Harpies. Their raucous screeching made her think of hysterical old shrews arguing.
They appeared stunted, as if they were half a person—the torso of a woman with gray, pendulous breasts attached to the stubby legs of a vulture. Their wings had claws at the tips. Their faces were vaguely human, but with sagging skin and bulging eyes. Crests of feathers stood from their heads like wispy hair. They had long, thin beaks, which they used to peck the people trapped in the trees. Layers of excrement covered not only the tree limbs but also the exposed heads of victims.
Emily’s stomach turned. There was no way to save the poor people. Even if she killed every harpy in the grove, what would she do then? Stand guard to kill the next flock that happened by?
She backed away, hoping the birds’ eyesight was as poor as the hounds’. Hunched over, she ran, keeping her distance while still keeping them in sight. They squawked and shrieked as if hurling curses at one another, too busy with the tree-people to notice her.
“I can’t help them,” Emily repeated. “I’m here to save April, not to change the world. Stay focused. Don’t take chances.”
A shrill scream came from somewhere ahead.
Emily hurried forward to where a man lay on the ground. He struggled to get up while a hovering harpy raked his back with its claws. To the side, a woman pounded the bird with her fists. The creature ignored her.
Without thinking, Emily rushed it. Her coat flew out behind her, flapping noisily. “Caw, caw,” she yelled. “Ieee.”
The harpy looked at her with something akin to alarm. It flew upward so quickly its massive wings stirred a whirlwind of dust and gravel.
The woman dove beside the man as if unsure whether she should protect him from the bird or from Emily.
“Look out! Move!” Emily shouted as the harpy swooped down.
She shot her arrow, but it was a dead shaft, flying sluggishly and bouncing off its wing. Standing over the two people, she shot again. This time the arrow flew true. It passed through the harpy’s scrawny neck and implanted itself there. Thick drops of blood rained down.
A horrible screech rose from the harpy-infested trees. They noticed her at last.
“Come on. Get up,” Emily cried. “We’ve got to go.”
But the man didn’t get up—not because his injuries were debilitating, but because he wore one of those damned chains about his neck. Its length ensnared his arms and legs.
The racket grew. At least twenty dark birds unfurled their wings and rose. She had only eight arrows left—she would not be able to fight off so many. She glanced about, but there was no place to hide. Even the boulders were too far.
At her feet, the man untangled himself and struggled to his knees. Seized by inspiration, Emily grabbed the medallion and pulled it over his head.
“Stop,” he cried. “I can’t take that off.”
“It will explode,” the woman shouted, confirming Emily’s suspicions.
“That’s what I’m hoping.” She swung the chain overhead.
The act brought back memories—she’d made friends with another Olympic-hopeful who competed in the hammer throw. During their short-lived romance, he taught her a little about his art. She never came near the seventy-seven meter record, but he said she showed aptitude.
Emily no longer thought of herself as an athlete, but she still had upper body strength. She swung the chain, hearing it thrum as it circled her head, gaining momentum. Then she put her whole body into the action—arms outstretched, turning in a tight circle. Distance equaled the angle of release. She needed to hit at least one-hundred feet.
The medallion glowed blue. The chain whirred. Emily made three more rotations. As the medallion reached its apex, she let go.
The chain flew into the air to meet the approaching harpies.
Emily leaned over the man and the woman, ducking her head. There came a brilliant flash of light. For a moment, it seemed time had stopped. Then a resounding boom filled her senses.
The concussion struck.
It was more than wind—it was like being hit by a solid wave of air. Emily’s knees scraped the ground as her body blew sideways. She clung to the people she sheltered, more out of a need to be anchored than a desire to save them. She yelled but couldn’t hear her own voice.
Something heavy thumped nearby. Then another. An object glanced off Emily’s back. She grimaced, eyes squeezed shut, afraid to wonder what was falling around them. The air stilled, but loud thuds continued as if the sky itself were raining in great plops.
Then something large skidded into them, draping them. It smelled like rancid dung. Emily gagged. She crawled out, gasping, staggering to her feet.
