by Cristy Rey
Sunday had never been so completely honest with Cyrus let alone with anyone else in the last six years, and Cyrus appreciated every word that she trusted him enough to say. Even now, when Cyrus couldn’t help but pick apart every beautiful thing about her, he noted the dark circles under her eyes and heard the ragged ends of her breaths. She was suffering at the hands of whatever the greater design of Fate had painted for her.
“What do you know about the witch she murdered that you’re not telling me?” Cyrus asked.
The tone of Cyrus’ question was accusing or, at least, incisive. Sunday inspected Cyrus’ expression to figure out where he was going with this line of questioning.
“I don’t know a damn thing more than what I already told you,” she answered sharply. “I didn’t even know his name until you showed me that police report.” Her gaze was sharp on Cyrus now, wondering at the sudden distrust suggested by his question and tone. “Is there something you know that you’re not telling me?”
Cyrus shrugged, staring back to the warehouse beyond them.
“Our recon suggests that the witch, Ryan Sanders, was a major real estate holder, and that he’s been collecting properties in the Carolinas and Tennessee and selling them off to people that we think are witches or, at least, non-mundane. We don’t know what that means, and other than the incident of his murder, there’s no direct link between him and Constance or any of the other witches in the coven. The only other link between them is you. Your being there and your finding his corpse.”
“What are you trying to say, Cyrus? I told you that I followed her there, and you know that because you all followed me, right? That’s how your boy found me there. If I hadn’t been following her that day, I might never have known who Ryan Sanders was at all.”
Sunday resented the implication that she had anything to do with Sanders or Constance. They knew that Constance had killed Sanders and they knew that Sunday was nothing more than a witness after the fact. Where did Cyrus think his questions were going to get him other than on Sunday’s bad side?
“And you’re positive that you didn’t pick up any other information about Sanders when you found him?” Cyrus nudged. “You didn’t meet his ghost or something? You didn’t rifle through his papers? Nothing?”
Sunday stayed quiet, setting aside her exasperation. All she’d wanted to do was figure out the threat to her friends, a threat she wouldn’t have even known about had they not dragged her along to their innocent, little playgroup. Now, she was wrapped up in a murder mystery that was laced with the telltale signs of dark magic, and it did nothing but goad her into diving in and getting involved with werewolves, vampires, and who knows what else.
For an Incarnate on the run, this was the worst possible situation to find herself in. Add to that, Sunday had been so ready to leave it all behind and join the mass of mundanes. That world of magic and power and awful glory was in her past, and that’s where she’d wanted it to stay hidden forever.
“Let’s get this over and done with,” Sunday sighed. She was tired and he knew it. They had to get this out of the way so that they could move on to the next thing and then the next and then the next until there was nothing left of Constance or whatever sinister plot she was fixing to take shape.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sunday stepped back from the door after she’d picked the lock. Instinctively stepping forward and taking a protective stance between Sunday and whatever lay within the warehouse, Cyrus pushed the door in gently. He signaled for Sunday to stay put until he could look around and make sure there were no alarms or traps ready to spring at them. After a couple of minutes, Cyrus emerged from the warehouse and grabbed Sunday’s hand, pulling her into step behind him.
The air in the warehouse was stagnant and humid, drawing a sharp contrast between the fresh, crisp autumn air outside. The stink of sulfur and rotten flesh crashed into her as soon as the door fully closed behind them. Her stomach cramped. Uncontrollably, Sunday gagged, heaving from the pit of her stomach. Cyrus held her in the crook of his arm and tried to pull her close to his body, but she refused him. She braced her hands on her knees and bent over, coughing until her lungs burned. Cyrus stood by her, doing his best to ease her by rubbing her back while she was sick.
“It’s death, Sunday,” he said in a hushed voice. “It reeks, but you’ll get you get used to it. Just breathe.”
Slowly, the sickness subsided. Just as Cyrus promised, the stench started to fade. It was awful, but it was bearable for the moment. Sunday stood upright and wiped the sweat from her brow. They were only a few feet into the warehouse and Sunday didn’t know if she’d be able to go in any further if this was just the start of it.
“Just breathe.” Cyrus reminded her, curling his hand over her shoulder. His warmth bled in through her pores and Sunday’s tense muscles eased. She drew in a long, shaky breath through her nose and coughed it out. As she did, her skin pricked and she became aware of something altogether magical. Her shoulders pulled back again, and feeling the tension returning, Cyrus’ face hardened. He squeezed her shoulder tightly.
“What is it?”
“Don’t you feel that?” she asked, grimacing.
“Feel what?”
“Sorcery,” Sunday said, lowering her voice as if the shadows were alive with spirits who could overhear. “Something terrible. Probably residual, like a psychic memory of the space. It’s bad, really bad. Ghosts, maybe. I don’t know.”
The air should have been stale, but it wasn’t. Sirens went off in her head. Angry spirits roamed. Behind the putrid stench of death, violent energy still hummed. The darkness tugged at her senses. Every centimeter of Sunday’s skin was alive with the prickling sensation of being targeted by tortured souls desperate to share their misery.
