Grave Sacrifice

by Russ Linton

  “I’m a licensed carrier,” I said, “just like you. We need to put a stop to this.”

  “Stop what? This historical demonstration? You don’t need no gun out! Hands in the air! And...and drop that knife too!”

  Our beef had become the crowd’s focus. Potential real violence versus what the crowd thought was staged had won out. People backed away and more than a few raised cell phones. Does anybody ever use those to make a damn emergency call?

  I scratched my neck and risked going for the medicine bag as I raised my hands and stepped away. Slow movements, and I switched up my request to see just how much mojo this bag could hold. I thought of a pinch of red powder I’d first learned about in a Louisiana bayou. A witch there called herself Auntie Dye. She wasn’t the real Auntie Dye, no cure for cancer either, but she knew her craft.

  Two steps back and I dropped to a knee, placing the knife on the ground. As I did it, I scattered a line of the red powder Great Sun’s bag had so gratefully supplied.

  “Knife’s all yours,” I said, giving him some space. “You’ll want to secure it, you know.”

  “I know that! Don’t get smart with me!”

  Good guy came forward, confident. I nervously watched the soldiers near Atofo snap to attention for the second time and their officer turn to face them. One finished tying off the rope to an upright beam.

  Wannabe cop’s bravery faltered as he closed the distance. I shuffled backward on my knees to encourage him. The front of his foot edged closer to the invisible line I’d drawn with the powder. Not Atofo’s magic, this was backwoods magic rooted in traditions far from this continent. All this clown had to do was cross it. One more step.

  The soldier beside Atofo brandished his halberd. He swiveled on his heel and readied the weapon upward at an angle, the butt aimed at the box under Atofo’s feet.

  I started going through the next moves I would make. They might include taking a bullet if the good guy didn’t grow a pair. One more step, his front toe finally crossed the line.

  The grimace of pain was my signal. I’d felt it before, like bringing your foot down on a glowing hot bed of nails. He’d feel it for a few days to come too.

  His gun went off. Screams erupted in the crowd. Rambo dropped, shocked by the sound of the firearm and overwhelmed by the pain eating up his leg. That was temporary. He’d be fine. Atofo though?

  I was already snatching up my knife and opening a cut on my forearm, right through my jacket. I shook the blood free and called on a battle transformation.

  Timucuans fought like animals when needed. Remorseless killers in the game of survival, they knew the stakes better than the so-called civilized invaders. But they also fought with skill and strategy.

  What I needed now wasn’t brute force but finesse. I called to the wind as my blood fanned on a breeze. I called and it answered.

  The butt of the halberd struck the box at Atofo’s feet. He gave a shout of proud defiance, growling as his body dropped. His death mask would’ve given any executioner a lifetime of nightmares. Fanged teeth and snarling visage, I could finally see the fearsome Atofo I knew, the one Araceli had called a demon in disguise.

  Undead or not, the soldier staggered away. The rope started to go taut. I flung his knife on the guiding winds.

  Sacrificial knife? Not today. The rough hammered blade flew true, the owl feather trailing behind in a perfect line. It bit into the rope and the support beam with a heavy thunk. Atofo crashed to the pavement, off balance with his arms tied up, and rolled helplessly into the crate.

  I left the gunman writhing in pain, snatched up his dropped Glock, and started hammering shots into the soldiers as I advanced. They staggered with each round, but none fell. The clip had emptied by the time I got within a few yards and they’d gotten over the surprise. I tossed the gun aside and broke into a run.

  The closest soldier leveled his halberd, but not quick enough. I’d called on the spirits for a blessing of grace and had been given the full course meal of fleetness of the wind. Hangtime? This was about to become primetime.

  I came off the ground, the sole of my Timbs tapping lightly on the blade of the halberd. The tip drove down into the concrete sidewalk and I ran up the length, not stopping until I’d crushed the soldier’s fancy hat onto his scalp and launched into the air. I was gliding, weightless, my eyes on the single spot where the knife had embedded itself into the pavilion’s upper crossbeam. A halberd flashed below, catching only the empty air I left behind. I was soaring, not even feeling the wind because I had become the wind, sailing through empty space without a damn thing anyone could do to stop me.

