by Russ Linton
Move. Think. Basic EMT training was required by BPD. But this? These kinds of wounds, you did what little you could and called the paramedics. Hoped, no prayed, you weren’t watching somebody die.
“Araceli!” I shouted at her through the shock. “Araceli! Get your ass to work here!”
His eyes went empty. I saw his lips move. Bloody fingers clawed at my sleeve. Araceli crept over, staring like she was watching herself bleed out, still unsure why she wasn’t the one laying there.
I seized her arm and shook. “HELP HIM!”
She’d wanted to die. What had Atofo done but try and stop her? She stared at the knife, her hands making futile, uncertain motions above it. Not enough to grab hold of, she could rip it free with her magic, but he’d bleed out. Or turn to dust. He hadn’t done that yet. We had hope.
I fed my fingers under his weak grip on my coat and held his hand. I shot another glance at Araceli who’d finally dived into her satchel. Whatever she had, had to be better than me. Not much of my magic would heal. This wound...this needed a miracle.
“Hold on. Just hold on,” I said. “You can’t die yet, motherfucker, you’re not done not teaching me.”
He laughed and blood foamed on his lips. “Already dead, Chemo. Long time.” Araceli had gotten out her silver ingot and an awkward fistful of vials. Atofo grabbed her wrist. “Do your spell before that Spanish dog comes back.” He barely got out the words. Letting loose her hand, he gestured toward the grimoire on the altar.
His grip tightened and he closed his eyes.
Araceli let the healing ingot slowly drop. She dove at the altar after the grisly book, fingers tearing through the pages.
“Will it even work?”
She nodded without looking up.
Atofo’s grip became an insistent pull. Blood had started to spread on the stones. Something held him here stronger than the rest of the undead. Maybe all the blood he lost was mine, our ritual a bonding, a brotherhood stronger than any gang or fraternal order.
He fished through his coat pocket with uncertain motions. His hand finally closed around something and he paused. A sigh escaped his lips.
Araceli had started hurriedly marking the floor, changing the symbols, readjusting candles and marking a solid boundary around the fallen shaman. I numbly watched. Kibaga had stepped off. The whole room seemed to be in mourning.
“You can’t help him?”
Araceli didn’t break her preparations. She mutely shook her head. A grim focus had overtaken her as she dipped into magic she’d sworn to never use.
I sat quiet, listening to her chants, watching the candles flicker and waver. Cheers went up outside in the courtyard, a crazy mix of whoops, huzzahs, and ululations. We’d won the battle outside.
“Want me to get Sarjo?”
Eyes still closed, he gave a strangled chuckle and shook his head. “Let me die a free man.”
“Die like this and there’s no spirit. No Above—”
“No Below. Sounds like vacation.” He coughed more blood flecking his lips. His body arched with the spasm and he clawed at my coat, holding himself as upright as he could. “Find your cure. It’s there. Find it and go home to your son.” He eased back, his muscles going limp. “Home.”
Araceli’s chants grew thick. I felt the magic build like atmospheric pressure. Unlike the other times with necromancy, I caught a whiff of the Below. Kibaga? Whatever was left of Atofo’s spirit?
I wanted to tell her to stop. To let the magic fail. But then we’d be starting all over again. Short a sacrifice, our win outside would be turned into a loss.
Sitting in the circle, holding Atofo’s hand, I felt an empty, uneasy peace. His grip slackened and he let go. He pulled out his knife from his coat pocket. Ignoring the razor edges, he grasped it by the blade and offered me the handle.
“Yours now.”
I took the ancient blade and his fingers slipped away.
Weapon in my hand, my mentor dead on the floor, Kibaga surged, ready for blood. The building power I’d felt above the ramparts took hold. The ground quaked. A burning desire for revenge came on which would consume us both.
Araceli stared up from where she crouched, in front of the grimoire. Fear and resignation masked her face. She saw a power she knew she couldn’t defeat.
Head dipped, ready to accept her fate, she held out Caleb’s badge.
A reminder. I had more important things to do than let Kibaga run wild. I had to save my friend.