“Can you manage this, or should I take you back outside?”
Cyrus turned her to face him. He brushed the hair from her damp forehead. She was cold to the touch and shivering.
“I can do this,” Sunday responded shakily. “Now we know that some demented shit has gone on here is all. I’m sensitive to it. Bernadette should have told you this. You should know this about me.”
“She did, and I do,” Cyrus said. “I’m sorry, Sunday. I’m sorry for all of that.”
Sunday shook her head and pulled herself upright. Her lips formed into a line.
“We’re not talking about this here. We’re here to investigate.”
She looked over her shoulder to the dark breadth of space ahead of them.
“Can you see in here?” she asked, squinting into the darkness. It was pitch black.
“Yeah,” Cyrus answered. “I can see just fine.” He took his hands from her shoulder and dug them into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out his cellphone and flicked over the screen until it beamed a blinding white light.
“Use this,” he said, offering it to her. He held it up and faced it toward the darkness. The light illuminated the space around them for two feet.
“Thanks,” she replied, gently taking the phone from his hand and moving it around her. In the minimal light, Sunday could see the silhouettes of boxes and crates lining the farthest wall.
“I’ll go check those out,” Cyrus said. She watched as he walked ahead of her until he was covered in darkness.
Sunday moved carefully through the warehouse in a glow of cellphone light, the space around her was hazy and grey. Each step she took toward the open center of the room echoed. The further she went, the stronger the energy around her battered at her senses. When Sunday reached the center of the room, she stopped moving entirely. As if fused to the floor, she couldn’t lift her feet. The air hummed around her. Sunday lowered the cellphone so she could see the floor. The plain concrete was covered with black sigils all around her, a thick black line encircling them just at the edge of the light.
“I’m at the origin point,” Sunday said. Though they were alone, she didn’t trust speak at her normal volume. Even so, her words bounced off the walls. “I
’m standing at the center of the warehouse, I think. This is where Constance conjures. I can feel it. The magic is seeping through the floor beneath my feet. Energy is swirling around me.”
“There’s a workman’s table just ahead of you a few feet and…” His voice trailed off as Sunday picked up the distinct sounds of shuffling papers. “There are some engravings in the wood under this stuff. Sunday, it’s magical symbols and words in a weird language. You should see this. Take about twenty steps forward and you’ll reach the table.”
Reaching out with the glow of the cellphone flashlight in her hand, she followed Cyrus’ directions. The table and Cyrus facing it emerged from the shadows. Cyrus’ silhouette stood with its back turned to her and blocking her view of what lay on the table. She reached him and stood at his side. They were indeed ritual engravings. Sunday moved her hand gently over them, tracing them from a few centimeters above. Hovering over them, she could pick up the vibrations of Constance’s intentions as she’d made the markings: dark, evil, and self-possessed.
Cyrus slid a book with papers shoved haplessly into it to Sunday. On top of the book lay the pendant Michelle wore on her necklace in that single photo online. It was no larger than a dollar coin. As she picked it up, Cyrus asked Sunday what she made of it. Sunday held the charm in the palm of her hand. It was heavy. She fingered it, feeling the craftsmanship that had designed and formed it.
“This,” she began, her voice deep with resonance, “is an ancient Malaysian black magic charm. The feel of it is wicked. It’s been used, recently, to draw the focus of a curse… or something…. something dark… something powerful.”
Sunday held it up so that Cyrus could take a closer look at it.
“I don’t know what she’s using it for, yet, but I will. Whatever it was, the pendant is dusted with the energy of the spell. I’m holding up shields, but I can still feel it.”
Sunday curled her hand into a fist around the charm and turned back to the center of the room where she had been standing a moment earlier. She strode into it, hardly needing the light to guide her way, letting the pendant guide her instead. It pulled her toward the center of the circle marked on the floor just as she knew it would. As she reached the spot, she turned back to Cyrus who had, again, fallen into shadow.
“Constance stood right here crafting her spells. When I close my eyes, I can hear her praying, reciting dark verse. The pendant feels that this is the source of power.”
When Sunday closed her eyes, she felt the pull of the nearby river. Places of great magical origin were usually near moving bodies of water. Just as it was for mundane electricity, running water was a conductor of magical energy. It gave Constance a nearby source of power. The warehouse they now inhabited was a carefully selected location for harnessing power. Acknowledging that she’d sensed the source, the charm grew hot in Sunday’s clenched fist.
After a few moments of silence, Cyrus interrupted Sunday’s inner musings to reflect on what they would do next.
“Let’s get to those crates and take them apart,” he told her. “We can see if there’s anything in them that will give us an idea of what’s going on.”
“Not right now, Cyrus,” Sunday answered. She couldn’t explain it, but where she was standing held the key to unlocking the mystery of what Constance had been planning. Sunday ordered Cyrus to collect everything from the table and take it to the truck.
“Even if Constance gets a chance to come back,” Sunday explained, “it won’t matter. You need to take that stuff and get to those boxes over there. Get as many as you can to the car too. We’re taking all of it.”
“And what are you going to do while I’m doing all the heavy-lifting?”