  My fingers found the knife and I swung gently inward as I held there just long enough to revel in the weightlessness. With a quick yank, I dropped behind Atofo, weapon in hand. Eyes on the soldiers fanning out around us, I cut the ropes tying his wrists and crouched, ready to face them.

  Atofo rose into a predatory crouch. His topknot had come undone and hair framed his face in ragged strands. That demonic sneer gleamed in the shadows as he glared up at the soldiers.

  “You’re going to wish you couldn’t die again, Spanish dogs,” he growled.

  He reached over and seized his knife. Darkness swallowed the square.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I couldn’t square the sudden darkness with my magical knowledge. Atofo had caused it when his fingers closed around the knife. We were still rooted in This World though — crowds still screamed, traffic blared horns. Either the old shaman had a few tricks he wasn’t teaching or this imbalance of magic ran deeper than I knew.

  I strained to see. The scene went down in waves of unfettered violence. Images erupted in the blackness around the pavilion like high-intensity camera flashes.

  First blast, my eyes found Atofo, his face twisted, snarling. He was riding one of the soldiers toward the ground. Hunched like he’d just pounced, he’d buried the dagger through the top of his victim’s skull. A vicious twist and the soldier was shredding apart, flaking into grave dust and ash. Lights winked out. I heard dry bones scatter on concrete.

  Atofo danced from soldier to soldier in a stop motion twirl of death, his expression getting crazier, less human. I heard a dry thump off to my right. Another flash bomb and Atofo was straddling one of the downed undead with the noose cinched around a brittle neck. He was cackling and grinning as he slammed the soldier’s face into the concrete foundation. I saw Araceli’s demon then. He was the personification of death and destruction. I couldn’t help but think I’d looked the same to her before.

  Light retreated and I could still see the image. Only it was me, smashing that demon spawn, Tanner in the prison yard.

  Tish had seen that. Araceli had watched me launch at her crazed, berserk. I’d kept Sheila at a distance when we first met. Was that to protect her or some fake image of me? A shiver ran down my spine. Each breath became harder to squeeze out.

  But pure evil or an unrestrained beast, it didn’t much matter which. We had the undead to re-deadify and Atofo was getting the job done.

  Another brilliant flash. A blade sliced right at my own head. One of the clowns had decided to take his halberd and turn this into a proper execution. But I still had my boosted speed. Or did I?

  I ducked, feeling slow and lethargic. Having just been in a fast forward world I’d dropped to normal speeds. The ritual shouldn’t have left me. Not so soon. My chest burned. Lungs ached.

  Almost too slow, I nearly got bipped up by the blade. But once that cleaver on a stick missed, there was no quick reset. One hand on the haft to control his weapon, I crowded close. I’d tried the good guy’s Glock earlier, no love. This time, I’d let the Scorpion sting.

  Darkness dropped again.

  Blind, I followed the halberd’s haft. A thrashing guide rail, it got me in close and personal. I whipped out the Emperor Scorpion. Spanish curses flew. I could smell rotten insides and centuries-old dirt. Sulfurous, decayed, like a fish market on the shores of Hell.

  I ramm
ed the barrel under his chin and fired.

  Atofo’s killing blows came in stark flashes. Mine was an orange plume of gunfire. For an instant, I saw the surprise on the solder’s face. Ash blew out through the top of his skull. The sudden pressure caused his head to burst. I tucked my chin and closed my eyes, fine particles dusting my cheeks, my eyes.

  The halberd went slack and I knew he’d been smoked like a cheap fug. Coughing, I kept my chin tucked. I’d just inhaled a dub of dead dude and wasn’t having any of it.

  “Damn!” I sputtered, stepping back. “I mean damn!”

  My boot heels connected with the raised foundation of the pavilion. That’s when a familiar sensation crept up from behind. Fingers, cool and insistent curled along my shoulder blades. A warrior’s voice called.

  You have come to hallowed ground.

  “Kibaga! About damn time!”