I tore the badge from her hand and didn’t dare speak. It’d be ugly. Worse, I’d go after her with more than words. I grabbed the demon slayer, sheathed it and kicked my way through the doors into the courtyard.
Outside, the people of Fort Mose had gained control. Folk on the fringes jumped at the sudden noise. Those who looked my way were ready to celebrate or even ready to throw hands, but when they saw whatever emerged from that blood-stained and shadow strewn chapel, they looked away. Only Francisco and Sarjo moved toward the open doors. I went straight for the dungeon, Kibaga scrambling for the wheel.
You must let me punish her! Let me tear down these walls! Return them all to dust!
“If this doesn’t work, you just might get your chance.”
I drew the Shaw Sword and sliced through the rope guarding the storeroom display. My own rage and grief mixed up with Kibaga was a toxic brew. I struggled to hold it down and felt a familiar bubbling in my throat, a stress along my ribs. When I reached the closed metal hatch of the dungeon, I didn’t mess with the handle. I tore the whole damn door off the wall.
I stood in the small room heart hammering, breaths short and shallow. I stared at Caleb’s goofy grin, the excitement he’d always shown. Talking up tourists. Welcoming a dying stranger to his park. I hadn’t been near family for so long, but damn, I had one. Here.
“Caleb?” I shouted. I held up the badge. “You there? I could use you right now. A swig from the fountains sounds nice.”
“Ace?”
I turned to face him. He hadn’t smashed his way out of the wall or faded in like a ghost. He stood in the doorway like he’d just come in from outside. His eyes slid toward my chest and I closed the heavy coat, not sure what he’d seen. I checked him close too, head to toe. Any injuries? Was he some walking dead replica of himself?
Only one way to know.
“Dap me up.”
He smiled and came after that dap with his boyish energy. I brought him in for a hug and kept him pulled tight longer than I ever thought I would. I needed to feel his chest rise and fall, not smell the grave on his breath, or feel cold and clammy skin.
He hesitantly patted my back. “Hey there. What’s up?”
Cry? Not me. Never. But my eyes felt damp. Kibaga might whoop my ass good for that. But I had a way of fighting off a complete breakdown - ringing in a little joy to this messed up situation. I separated from Caleb and turned back toward the empty dungeon.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” I said. “You don’t even know.”
I pulled out the servant’s bell from my pocket and gave it a loud, obnoxious ring.
“Edward Kitterling, come on down!”
“My word!” he exclaimed, that fake British accent kicking down whatever resistance I had left. “Teatime at the Chesterfield already?”
I turned and wrapped them both up. I couldn’t help a few tears now and didn’t want them to see. Never thought I’d be happy to see the old man. I only hoped Kitterling hadn’t been too damaged. I sure as hell wasn’t playing nurse for his pompous ass.
“Eustace?” Kitterling said, confused, arms stiff at his sides.
I blew out a breath and swallowed before letting them both go. I got my distance but kept a hand on each of them. Needed to know they weren’t dusting out anytime soon.
Caleb searched the room like he’d woken up here. “Wait... Weren’t we just here?” he asked. “It’s like déjà vu, right? Where’s Araceli?”
So he’d lost a day or two. He’d be good. At least t
hat’s what I chose to believe.
“She’s in the chapel last I saw.” I didn’t want to say her name. Caleb picked up on the bite in my words but didn’t push.
“See you there?” he said on his way out.
Kitterling wandered away from me. He wasn’t headed for the exit. He’d gone deeper inside, ignoring the complete darkness. I could see him, plain as day under Kibaga’s sight. He moved right up to the back wall and ran his hands over the brick.
“Dear God,” he whispered. He made a slow turn and took in the room from floor to ceiling.
He’d been inside for weeks. I wanted to maybe enjoy the idea of Edward Kitterling doing any kind of time. Wanted to let him know his bed slept hard, but I’d broke it in. The devastation on his face wouldn’t let me.
“You all good?” I asked.
He brought his eyes down slow and centered on my chest. The motion had me checking too. The strange shadows had retreated. A blink and he kept searching. He pulled down his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“What happened?”
