistakably related. They had to be. Whether it was because of things Carver had done was the vaster question. Maybe when he found Lisa, he could figure it out.
But for now, she was his biggest concern. Finding her was bigger than anything else.
He stomped to the other side of the room, ensuring everything was in place before swinging the door wide and striding out of the house he thought would be able to protect him and his daughter from the forces of darkness he knew ruled this world.
Jessup came out with him, his legs surer since he was up and around.
"Where are you going, boy?" Carver met the dog's eyes and raised his brow. "Stay here."
Jessup shook his head, an adamant no. There was no whisper of a whine as he moved, though Carver was certain it had to have aggravated the gash on his side. The dog stepped toward Carver's truck, not looking backward.
So be it. Jessup was as considerable a part of this as Carver. He had failed to protect his girl, letting her be taken, and was well aware Carver was flying to find her.
He wanted to be there, too.
Carver shrugged and slammed the door shut, not bothering to lock it or put the hexes in place. The gaping window would allow any human access whether the door was locked or not, and any demons who would be foolish enough to be there when Carver returned would have a lot more to worry about than bypassing a few spells to get in.
Carver would make sure of that.
When he stepped through the wide angle of the stark bulb above, he checked the sky. The clouds struck the moon, their forms sliding past its full brightness blotting out most of the rest of the stars, their slight glitter dimmed by their thickness. The wind, too, had picked up, hissing through the tall grasses and the leaves of the oaks and much cooler than it had been before.
They were tendrils of warning of a storm on its way.
Carver nodded. He would be that tempest, laying waste to anything that stood in the path of finding his little girl.
He pounded to the truck and opened the door. Jessup hopped in with more agility than Carver thought he might have with his injury, but he didn't even whisper as he plopped across the passenger seat, his nose to the air and sniffing.
Carver got in next to him and they started down the lengthy drive, whipping out onto the main road and heading for the nearest town.
It did not take long to arrive. The night was oppressive, the moonlight fading away to the brighter lights of the city, the large buildings fronted with glass and steel reflecting the light of the streets back to the sky, blotting out all but the full moon itself and casting a sickly yellow-white glow upon the clouds passing by at speed.
He didn't know where to go first, no real destination in mind, following only his desperation and anguish over the loss of Lisa. Jessup wasn't much help, his eyes tracing the outlines of the buildings they bypassed.
Carver opened himself up, seeking out any signs of the presence of something he could use, and it wasn't until he reached a darker section of the city that he began to get the familiar tingle.
Dregs and dust, the sourness of the air so strong it filtered through the vents into the cab as Carver turned the truck toward the part of town no one but the castoffs and those forced to live a harsher life dared to venture.
Shadows clasped to the sides of low-slung houses and crumbling facades of tenements once home to the ancestors of those well-to-do that would love nothing more than for all of this to be destroyed as the blight on their beauty they think they deserved, a cancer bloated and bursting at the seams with the down trodden and boot-tired.
It was a place Carver knew, his days spent in places like this harsh in his memory as he crossed it all by. A pair of tarts in their high-heels and skimpy clothes still clung to the hope that, this late in the night, there might be a John or two on the prowl for a good time. They waved their hands coyly at him, his eyes staring at them fr
om the corners while Jessup turned away, sniffing the next track on a breeze filtered through the ventilation.
They looked so young, those girls, their desperation obvious on their faces. Even the trace of the pimp in the background, his head bowed to a cell phone lighting his skin perhaps wanted to be elsewhere, himself.
A few blocks away, Carver edged to a stop, the tires skidding slightly in a grease-spot near the curb, the engine humming beneath his body ready to roar back into action with the press of his foot.
He closed his eyes a moment, the feeling in his guts stronger than it had been before, and he was sure there was a demon around. Maybe not big, maybe not enough, but a presence.
He turned the truck off and searched the buildings, his vision roving from corner to blind-spot, unsure if the thing was watching for him as he was of it.