  Silent since the prison and here I was not even asking for the assist. But I still felt ragged and woozy. Those dark tendrils curled around me and I felt them dragging me deeper into the void. I heard screams that didn’t belong to the tourists. Cries of pain driven by the crack of a whip and the wet slap of split flesh. Screams only a mother could make when her child had been torn from her arms.

  This place. This auction house for slaves. This is why he’d come. His power wasn’t about me, it was about us.

  And how would you feed me? responded the voice. On the crushed bones of those vanquished by time?

  Blind, weak, I felt the desperation of that hole again. “I’m tired of these bullshit negotiations! I’ve got to step up for my friend here! Tell me what you need or get the hell out of my life!”

  I need vengeance, came the reply, cold and biting. Your welfare, that of your friends, is not mine to protect. And Death? That you must face alone. If you survive, you might be worthy. But your future is as empty as the darkness around you.

  Like a stroke of lightning, there was Atofo again. He’d disarmed the final soldier underneath the pavilion and shoved its own bayoneted musket through its chest, hoisting him off the ground. The undead Spaniard squirmed in mid-air as Atofo squeezed the trigger.

  “Like a fucking piñata,” he laughed, ash settling over him in a volcanic cloud.

  The burst of illumination started to fade to black once more. Cold submerged my chest. I heard the gentle sound of oars on water. Death. Kibaga hadn’t been kidding. Before the dark swallowed Atofo, I saw the empty shape of a Gallu over his shoulder.

  “Behind you!” I shouted.

  I exploded from my crouch, running blind. I had nothing to go on but the sudden, empty soul-hollowing feel of the Below. As my feet pounded on the smooth cement of the pavilion foundation, I sensed watching eyes. Kibaga waiting to see how worthy I was. Waiting to see me die.

  Desperate screams came again from all corners of the pavilion. Pain and suffering. I heard a voice shout, “Going once, gentleman, and now twice!”

  A whisper followed by a crack split the air. Pain lanced my back. I nearly stumbled and swore I could feel my jacket and shirt tear open along with my skin. One hit like that I could take. The second? The third? The hundredth? My sprint became a flailing stumble. The remnants of wind carrying me choked off like the oxygen in my lungs. I stumbled and ate concrete. This World, the city square on a busy morning, flared into existence.

  Atofo had fallen too. He was maybe ten yards away, ash and rotted uniforms scattered all around him. But fear gripped his face, hands up in surrender. Over him loomed the dark hooded shape of a Gallu.

  Atofo’s sacrificial dagger had been rammed into its eye socket.

  “I didn’t know it was you!” Atofo whimpered. He scrabbled backward on his elbows. “Big fight...confusing. We’re cool, right? You, uh, need me to get a broom for your passengers here?” In the face of the Gallu’s relentless advance, Atofo’s desperation turned to anger. “I am NOT going back! Do you hear me?”

  The mysterious metal of the blade scraped against bone as the Gallu tore it from its eye socket. It turned the knife over, appraising the ancient blade. A dark ichor coursed down the length, the same sludge which dribbled from underneath the hood to fall in heavy spatters on the concrete.

  “A masterful implement.” The Gallu’s voice filled every pocket in the pavilion rafters and came down dense and stifling. “But even the work of divine hands cannot be eternal.”

  The meaty fist clenched around the blade. Muscles in the Gallu’s wrist hardened in taut bands. That same nasty ichor began to drip freely from its hand, slopping to the pavement. I thought I saw the thick lip on that bull’s head curl up in a sadistic smile. A sudden snap and the blade dropped, shattered in two.

  My shaman mentor heaved like he’d been gut-punched. He’d scrambled into one of the pavilion’s supports where he struggled, trying to inch his upward. The Gallu reached out, ready to claim a soul who’d dodged him for centuries.

  “No!” I shouted, ragged and wet.

  The pain across my back flared. This was a familiar pain; a tight pressure, a displacement of ribs and spine from a chest swollen with fluid and blood. I staggered the last few feet and threw myself between the Gallu and Atofo.

  The hide-covered hand pulled up short. Hot breath washed over me as that massive snout gave an angry snort. The one good eye, huge and orb-like, caught a flicker of gold.