It was the wing and partial breast of a harpy. She backed away and nearly tripped over another carcass. She turned slowly, one hand over her mouth and nose. Body parts lay smoldering upon the ground. Her eyes burned, and her nose ran.
The woman helped the man up. They stared at the carnage in obvious amazement.
With the toe of her boot, Emily rolled a harpy onto its side. It was just as ugly in death. The gray, wrinkled skin lay in folds about its face, and the protuberant eyes gazed unseeingly in opposite directions. The saw-toothed beak looked lethal.
The man stepped before her. “Who are you?”
Emily’s head ached. Her ears rang with the blast. She found herself wishing for the wave of wind to return, or even an ash storm—anything to blow away the putrid stench.
Beyond the man was a radius of harpy pieces. Judging from the blast point, the medallion had made her hundred-foot mark. The trees were flattened—some uprooted, some snapped off. She wondered if the people inside felt less pain, now that their hosts were dead.
“You have clothes,” the man said. “And weapons.”
Emily blinked at him. “The bird that attacked you. Why wasn’t it in the trees with the others?”
“She didn’t belong to the flock.” He shrugged. “Her assignment was to torment me. She shows up from time to time.”
“Did you kill her?” asked the woman.
“I hope so,” Emily said, looking around. “Help me find my arrows.” Head bent, she walked among the carcasses, scanning the ground.
The woman found the first one. She held it out to Emily with both hands, eyes downcast, as if offering something precious to a god.
Emily examined the arrow, deciding it was the one that flew awry. She couldn’t find the other. Puzzling. She was certain she’d hit the damned bird in the neck. Perhaps the creature caught the outer edge of the blast and was blown farther away. She might come across its body later. In any case, the arrow she held was faulty. Not wanting to mix it in with her quiver, Emily slid it into her boot.
She became aware of stares. The man and woman clutched one another as if afraid to move without permission. Emily was embarrassed to think they were in awe of her.
“Which way is the castle?” she asked.
The woman raised a trembling hand, pointing in the direction Emily had been traveling.
“You’re going there, aren’t you?” said the man. “You’ve come for Satan.”
“Are you a dark angel?” asked the woman.
Emily couldn’t think of a response. She’d never heard of a dark angel. Without a word, she walked away.
The haze soon swallowed all evidence of slaughtered harpies and felled trees. The silhouettes of the two people faded, but their words remained in Emily’s ears as disconcerting as if just spoken.
Dark angel. Who did they think she was? Were they cowed by her because she killed a few birds? They could have done that much themselves. After all, the man carried the bomb—and it was lucky he had, or all three of them would have been ripped to shreds.
Did the demons know one of their bombs detonated? Would they investigate, or would they send a caretaker to clean up the pieces during the night?
When would it be night? Emily ached as if she’d walked for days, perhaps weeks. The day never ended.
Be careful w
hat you wish for, her inner voice warned. Chastity dreaded the night.
As Emily walked, the once-level plain attained a slight slope. The endless haze receded. Ahead, the yipping of dogs was accompanied by an odd clicking sound. She slowed, nerves on edge, trying to locate the source.
Two hellhounds frolicked in a black mud puddle—only it couldn’t be mud. The substance moved as if alive. Wherever the dogs pounced, it curled away as if loathe to touch the beasts.
The dogs appeared to take joy in this. They leapt and snapped at it. Emily moved nearer, trying to make out the black mass. It glistened as if it were liquid and rolled as if in waves, but it didn’t splash. She was convinced it was solid.
As it paused in play, a hellhound looked up at her. Emily froze, realizing with a start that she stood less than fifty feet away. It must see her. She braced for its charge. The dog watched for a moment, its upturned jaws in a perpetual leer. Then it gave an unmistakable shrug. Yipping and cavorting, it followed its partner and the clicking mud puddle down the hill.
Emily frowned. Why hadn’t it attacked? Was the hounds’ eyesight that bad? Perhaps they were like dinosaurs and could only see movement.
