Surrender to Darkness Page 29

  She slid open the glass door to the porch.

  No time to worry about what waited in the dark. Just run. Around the freakin’ hedge and down the path to the trailer. You can do this. Taking a deep breath, she ran. On an average day it took her three minutes to reach the trailer. Today it took an eternity. Even with her head down and her legs pumping as fast as she could make them go.

  She pounded on the trailer door.

  “Open up!” She glanced over her shoulder. A shadow moved in the trees. No, more than one shadow. Six, maybe seven. She was going to die out here. Without waiting for the door to open, she popped into the trailer.

  And slammed into Stefan, knocking him to the ground.

  To give him some credit, he appeared to be heading for the door. To let her in.

  “Sappers. And gradiors. And Azazel.” She gasped every word. “Every-freakin’-where.”

  He blanched. “Where is Azazel?”

  “In the house. Fighting Kiyoko.” She helped him to his feet. “We’ve got to do something. People are dying, Stefan. All over the place.”

  He nodded. “Where is Murdoch?”

  “In the bunkhouse, but he’s—”

  “Go help him out. I’ll go up to the house.”

  Fear shivered through her. The bunkhouse was through the trees. “But I can’t do it on my own.”

  “Yes, you can.” His gaze pinned hers, firm and confident, more like the Stefan she knew. “You have the skills, Emily. Use them.”

  For the first time, she noticed a funny smell in the trailer, like way-overdone chicken wings. She glanced around. “Where’s Dika?”

  “She had to leave for a while,” Stefan said, grabbing a black drawstring bag off the leather couch. “She’ll be back.” Then he was gone, out the front door and into the night.

  She stared at the trees.

  You have the skills. Use them.

  Shit. She could’ve just popped here from the house. She’d run all the way down the path, practically pissing her pants, all for nothing. And she could pop into the bunkhouse just as easily. All she had to do was imagine herself there, fold the fabric of the universe just right, and …

  Pop.

  Her skin burned as she passed through a barrier spell. She landed smack-dab in the chaos that was the common room and took an elbow in the gut from a Soul Gatherer fighting for his life. Grunting, she dodged out of his way. At least a dozen bone-sappers were preying on the trainees, many of whom were already horrible pools of flesh on the floor.

  Murdoch was at the far end of the room, in full-out berserker mode, swinging his sword with blistering speed, battling two sappers at once. Red-faced and pumped with supernatural energy, he had them on the defensive, pressed up against the wall. But their fluid forms allowed them to slip out of his way, avoiding serious injury, and they showed no signs of dying anytime soon.

  You have the skills. Use them.

  What skills did she have to fight shadowy blobs? Swords weren’t very effective from what she could see, and she didn’t know a freeze spell. Note to self: learn a freeze spell.

  But she did know how to pop.

  And she could pop just about anywhere. If she could pop into hell and rescue Carlos, then she sure as heck could pop into the between. Especially since sappers couldn’t hurt her. She was alive.

  The where of the between was a little fuzzy, but she’d dreamed about the place enough times. Somewhere between hell and the middle plane. As long as she didn’t think too hard about it, she should be able to go there. Now all she had to do was grab one of the suckers. Easier said than done. She eyed the black mucus latched onto a downed Gatherer under the table to her right.

  Then stepped within leaping range.

  “Come to Emily, you butt-ugly blob.”

  Kiyoko squeezed the Temple Veil tightly in her hand and drew every mote of power from it that she could. Then she murmured one of the ancient spells her father had taught her and tossed a frozen-tongue curse. It would stop him from uttering spells. Temporarily. Perhaps long enough for her to cast an endurance charm upon herself. She needed it. She was already weakening, and Azazel had yet to throw his might at her.

  She wasn’t sure why.

  Perhaps he feared damaging the relic. It couldn’t be the shikigami—as effective as their dive bombing was, they did nothing to reduce the power of his spells.

  Whatever the reason, she was grateful. She couldn’t help but hope that given enough time, Murdoch would come to her aid. Despite Azazel’s claim that he was locked in a building full of sappers, imagining him defeated was impossible.