  That’s right, the Timucuan breastplate. Gallu here had gotten a taste before and didn’t want another. I straightened, chin out in defiance. Behind me, Atofo held his breath.

  The massive creature stooped and horns like elephant tusks lunged forward to cage my head on either side, plunging into the pavilion support with enough force to make the roof shudder. He glared, baleful and full of hate. His one good eye narrowed, the other wept a licorice sludge. Another huff of rancid air and this time I blinked. Atofo got small behind me.

  “No man is immortal. You will cross. Soon.”

  “Show me your hands!”

  A voice shouted from behind the black-robed bulk. The Gallu spun, the voluminous robes whipping. With the swirl of the cloak, the massive horned beast disappeared.

  “I...I said show me your hands!”

  Two officers approached, guns drawn. The crowd held near the curb and traffic had snarled along the one-way roads to either side. All the soldiers had left behind were tattered rags and ash, a battered rope swinging from the rafters, and scattered bits of weapons pitted with rust.

  I very deliberately raised my hands. Behind me, Atofo did the same. Still pressed close, he whispered in my ear.

  “We can take them.”

  “Atofo, put your damn hands up,” I hissed through gritted teeth before shouting to the officers, “I’m armed. Handgun in a shoulder holster.”

  Atofo squinted, confused. I ignored him as one of the police hustled forward and secured my weapon. Behind the officers, the good guy with the gun came hobbling toward us.

  “That’s him! That’s the one who shot me in the foot!”

  “Sir, I told you to stay back at the curb!” The cop closest to him shouted. “Do it!”

  “My friend here didn’t shoot that pale face,” Atofo protested. “He cast some sort of bush magic.” He lowered his voice. “Something I didn’t teach him.”

  “Can you shut your mouth before you get us shot?”

  The officers barked more commands. We moved apart and dropped to our knees. Atofo followed my lead and I kept shaking my head as he mouthed more suggestions. Now? How about now?

  “Chill with it,” I said.

  I let them shove me to the pavement face first. Blood bubbled at the back of my throat with the impact but I hid the pain. I’d dodged Death, literally, no sense in making his job any easier. Cuffs cinched around my wrists. Atofo was soon down beside me, his cheek pressed to the concrete, smiling.

  “Do they serve chitlins in prison? I feel like I haven’t eaten in four hundred years.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sheila got us released. I knew they wouldn’t be
able to make any of the charges stick. Witness accounts were all over the place. A crazed black man had attacked performers in the park who were just putting on a good show. For some, I’d been the victim. Not many.

  Good guy with a gun didn’t have a round through his foot like he said. He did have gunpowder residue on his hands, just like me. And his firearm had been the only one emptied, rounds and casings littering the scene. One shot had gone skyward from my Emperor Scorpion with some long dead and dusty DNA. Evidence they’d never recover. Then there were the performers who’d gone up in smoke.

  Best they had was a scene and the nearest black guy. Too often though, that was enough.

  “My client was standing his ground, per Florida law, against a homicidal white man. Can you explain to me why he’s here, in a cell, and that man isn’t?”

  Sheila had pull. Judges. The Chief of Police. This was her town, no doubt, and she let them know the department would be buried under a legal tsunami.

  In the end, they kept my gun for further testing or some bullshit. Could’ve been worse.

  They’d tried to question Atofo for hours. He kept demanding an interpreter, in Timucuan, a language deader than the dead we sent back to their graves. Sheila had volunteered to be his attorney shouting, “All I see is victims here! Y’all done a real public service locking them up.”

  Damn, she was fierce. I’d started thinking about our night together. Keandra, baby, forgive me but I needed that. I wanted that and more.

  Sheila got Atofo out too. Without the bodies he’d left behind, they couldn’t even bust the shaman on public indecency charges. His loincloth covered more than a lot of what I’d seen on Florida beaches. That didn’t make watching his manspread as he sat in Kitterling’s study any easier.

  “What did that one ever do to you?” he asked, pointing at the werewolf head mounted on the wall between the other oddities.

  “Ate people,” I said.