“You got kidnapped by necromancers. Cause you asked them to.” I watched him wrestle with his memories. “Why?”
His cheek twitched. He pulled off his glasses and rolled the frame between his fingers, not in a hurry to give an answer.
“I was afraid.” He sounded uncertain. Almost a question. “Eustace, we have much to discuss.”
“Yeah.”
I’d accept that for now. My vision had started to dim, moonless early morning hours not letting much light into the darkened room. Kibaga’s power receded like coming off of a high, a dull ache in my head and chest all that was left.
I felt peace with the departure of Kibaga this time. Atofo was dead and who did I have to blame? A woman who’d already given her life for me? Naw, it was this cruddy magic, every kind. Kibaga, whatever. It would devour us all sooner or later if we didn’t get out. Kitterling and those like him might go last, but it would get them, sure enough.
We walked out of the dungeon together. A cry of mourning erupted from the chapel. The spirits of Fort Mose had gathered there, spilling out the door. Sarjo.
“What’s going on there?” Kitterling asked.
The night air felt too thick to breathe. The feeling had started inside the hole when Kibaga left, but I thought I just needed the air. A dull pain began to radiate under my ribs. I staggered and Kitterling was there, his shoulder under my arm.
“Eustace, what’s wrong?”
I brought the old man down with me. It couldn’t be helped. He didn’t have the strength to play gurney and my vision had only continued to darken. I couldn’t see, just feel the rasp in my lungs, the grass under my neck as Edward guided me down.
I’d thought you to be strong, but you are weak, Kibaga said. Will you return to your place in the weave? A cut thread left to unravel?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Excuse me! Is there a doctor?!? Anybody?” Kitterling shouted into the courtyard.
I am what sustains you. Heed me and live.
Kibaga. He was hungry to get his vengeance on. No matter what he said, he still wanted to tear down this fort brick by brick. And he wouldn’t stop there. I could feel it. The whole damn city was at risk. More.
“Go ‘head then,” I mumbled. “Go ‘head.”
You would die?
“I’m not your slave,” I muttered.
“No, no, certainly not!” Kitterling cried, his stuffy accent completely gone. “Doctor?!”
The crowd at the chapel was coming around to Kitterling’s shouts. Their ghostly shapes came forward, but what was the use? Araceli had already told me her healing magic had limits. No doctor could cure what ailed me. I’d pushed too far, but damn had it been a good run.
I wanted to go back and fix how I left things with Sheila. But better she lose me now than later. All these spirit realms, I didn’t know if Keandra and I would reunite. Better to not show up smelling like some other woman’s perfume.
Not seeing Izaak one last time, that would be my only true regret.
“Izaak?” I whispered, the words frothy with blood. “Can you hear me?”
“Ace, man, what’s going on?” Caleb came rushing through the crowd, Araceli with him. They stopped short and he gave a guarded glance to his left then right where the spirits roamed.
Francisco came forward, an arm around Sarjo, comforting her. He saluted with his other hand. “The Castillo is secured, General.”
I smiled through the pain. “No more Kibaga...I’m not in charge.”
Sarjo’s brow knitted, freshly dried tears on her cheeks. “True, we followed Kibaga, but you brought him back to us. You restored our faith, Ace. We will welcome you when you cross.”
Francisco swept the battlements, the Castillo grounds. “She’s better than Mose, I’d say. Will you join us here?”
“We’ll see where the boatman takes me. I might’ve started a beef with everybody else.”
Before I went, I had some business to take care of. I fumbled with the Shaw Sword. Kitterling helped, handling the weapon like the precious historical artifact it was. I could almost see the archivist gloves on his hands. He laid it across my chest and stepped back, his earlier concern becoming a shrewd, detached interest in whatever I was about to do with the demon slayer blade.
I closed my eyes and cradled the sword. You’re the one that started all this, I told it. Not for you, I’d be digging up artifacts for that old bastard and arguing with a greedy shaman mentor about who ate what first.
I laughed and knew it had to look gruesome. Araceli dropped her chin. Caleb came closer, cautious like he might startle away what little life I had left. Kitterling kept wide eyes on the sword while the Fort Mose crowd gathered around tighter.