  Azazel recovered his speech and flung a spell of his own, and a violent shudder ran through her. A will sap spell, archaic but very potent. For the barest of moments, before her counterspell took effect, her body was not her own. Her thigh muscles flexed, pushing her to her feet.

  The fallen angel smiled.

  He dropped the Yoshio charade, and appeared to her in his true form: Huge black wings, bare chest etched with runes, chin-length black hair. Strangely alluring for someone with thick horns protruding from his forehead.

  “You are a talented mystic,” he said. “I’m impressed by the spells you’ve cast. Many of them are unknown to me.” He swatted at the air. “But it’s time to stop fighting. Bring me the Veil.”

  The counterspell took effect, and she dropped back behind the chair. “No.”

  “You are annoying me.”

  “Good. It’s my aim to make this as difficult as possible.”

  He chuckled. “Foolish girl. You’re alive right now only because I need you. I’ve had many opportunities to slay you over the past few months and took none of them.”

  As she’d believed, but never understood. “Why?”

  “Because it appears that I cannot take possession of the Veil without your assistance. I tried. After I brought your father to his knees, I attempted to pick it up but couldn’t—the blasted thing positively glowed with virtuous energy. By then the self-sacrificing fool was too badly injured to work the necessary magic to free the dark side of the Veil. He lay there, bleeding and gasping and flailing like dying fish.”

  She gagged.

  “I thought I was lost, until you conveniently entered the garage and ran to his side. Your attempts to revive him impressed me, but it was your instant ability to wield the Veil’s power that gained my total admiration. It was obvious that mystical guardianship of the relic had passed from your father to you. Now, remove the containment spell and hand me the Veil.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t be difficult. Your magic is no match for mine.”

  “You won’t be facing my magic alone. Others are on their way.”

  “Still counting on Murdoch to help you out, are you?” he said, amused. “That’s very naive of you. He won’t be coming.”

  “Don’t underestimate him,” she said.

  “I don’t. But even he will struggle with a dozen sappers.”

  “He’ll escape.”

  “Wishful thinking. The barrier spell I put over the bunkhouse will require better magic than his to breach.”

  Contemplating Murdoch’s dismal odds made hershudder. She thrust her worry for him to the back of her mind and concentrated on her own survival. If Murdoch could not reach her, then she needed help from another source.

  Sora.

  She could send him a mental message, but reaching out with her mind would seriously deplete her ki, especially if Sora was any distance away. At best, she’d manage three or four more spells after such an effort. Then she would succumb to Azazel’s magic and the Veil would be his.

  Was it worth the risk?

  She grimaced. Was there really any alternative? She would not last much longer anyway. And she couldn’t be sure that Azazel’s desire to keep her alive would endure. At any moment he could tire of her puny efforts and slay her. It was Sora or nothing.

  She closed her eyes and reached out.

  She’d only just found Sora sleeping
in his bed when she was knocked off her feet by a silent explosion that blew the door off its hinges, pitching it clear across the room. In a swirl of tingles and sparkles, someone shot to her side and yanked the Veil from her nerveless fingers.

  She looked up.

  The mage.

  But a very different mage than the one she’d received the Book of Judgment from days before. This man had jet-black eyes and a body that radiated an eerie fluorescent green light. There was nothing plump or jovial about him now. Grim resolve leached from every pore. He thrust the Veil into a black bag, then stepped back into the farthest corner of the room and began to murmur unintelligible words that sent a chill down Kiyoko’s spine.

  “No.” Azazel blasted the mage with a dozen bolts of purple, seething energy, one after another.

  But they did nothing. The mage’s shield held true. And he continued to chant.

  Azazel turned to her, his face now a mask of dark fury. “Get it back. Get it back or I’ll slay you and everyone in a thirty-mile radius in the most painful way possible. Now.”

  But Kiyoko knew of no way to retrieve the Veil. The shield surrounding the mage was like none she’d ever seen before, and the bag he’d tucked the Veil into had abruptly smothered its power. She felt its loss immediately. Her fingers and toes went numb, and her heartbeat began to slow.

  “I can’t.”

