The creature they fought had slick, greenish skin, the color of the film on rotting meat. It towered over Dante. Elongated arms and legs ended in sharp talons, and the creature’s bulbous head had a maw of wicked looking teeth, set row on row like a shark. Nothing about it was natural, but my mind supplied a word for the thing: demon.
The two young men were in the courtyard of a large home that looked abandoned, and between the dark-haired man and the demon was a large, brass-bound trunk, its lid thrown open. The red velvet lining was streaked with ichor and blood. From behind the demon, four dead men staggered forward.
Their eyes were dull and their ashen corpses bore wounds no mortal could have survived, but still they came, bound to the demon’s will.
From the look of them, the young men had been fighting hard for some time. Their clothing was torn and stained red. They were dirty and bruised, soaked with sweat. Now, they were fighting almost back to back, and from the grim looks on their faces, they expected to die here, soon.
A streak of white light, like a lightning bolt, crackled across the dimly lit space, striking the demon full in the chest. It roared, and fell back a step as its smooth skin blistered and sloughed off. The dead men kept moving forward, heedless to anything around them.
I saw a blur of motion, and the dead man on the right was lifted off the ground, its head ripped from its rotting body as if it were made of paper. Another blur, and the second dead man was hoisted into the air and bent backwards, its spine making a popping noise as it snapped, and the still-twitching corpse fell to the ground. A boot came down hard on the skull, shattering it.
Whoever had sent the streak of light was approaching from behind me, but in this vision, I was rooted to the spot. The demon howled and gave a mighty leap, ignoring the two young men, soaring over my head to land behind me, facing down this new threat.
I saw a slender, blond man grab the third corpse by the shoulder, tearing the arm from the decaying body, and with a movement almost too quick to see, thrusting one fist through the dead man’s rib cage as the other hand tore the skull from the neck. Sorren stood victorious, covered in dark blood, ready for the next attack.
Behind me, another blinding flash of light flared and the demon shrieked. My view shifted. I saw a woman with an ornate walking stick grasped in her hands. Its tip still flickered with light. She was dressed in ruined finery, as if she had just come from a ball. Her skirt was torn and her sleeves were ripped. Dark hair clouded around her face, come loose from an elaborate upsweep. A crystal necklace glowed with harnessed energy, and I knew this woman was a wizard of considerable power.
Everything seemed to happen at once. Sorren motioned for the dark-haired man to throw him his sword, catching it like an expert. The vampire then lunged toward the demon, striking it through the spine with the sword as the woman sent another searing wave of light. The dark-haired man raised his hands. For a few seconds, nothing seemed to happen, as the woman struggled to keep up the barrage of light and Sorren kept stabbing the demon with his sword.
From a cistern in the courtyard, a tide of water rose, then split into thick tendrils. The tendrils snaked toward the demon, moving rapidly. The woman was chanting now, words I did not understand. Sorren thrust his sword one more time and leapt free as the water tendrils smashed into the shrieking creature.
Its smooth skin had been burned away by the woman’s magic, and it was bleeding from dozens of gashes where Sorren had done damage with his sword.
Scorched by fire, bound by water, the demon screamed its fury. As the woman’s chant grew more insistent, the demon began to tremble, its remaining skin splitting and peeling away, until the creature suddenly exploded into a rain of gobbets that sizzled against the water and burned where they hit exposed flesh.
Abruptly, the vision ended, and I collapsed against the bookshelf, still clutching the watch in my hands.
I had no idea how long my vision had lasted. Only minutes, probably, though I felt as if it had gone on forever. My hands were shaking as I replaced the pocket watch on the shelf. I hugged myself, trying to get warm.
I wasn’t sure who the woman was, but Sorren had told me stories about Dante and his friend Coltt, his partners from long ago. I had never seen Sorren fight like that, and the utter ruthlessness in his eyes gave me pause, though I reminded myself he had saved his human comrades.
But now I had a name for the power behind the corrupted objects and the shadow men. I recognized the feel of the magic as soon as I saw the hideous shape of the creature in the vision. The same feel and taste of the magic I had from the Foo dog. And while the evil behind the dangerous magic we faced had not yet shown its face, I knew what to call it. “Holy hell,” I muttered. “We’ve got a demon on our hands.”
Chapter Ten
WHEN EVENING CAME, I closed the shop, and Teag and I went down the street to Jocko’s Pizzeria, run by Giacomo Rossi, ‘Jack’ to his friends.
“Cassidy! Teag! Long time no see!” Jack Rossi stood behind the counter. He wore an apron that was smudged with flour and olive oil. There was even a dusting in his dark black hair.
“Hi Jack!” I replied. As always, Jocko’s smelled of fresh tomatoes, basil, and cheese, along with the scent of a wood fire and baking crusts. It was a little bit of Italy near the heart of Charleston, and one of my favorite places for a quick bite to eat.
“You want the usual?” Jack asked, spinning a crust as he talked. Jack was in his late forties, with a touch of gray in his temples that couldn’t be blamed on flour.
“Sure,” I replied, and my stomach growled just thinking about it. Teag and I probably stopped in to Jocko’s at least once a week, sometimes more. I breathed deeply, relaxing into my chair and allowing the familiar, comforting smells to ease away the tension of the day.
The walls of the restaurant featured a hand-painted mural in vibrant colors, telling the story of the Rossi family’s history and Jack’s journey from New York to Charleston. Jack’s portion of the mural began with the World Trade Center as the towers had once stood, tall and proud. Jack had been a stock trader in the North tower on September 11, 2001. He had been one of the lucky ones, and within a year he had resigned from the brokerage business, moved to Charleston and opened up Jocko’s, a move that left him more time to spend with family.
Jack brought out a pale ale for Teag and a glass of red wine for me. It was Wednesday evening, and the restaurant was quieter than usual. “How’s the shop?” Jack asked, returning with plates and silverware.
“Doing well,” I answered. “Thanks for asking.” “Hey Jack,” Teag said. “Do you have any of your world-famous antipasto tonight?”
Jack shook his head. “Sorry. I didn’t get my shipment this week. So no artisan-cured salami and none of the specialty marinated Kalamata olives you love.”