“Well, I’m going to stand right here and wait till you finish. Then, I’m going to keep standing here after you start the truck and get ready to fly out of here.”
“What? I’m not leaving you behind!”
“Yes, Cyrus, you are,” she told him. “You’re going to do exactly what I tell you, then I’m going to come find you, and you’re going to drive me to the motel. After what I’m planning to do, I’m going to need some sleep. Oh, and don’t stray too far,” she cautioned. “It’s going to take a lot out of me and I’ll be lucky if I can make it past the parking spaces.”
Begrudgingly, Cyrus obliged. It took him at least ten minutes to clear the warehouse of anything that seemed remotely important. Through the time he worked, Sunday stood affixed to the spot at the center of the space. She stayed silent, preparing to raid Constance’s warehouse with her abilities. Cyrus could see Sunday standing stiffly even after she turned his phone off and shoved it into the back pocket of her shorts. She unzipped her jacket and undid her scarf so that it hung around her neck, long tassels barely scraping the floor as they swayed.
About to make his final exit, Cyrus approached Sunday and placed a warm hand on her cheek. She was drenched in sweat and focused so intently on her process that she didn’t react. Backing away slowly, he moved out of the warehouse.
Sunday gave him a few seconds to leave and counted another thirty, slowly and deliberately before attempting to drop her guards. She shoved the amulet she’d held in her hand into her jacket pocket. A residual dark energy filled her lungs as she took a full, deep breath. When she exhaled it, she lowered the walls she’d built in her mind. Before any energy had the chance to come back at her in full force, she opened her eyes and willed the command that she was in charge. The dark energy challenged her, but she pushed back, and with her mind, she strangled it until it relented.
Little by little, Sunday allowed her awareness to seep out of her body. It trickled from her slowly and driven by her will. She reached out beyond the physical reality of the building, licking her way through a spiritual diagnostic of the space. Everything she tasted was putrid. She composed herself as she became sick to the stomach with the bitterness of black magic. The dark energy that she had challenged was anxious for her. It grew restless and began to swarm around her, seeking a way in. Its desperation was unnatural, feral, and unhinged. She challenged it again, this time addressing it directly with a negotiation.
You can have me if you want me, but I want something from you in return.
It writhed in awe of her power. It didn’t trust her, but it was starving for her so terribly that it would do anything to gain her permissions.
You will tell me everything of this place, and of the witch that has conjured you. You will give me what I need, or I will vanish from this place and leave you wanting.
When she felt the aura agree to her terms in spite of its desire to consume her, she allowed herself another long, deep breath and created a pathway into her chest. The energy seized its opportunity and smashed into her, nearly knocking her off her feet. It swirled within her, twisting itself around her heart, her lungs, and her stomach. She scolded it for its greed and willed it to be compliant. Then, the knowledge started pouring in, filling her mind with memories of despair.
Death. She felt it again, this time surrounding her. There was blood on these walls. There were unanswered cries for help screaming their ghostly echoes at her. Sunday grabbed her head, screaming for all the souls that had been ripped from their bodies in this place. Brutal slayings with silver blades. Torturous incantations spoken over them as the witch with large doe-eyes glowered at them with hatred and the awful glory of conquering them.
A sudden gust of wind blew through her with violent, agonizing desire. Sunday screamed again, her head breaking open to the vision of Constance’s naked body writhing in ecstasy as a dark invisible force bathed her with all its eroticism. A fire rose in Sunday’s belly and burned through every cell in her body. The tips of her fingers were alive with it, tongues of flames licking out from within her. She blew into the flames of her fingertips and gave birth to a man made of fire. Orange and yellow flames became solid a foot beyond Sunday’s reach, forming into the image of Constance’s fantastical lover.
You’ve come for me, he spoke into her m
ind.
Yes, Sunday hissed. I’ve come for you and your whore.
The engulfed man threw his head back and laughed, the vibrations of it rolled over her body. As it did, it filled her with the knowledge of what Constance had been doing all this time. She was attempting to pull a damned soul out of Hell.
Upon her realization, the fiery demon laughed again.
Sunday, with all her glory and strength, had unwittingly drawn out a demon, and the demon had known she was the Incarnate. Even not yet fully actualized, he was real. Furious at being locked out of the world, stuck in his cage, and communicating with Sunday, he used her as a conduit for this video conference from Hell. Constance had been and was still trying to raise him, and by the looks of it, Constance was getting close. With Sunday’s help, she had probably leapt bounds ahead of where she’d last been. Sunday had infused Constance’s sorcery with her own much more potent ability. Whether she liked it or not, Sunday gave Constance a boost that she hadn’t expected and would probably eventually be thrilled to realize.
The body of flames stood in front of her, daring her to identify him, knowing full well that she couldn’t. He was baiting her. He knew she wanted to find out more about him and more about what Constance had been doing in her attempts to raise him. Furiously, he spat, and it turned to embers just as it reached Sunday’s grimacing face. By now, the effort it was taking to keep him around was draining her. A deep-seated fear of what would happen to her friends gave rise to a newfound burst of energy. It was violent and vengeful, and it burst from Sunday’s body.