  He raised his taloned hand to smite her.

  But Sora appeared at the door, the Book of Judgment in hand, and sent the fallen angel reeling with a powerful blight curse. Putrid boils blossomed on the fallen angel’s skin, briefly swelling his lips and the taloned fingers of his hands. Sora glanced at the mage, frowned, then scurried to Kiyoko’s side, reading from the book as he crossed the room.

  “I hope you like snakes,” he whispered to her.

  No sooner had he spoken than four huge cobras appeared at the foot of the bed, hissing and spitting blue fire at Azazel, who had only just dismissed the boils.

  “A temporary measure,” Sora said, as he continued to flip pages and scan the contents. “We need something more powerful.”

  Azazel fought fire with fire. He hit the snakes with lava firebombs that sprang from his fingertips, roaring with rage as several of his glorious wing feathers were engulfed in snake fire.

  “I thought you couldn’t read Egyptian.”

  “That was three days ago.” Sora quickly incanted another spell, this one producing thousands of tiny scarab beetles that swarmed the fallen angel.

  Azazel fried hundreds with a single blast, barely pausing for the effort.

  “We can’t do this on our own,” Kiyoko said, her limbs so heavy she could barely lift them.

  “We can, and we must.”

  Kiyoko focused the shikigami on Azazel’s hands, directing them to put out the firebombs before he could hurl them.

  Azazel, who never took his eyes off the mage, smashed the shikigami against the wall with a mighty beat of his wings. All the imps fell to the floor except for one, which returned in an uneven flight path to Kiyoko’s shoulder.

  Angry and sad, Kiyoko sent a blind spell at him.

  “Save your strength,” Sora cautioned.

  “For what?”

  She need not have spoken. Emily popped into the room at that very instant, with her arms wrapped around a very large, very enraged, and very nearly naked Murdoch. She quickly released him and leapt over the bed.

  Clad only in a bath towel, he attacked the fallen angel.

  All berserker, all raw destructive power.

  His sword, which glowed green like the mage’s skin, hummed through the air, a smooth and very lethal extension of his reach. The muscles of his arms and chest bunched and rippled with every swift, sure movement. His hewn thighs flexed visibly under the white terry as he advanced, one relentless step at a time. And for the first time, Azazel retreated.

  But the fallen angel wasn’t done.

  From the lower levels of the house came the eerie shrieks of bone-sappers and the hungry moans of gradiors on the prowl.

  Azazel seemed to have an unlimited pool of undead drones.

  “We need to slow him,” Kiyoko said, breathless. Each intake of air was harder to draw than the next. “To give Murdoch a chance.”

  Sora nodded. “Emily, do you have the shard?”

  From the other side of the room came, “Yeah. But you better hurry. There’s like a million icky things crawling out of the ground.”

  He began the spell, stumbled over a word, and then started again. It was two full pages of incantation and Kiyoko prayed he could complete it without faltering. She needed to know Murdoch would be safe before she attempted anything.

  Without pausing in his recital, Sora put a hand on Kiyoko’s shoulder. His fingers were hot on her skin, but the sensation that flowed from his fingertips was cool and tingly. Like a drug injected into her veins, the tingle quickly spread through her body, and where it went, energy bloomed.

  Her breathing eased.

  He had lent her some of his ki, the crazy old fool. In the middle of the most important incantation of his life. She heaved a grateful sigh and crossed her fingers.

  Please. Let him succeed.

  21

  As fascinating as the fight between Murdoch and Azazel was, and as important as Sora’s incantation was, Emily’s attention kept straying to Stefan. The eyes like black holes and the green glowing skin? Holy crap. Wicked awesome.

  Why he was standing in the far corner with that bag clutched to his chest was a mystery. When he said he was headed over here, she assumed it was to help out, not to do … uh … whatever the heck he was doing.

  “Ow.”

  She glanced down at her hand.

  The shard was suddenly burning hot and rays of black light streamed between her fingers. Apparently the spell was working. But she kept her hand tightly clasped and waited for a signal from the sensei. She could not afford to screw this up.

  The tinkle of shattered glass came from the stairs.