She remained motionless until they were well out of sight, and then she took the next hill at a trot. She berated herself for walking so near the black substance. Intriguing as it may be, it was most likely dangerous, and she was foolish to take risks.
A shriek ended her reverie. Eyes shaded, she spotted three harpies flying toward her. Emily squinted to see them, and then gave a strangled gasp.
One of them had an arrow impaling its neck.
THIRTY-FOUR
Emily froze mid-stride, her heart caught in her throat. “Maybe they won’t see me,” she whispered. “Maybe they’ll pass by.”
The three harpies lowered as if flying in formation, their clawed wingtips nearly touching. They circled overhead, screeching.
Quickly, Emily shot at the nearest bird, aiming for the chest and what she hoped was the heart—but its wing brushed the arrow away. The chest was too well protected. Switching strategies, she put two arrows in its belly. The bird jerked and fell, spinning. She leapt out of its way as it skidded on its back, creating a wake of bouncing pebbles.
Before she could pull a fresh arrow from the quiver, another bird was upon her. It was the bird with her arrow in its throat. It hovered, beak open, its foul breath in her face. Talons scrabbled upon the front of her coat. The huge wings cuffed her from side to side. Emily staggered, arms flailing, reaching, grasping for something to break her fall.
Her fingers closed over the arrow running through the creature’s neck. The harpy roared. Its wings stroked the air. Emily’s feet left the ground. She hung from the bird, dangling from the ends of the blood-slick arrow. The harpy rose twenty feet. Its stunted, vulture legs worked madly, trying to knock Emily free. She gasped with a kick to the stomach. Her face bobbed between the wrinkled breasts.
With an ear-rending shriek, the third bird slashed her coat with its talons. Emily’s quiver tore from her back. The sight of her weapons dropping away made her burn with rage. She pulled up on the arrow she clung to, chinning herself, rising face-to-face with the horrific creature. Buffeted by flapping, foul-smelling feathers, she hooked her leg over a wing. With strength waning, she climbed onto the bird’s back and sat on its neck.
The harpy reared as if to shake off its newfound load. It spun its head around like an owl. Emily yelped, punching the bulbous eyes, trying to dodge the snapping beak. She shoved her armguard into its mouth, widening it, and then grasped the top of the beak with her gloved hand and ripped it off. Blood streamed upward with the wind, splashing her.
The other harpy dove, its thick body smashing into Emily. It banked in a circle, returning for another strike. Holding tight with her knees, Emily lifted to meet it, plunging the jagged bird beak like a dagger into its breast. The harpy shrieked and veered off.
Emily took hold of the arrow skewering the bird she rode, yanking it with both hands. “I’ll. Have. That. Back. Now.”
The arrow tore free, taking out most of the throat. Blood gushed like oil. The great wings collapsed, sending the creature spiraling. Emily screamed as she rode the bird to impact. The ground knocked the air from her lungs. Skidding and tumbling, the dead harpy dragged her several feet. They came to rest in a cloud of dust.
She tried to wriggle from beneath it. The damned thing was too heavy. Her legs were pinned. She squirmed and shoved, grabbing handfuls of feathers for leverage, but could not work free.
Above, the remaining harpy gave a shrill cry, circling lower. Blood trickled from the broken beak still stabbed in its breast. Emily struggled to pull out her knife. The bird hovered above her, wings beating, clawed feet flashing in the air. She slashed back, waving her knife in desperate, roundhouse swings, not connecting.
“Come on!” she yelled with false bravado.
In her heart, she knew her journey ended here. She would never save her little girl. She had failed. Tears filled her eyes, hot and sticky, blurring the sight of the harpy as it touched upon the ground. “April. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
A distant voice rose in answer. “Caw, caw! Ieee!”
The harpy spun about, flapping its mighty wings. Airborne stones and pebbles stung Emily’s skin. From beneath the carcass, she saw the man and the woman running toward her, waving their arms. With them was a third person—a man wearing a hellhound hide and carrying a pitchfork. He menaced the bird, jabbing with the fork.