Araceli had brought her bag and held it uselessly against her. She still couldn’t speak to me. Her planned sacrifice had ended with two others. It’s whatever. None of that mattered anymore.
“Lady Araceli,” I said her name and she nodded rapidly. “Slow down with my boy, Caleb. I’ve seen his apartment, and damn he ain’t ready for you.” Caleb crouched beside me at the mention of his name. I reached out and locked his forearm. “But he will be. Give him time. Now, you better take this damn sword and kill some demons dead for me, you hear?”
She tightened her lips. “I told you to never put it down.”
Like she would ever bury that ass-kicking blade with my rotting corpse or whatever. No, not happening. I was about to start after Caleb to take it when the crowd began to shift.
Heads turned in a wave from the back of the crowd to the front. In the stony silence of the courtyard, tiny hooves clopped. Spirits moved aside as one of their kind came forward.
The Deer Woman’s hair hung darker than the moonless sky. Deerskin top and moss skirt, I couldn’t see her legs, concealed behind perfectly timed fluttering of the long coats and cloaks of the surrounding spirits. She knelt as she broke through the crowd. Her hidden legs folded neatly and perfectly under the skirt.
Nobody spoke. She smiled at Araceli who looked away. Then she bent to my ear.
“If you have finally given up this Kibaga, I can come to your aid.”
“Off with you too,” I sputtered.
It was just me and her and a ring of shadows. My mind kept slipping. I heard oars splashing out in the dry moat.
“You are ready then to cross?” Her hands went to the straps on my breastplate. “Shall I abandon you?”
“I’m ready. Ready to be done with all of you spirits.”
She sat up and frowned, perturbed, like a naughty child had just told her he wasn’t ready for bed. Her shrewd eyes narrowed, and she reached out, and jabbed her finger into my forehead.
Atofo’s cleansing had felt like a shower with a fire hose. The Deer Woman’s wasn’t violent but gentle. A warm bath with razor blades. Cuts opened and you just gave in to it, sliding deeper.
I screamed.
Caleb moved to shield me. Araceli grabbed
his shoulders and pulled him back. Kitterling watched in horror and the Fort Mose spirits, not moving, blended further into shapeless shadows. The Deer Woman finished her clawing and grabbed my skull, forehead and jaw, and pressed her mouth gently against the gouged out hole.
When she pulled away, her lips were scarlet with blood, her teeth, blackened. I tried to sit up and the world spun. Araceli was there to catch me. She drew my head protectively into her lap.
The Deer Woman rose, inching backward to let her skirt slowly drape the stones, only fully raised when she’d melted into the darkness again.
“You are mine, child. I will not let you leave,” she called. “Remember, I am a jealous patron.”
I lay in Araceli’s lap smelling the oiled leather and a tinge of brimstone. Part of me hoped I’d died, started my boat ride off to heaven, hell, wherever. But my lungs cleared. The taste of blood went away.
I’d live and I needed to make the most of it.
Sirens were approaching out in the early morning streets. Always with the damn police. Staring into the courtyard, I couldn’t see the people of Fort Mose. I couldn’t see a Deer Woman. And if Kibaga was there, he kept his damn mouth shut.
Caleb followed my gaze, sweeping the dark. “Guys, what does all this mean?”
I closed my eyes and took in a breath to fill my newly healed lungs. Hand out, I let Caleb help me to my feet. I slid the sword into the scabbard and went toward the chapel where candlelight flickered. The team followed at a cautious distance.
“Atofo?” I asked, standing outside the door. He hadn’t dusted out yet. Stubborn even in death.
“He’s gone,” Araceli said, this time able to make eye contact, red-rimmed with exhaustion and grief.
I turned to Caleb. “What does this mean? This means I need to find a cure. I’ve got a lead on that.”
“Really?” he asked, excited.
“For real.”
“You aren’t taking the necromancer’s offer are you? The pharmaceutical treatment?” Araceli sounded more like she was curious and not dropping accusations for once.
“Hell no. We’re going to steal it.”