  Faster would be good, though.

  She shoved a sweaty strand of hair away from her face. Carting a dozen bone-sappers back to the between had been easy. Dealing with the horde slithering up the stairs would be much harder. Like trying to stop a tidal wave from pouring through a screen door.

  Not cool.

  She glanced at Sora. His head was bent to the book and his lips were still moving. Come on. How much longer could that stupid spell take?

  A high-pitched shriek pulled her gaze back to the open doorway. The lights in the hallway had gone out. Her hand tightened around the shard, the jagged edge cutting into her skin. Uh-oh. Here they come.

  Sure enough, as she watched, a thin black finger reached out of the darkness and crept up the doorframe to the ceiling. Followed quickly by another. And another. The ceiling near the door was now a writhing black knot. The sappers were gathering strength, preparing to leave the shadows and attack Murdoch.

  But that wasn’t the worst thing.

  The worst thing shuffled into the room a moment later. Gray-faced, glassy-eyed, and ruthlessly focused. A gradior. Headed right for Sora and Kiyoko. Shit, shit, shit.

  The smell of putrefying flesh was thick and vile. Death in its ugliest, rotting form.

  But the sickly sweet odor didn’t bother Kiyoko nearly as much as the sight of the creature’s blood-soaked claws. This gradior had successfully penetrated someone’s shield, possibly Brian’s or Lena’s. A horrible thought.

  She glanced at Sora.

  He was still busy with the spell, but judging by where his eyes were trained, he was very close to done. He needed a few more moments, and she had to give them to him. But how was she supposed to stop a zombie?

  “Kiyoko,” Emily said softly. “Catch.”

  The teen tossed the katana and Kiyoko caught it.

  “Go for the head,” Emily said.

  Kiyoko slid her weapon from the scabbard. Even with the energy Sora had donated, her muscles trembled. But the bone
-sappers were edging across the ceiling, and Murdoch’s survival depended on her conquering the weakness in her limbs.

  She took a deep breath, steadied her thoughts, and engaged the gradior. Its shield was formidable. It took three vigorous, full-bore strikes to break through the protection spell and score blood. Yet its claws ripped through her shield in a single swipe. She had to leap back to avoid being gutted.

  Once clear, she struck again, aiming for the neck.

  The gradior was slow moving but relentless. Although her sword sliced deeper into the creature’s neck with every swing, the gradior continued to attack with impressive, seemingly limitless power.

  Kiyoko was not so fortunate. She began to tire. The heavy weariness returned to her limbs, and her chest became a block of ice. Every stroke of her blade took as much out of her as it did her opponent. Her grip on the katana faltered, and she stumbled to one knee. Dismissing her as a fallen foe, the gradior stepped by her and took a swipe at Sora.

  “Open your hand, Emily,” Kiyoko shouted. “Now.”

  The spell book took the brunt of the blow, the gradior’s claws slicing into the leather cover, splitting the gold leaf in two. But Sora still toppled, bringing an abrupt end to his incantation.

  Kiyoko’s heart seized.

  But she was unable to go to the sensei’s defense. The last of her energy pulsed weakly in her chest. Her legs gave out, and she slid to the floor. As she fell, she pitched a look at Azazel, hoping the incomplete power of the shard had been enough to flatten him, at least briefly.

  No such luck.

  He might have lost some momentum, because Murdoch had the fallen angel up against the wall, his sword cutting into Azazel’s chest time and again. But the angel continued to fight back with fury.

  Murdoch was not unscathed.

  Dark burns marred his left arm and a wide gash parted the flesh on his chest. Blood flowed in enough quantity to turn the towel crimson. To make matters worse, the long finger of a sapper had descended from the ceiling to his shoulder, siphoning bone.

  They were failing.

  It would have been so easy to give up then. To let her fears over being worthy enough take hold. For an instant, she was tempted to close her eyes and let Death take her. But the moment passed swiftly. Her father had not given up. Not even when the odds were dismal. He had struggled to live and to win, right up to the end. She knew that, because she had held him in those last moments and had felt the resistance to his fate in every ragged breath.