But this man had killed my father.
And he wanted to do it again.
Through me.
The cold burned, and something in my head twisted and popped like a tooth being pulled out by the root. I yelled.
Ohcrapohcrapohcrap.
No
, my father said again. Then, a whisper to me,
Help me. Allison.
And sure, I hated my dad and hated him being in my head. And even though I didn’t want to just stand by while he was hurt, there was one ugly truth staring me in the eyes.
This thing had killed my father. Killed someone a lot more skilled in magic, someone who was still a lot stronger than me, even when he was dead. There was no way in hell I could fight this thing and win.
I don’t know how
, I thought to my dad.
Cast
, he whispered, his voice nearly gone now, as if caught by a winter wind.
Cast magic.
Right. The thing had me flat on my ass. My arms were pinned beneath its corpse-cold grip. How was I supposed to cast a spell?
“Come to me.” The Necromorph’s words were a chain around my dad that dragged him up and up.
I felt his terror. His pain.
And there was nothing I could do to save him.
Nothing magical.
I pulled my legs up. Shoved my boots beneath the Necromorph’s thighs. Pushed as hard as I could.
He stumbled back. Rose up on his legs, face contorted in fury. And roared.
A dull metallic glow radiated at its throat. A circle. A disk. Embedded deep into his neck.
The disk stank of burned copper. The Necromorph stank worse. I scrambled to get on my feet. My boots slipped on wet bricks. The Necromorph twisted his neck to look down at me, hiding the disk beneath his chin.
“I will kill her to have you.” He lunged, nails clawing, tearing at my coat. I threw my hands up to protect my face, and traced the fastest, easiest spell I could think of.
Light.
Light flashed, too bright in the night. The Necromorph growled, blinded.
Problem was, I was blinded too.
I finally got to my feet, but there was an entire frickin’ house at my back. I had nowhere to run.
Fine. I wasn’t planning to run anyway.
The murderer rushed me. I pivoted. Fangs sank into my shoulder, a dark, burning pain on top of the cold.
I yelled. From pain, yes. And because I was really angry. All I had wanted was a frickin’ cup of coffee. Couldn’t a girl go downtown without having to deal with undead mutated murderers on the way?
Forget mantras. Pain did plenty to clear my head. I didn’t even bother with a Disbursement. I didn’t care what magic was going to make me pay for this. I reached into my bones, into the raging magic there, and pulled it up through me so fast and hard, all my senses snapped into hyperfocus.
I could smell the beast’s hatred. Could smell his fear and pain. Could see dark spells burrowed into him, long, fat tendrils hanging off his twisted, emaciated body like leeches buried belly deep, down to his soul, sucking the life, sucking the soul out of him.
Around him a crowd of dead lingered, the Veiled, bits of dead magic users, looking like they always looked-pale watercolor images of people with holes where their eyes should be-sucking at the ends of the spell, leeches, drinking the beast down.
The horror in front of me couldn’t register through my anger. It sucked to be him, but hey, we all have issues.
I wove the glyph for Fire and poured magic into it.
Flames exploded in the air, blew outward, heat carrying to the sidewalk. It was a good thing it had been raining a lot lately. What plant life there was in the area was so wet I doubted a blowtorch could get it to smolder.
But the murderer wasn’t a plant. He took the full brunt of my fury face on.
Idiot.
He didn’t try to block. Didn’t wag one creepy finger to deflect.
Allison
, my dad warned, a little stronger than he had been.
Don’t.
Yeah, like I’d listen to him.
My right arm burned too hot, magic flowing and curling in multicolored strands down my arm and pouring out my fingertips. My left hand was cold, numb, and the numbness crept up to my elbow, hurting as it rose higher and higher toward my heart.
Positive and negative. Me using magic, and it using me. The joy and the pain.
I broke the Fire, and cast Sight so I could see through the darkness.
The Necromorph hadn’t blocked the spell because he didn’t have to. He just drank it down. The fire, the magic, everything. All my Light magic fed him. And all the leeches hanging off him got longer and fatter, and the Veiled sucking on them moaned.
Okay, here’s the thing. I had not woken up thinking I was going to be facing down certain death, nor the creepy Rastafarian dog-man from hell.
Which is probably why one look at the squirming mess of magic leeches writhing over him made me stop and stare instead of pay attention to other things, like, say, the Veiled who had suddenly decided to pay attention to me.
Shit.
The Veiled rushed. Fast. Too fast for any living thing.
And the Necromorph was right behind them.
The Veiled’s fingers clutched my coat, my hands, my arms, pressed under my skin, hooked magic out of me, and drew it into their mouths with huge smacking gulps.
Dad had protected me from them before. But he was silent. Inert as a lump of lead.
I was on my own.
And if I wanted the Veiled not to eat me, I had to stop using magic.
Which meant I had nothing but my fists as weapons.
Violet was right. I so needed self-defense training.
There was no way I was going to get out of this unbroken. But I damn sure was going to get out of it alive.
I dropped the spell, dropped the magic. Like a dark curtain falling on a bright screen, the real world came back.
I was breathing too hard and hurting everywhere. My head, my bleeding and possibly broken shoulder, my chest, my skin. There had to be a weapon I could use, but all I had was the journal in my pocket.
That would do. I put my hand around the book, ready to pull it out and throw it at him, or maybe jamb the pointed corner into his eye.
“For innocence to remain,” the Necromorph said, “no price is too high.” It was strangely soft, more man than creature.
And I swear, it sounded like an apology.
Nice, but a little too late.
He lunged at me.
I twisted at the hip, aimed the book and my fist at his face with everything I had.
And slammed my hand into a rock wall. I think I broke a finger. Or five.
A roar filled my ears. Not my own. Though I yelled too.
No, this sound was huge. The murderer was howling in pain.
That was no rock wall I’d slammed my fist into. That was a gargoyle.
Stone tore into the murderer with hands and fangs. Four ground-shaking blows from Stone sent the Necromorph to the ground, bleeding black. He was broken. More than that, he was pulverized.
I thought it was over.
I think Stone thought it was over too.
But even without holding Sight, I could feel the magic gathering beneath my feet. Feel it pooling, growing, and pouring toward the murderer.
I traced a quick glyph for Sight.
Holy shit. It wasn’t magic, or at least it wasn’t magic as I had ever seen it before. It was like a shadow of magic, indigo, violet, bloodred, dark and seeping. Rising up through the soil and pushing into the Necromorph’s body while the disk in his neck pulsed and glowed the same shadowy colors as the magic.
He twitched. Jerked. Stood back up.
Holy shit. He was dead. Had been dead. But he was not dead anymore.
I pressed against the wall. Stone growled. The Necromorph looked at me.