Feathers on end so it looked twice its size, the bird stabbed at him. He knocked its beak aside and plunged the sharp tines into its chest. The bird screamed, throwing back its head and trying to take flight.
Its sudden movement nearly ripped the fork from the man’s hands. But the other man leapt forward, grabbing the handle and twisting. Together, they ran the harpy to the ground where it lay motionless.
New tears sprang to Emily’s eyes, but she smiled as the men knelt beside her. She wanted to thank them, yet knew if she tried to speak, she would only sob. They rolled the carcass off her and helped her to her feet. Emily felt shaky. She stank like a harpy and dripped with blood.
The woman approached timidly, holding out Emily’s torn quiver and a few arrows.
Emily took the quiver, hugging it. “I’m surprised to see you all.”
“I told you,” said the man wearing the hide. “I will follow. I will do your bidding.”
The other man placed his arm about the woman, nodding. “Like he said.”
THIRTY-FIVE
“Look at this mess,” Joey muttered. “It looks like a bomb went off.”
He stepped away from his hellhound companions, staring at the field of mangled harpies. His nose burned with the stench.
“This is no accident. It’s slaughter. Her work. Has to be. There are no human body parts.” He looked at the two dogs that lay side-by-side watching him. He despised the beasts—for the normal reasons, of course, but also because he knew they were there to spy on him. He felt he had to keep explaining himself.
“You can’t expect me to go through with this. You’re sending me unarmed against a crazy woman. She blew up harpies, for God’s sake.”
A flash of light stabbed his eyes. He had the impression that a Mirror quickly opened and closed. Dazzled, he stared at the ground a few feet away and saw a gleaming, silver sword.
He took a step back. “Are you watching me?”
The answer came like a tap on his shoulder, a sound not heard but felt. “Yes.”
With increasing dread, Joey raised his hand and touched the back of his neck where the big guy’s claw cut him. He felt a lump. What was it—a transmitter, a tracking device? A telepathic control? Intense revulsion swept over him, causing his knees to weaken and his bowels to turn to jelly.
Keeping his face a mask, he picked up the sword. It was lightweight and well balanced in spite of its length, made of a shiny metal he didn’t recognize. He swished it through t
he air, and then looked again at the dogs.
“I was right though, wasn’t I? Told you I was right. She’s moving in a straight line.” Crouched before them, he said in a low voice, “I know her plan. She wants to storm the castle and take back her kid. My question is, if she walks into your hands before I have a chance to nab her, do I still win my freedom?”
The dogs considered him with their tongues lolling. Then in the back of his mind, Joey heard the word, “No.”
“What?” He leapt up, swinging the sword in a wide arc, wading through the worst of the carnage. He hacked and kicked the putrefying carcasses while he imagined his blows raining upon Satan’s head, imagined the devil’s severed limbs flying. “Why did you send me here? You don’t need me to find her. She’s headed straight for you.”
His arms ached and his shoulders burned. He was covered in blood and brains. From the corner of his eye, he saw the hellhounds get to their feet and approach. He spun toward them, sword overhead, hoping to see them jump, to see them cower. They did not. They stood as calm as if he were swinging a daisy.
“This is all a game to you,” he shouted. “You’re setting me up to fail. Well, I’m not going to fail. I’m going to find that bitch and shove her down your throat.”
He swung the blade again, cleaving the head of a harpy in two. As he stood with his chest heaving, it occurred to him he wouldn’t want to be on the devil’s bad side. He stared at the dogs, and they grinned.
“Finished?” said the voice in his mind.
Joey lowered his gaze, moaning, “What do you need me for?”
A mental picture formed. He saw himself leading Goodman into the castle. She was naked and bloody, her hands bound by her own bowstring—and he caught a fleeting sense of triumph. The image dissolved, replaced by one of Goodman sneaking into the castle alone, wounding or maybe even murdering another patron before being taken down.
There was a difference, Joey realized. He could make that difference. In return, freedom would be his.
Satan's Mirror Page 19