James Swain - Shadow People

“His name is Ray, and he’s hiding behind an old oak tree on the same hill as the serial killer’s house. Ray’s got a hunting rifle with a telescopic sight, and somehow is able to see in the dark. He must be a devil worshipper.”

“Make him stop shooting at us. I need to get inside the house.”

“And fast. I looked in there, too.”

“What did you see?”

“There’s a woman tied to a chair. Your serial killer is about to strangle her to death.”

“Stop him, please.”

“I tried, but he shrugged off my spell.”

“You’re slipping.”

“This was a strong spell. He was just stronger.”

Another rifle shot rang out and kicked up dirt around Peter’s feet. “Help me.”

“Stay tuned.”

His Droid made a funny beep as Holly ended the call. It would have been nice if she’d bothered to tell him if he was supposed to lie on the ground, or go hide behind a particular tree. Witches were peculiar in that regard: They gave only so much of themselves.

He scrunched down. The smaller a target he was, the better. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he tried to find the shooter, only there were too many trees. It occurred to him that if the shooter fired another round, he’d see the bullet as it left the barrel of the rifle, and that was the probably the last thing he’d ever see. He glanced over his shoulder to see Garrison lying on the ground.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay put?” he scolded.

“Get ready,” Peter said.

“For what?”

“The shooter is about to be taken out of the picture.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I told you, I have a friend who’s a witch, and she’s going to cast a spell on him.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Peter shifted his gaze straight ahead. “Keep watching.”

A witch’s powers were derived from nature and employed all of its destructive elements. Wind, earth, fire, and rain were all part of a witch’s repertoire, along with the ability to hold sway over wild animals. Which of these powers Holly would use was anyone’s guess. If Peter had been a betting man, he would have put his money on an owl swooping down out of a tree, and ripping the shooter’s face clean off.

He would have lost the bet. A menacing black storm cloud formed overhead. A bolt of lightning sprang out of its belly and pointed a crooked finger at a large oak tree in Peter’s line of vision. The oak tree burst into bright orange flames. Not ordinary flames, but ones of incredible heat. The shooter hiding behind the tree emitted a blood-curdling scream.

Bull’s-eye, Peter thought.

The shooter ran out from his hiding spot with his clothes on fire. Garrison came crablike up the hill.

Peter pointed at the burning man. “There’s your shooter.”

“Tell your witch I said thanks.” Garrison rose to a full standing position and took careful aim. Several shots rang out as he tried to take the shooter out. “Damn,” he swore.

“Keep firing at him.” Peter rose from his crouch, and started up the hill.

“Where are you going?”

“Guess.”

“I’m ordering you to stay here.”

“Sorry, I don’t answer to you.”

“You don’t know what’s up there. This may all be an elaborate trap.”

The words struck Peter as being prophetic. Since Friday night, he’d known that he would meet up with a serial killer who’d do everything in his power to kill him. The whole thing was a trap, courtesy of the Order of Astrum, and he was about to step right into the thick of it. To be forewarned was to be forearmed, and he felt ready for the dangers that lay in store.

“I’m ready,” Peter said.

He ran up the hill as fast as his legs would carry him.

The scene at the top of the hill was reminiscent of a war movie. Two police cruisers were parked on the gravel driveway in front of Munns’s house with their windshields shot out and their front tires deflated. Each had sunk into the ground like a wounded animal.

Both cruisers had contained a single uniformed officer. Both officers now lay on the driveway with bloodied legs, tending to their wounds while aiming their guns at the front door of the house. Seeing Peter approach, they cautioned him to get down.

“Are you guys going to be okay?” Peter asked.

They gritted their teeth and nodded. Their faces were filled with pain compounded by the anguish that they hadn’t stopped Munns.

“Who are you?” one of the officers asked.

“I’m working with the FBI. I just took out the guy with the hunting rifle who was shooting at you.”

Peter looked toward the house. “Is Munns still in there?”

“Yeah, he’s in there, and so is the woman he’s holding hostage,” the second officer replied. “We just heard her begging him not to kill her.”

Rachael was still alive. But for how long? Light was streaming through the downstairs windows, and Peter tried to place where the living room was located. He decided that it was off to the left of the front door. He imagined Rachael bound to a chair and Munns about to end her life. He hadn’t come all this way to let that happen.

I’m going in,” he said. “Wish me luck.”

The officers did not protest. They knew that something had to be done. He cautiously approached the front door. He supposed he could have grabbed one of the officers’ guns, but he’d never shot a gun before, and didn’t think now was a good time to start.

Not that he needed a gun. He had a weapon far more powerful. He thought back to the night his parents had perished. Rage filled his body like so much poison, the demon boiling up from within. His shoulder hit the door. The hinges gave way, and his momentum carried him into the foyer. He made a hard stop and looked into the room where he’d guessed Rachael was being held prisoner. His guess was on the money. She was there, bound to a chair.

So was Munns. He’d wrapped a thick piece of rope around her throat, and was pulling it taut, causing her eyes to grotesquely bulge out. Those same eyes were begging for mercy.

Evil did not know mercy. Nor did it know kindness, or love. Munns spun around to glare at his intruder. “I know you. Your name is Peter Warlock, and you were sent here to stop me.”

Peter wasn’t the only one who’d been warned. “That’s right. Let her go.”

“Not on your life.”

Munns pulled the rope tighter while grinning sadistically. Rachael was jerked out of her chair as the life began to leave her body. Her eyes shifted to Peter for the first time.

Save me, they said.

A yell came out of the young magician’s mouth. It did not resemble any sound that had ever come out of his mouth before. He charged across the living room, having decided to tear Munns apart and throw his limbs out the front door for the wounded cops to see.

His fist crashed into Munns’s jaw and snapped the serial killer’s head. He’d never been much of a fighter growing up, preferring to talk his way out of tight spots. Now the opposite was true, and he wanted nothing more than to beat Munns to a bloody pulp.

The rope dropped from Munns’s hand. Kicking it away, Peter struck Munns again. The sound of Munns’s nose breaking was loud and sharp. Blood poured from his nostrils like they were wide-open spigots. He started to lose his balance, and appeared ready to fall.

Peter should have stopped there, but the demon was having none of it. He struck Munns with all his might, the blow sending him across the living room and sprawling onto a couch. Munns lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. He looked dazed, and gasped for breath as Peter came forward, prepared to finish him off.

“Stop,” Rachael said.