Thea Harrison: Rising Darkness

I’ll do what I can to help, Astra said grimly.

Of course you will, he said.

He knew exactly just how much stock to put into that. Astral projection from such a long distance was a massive drain on her reserves, and here, while she might join in the fight, as disembodied as she was, she could only wield a fraction of her strength.

Then, when the fight got too dangerous, she would vanish. She would have to. Just as Michael was too valuable to risk in helping Nicholas, Astra was too valuable to risk helping Michael or Mary.

The funnel cloud of power built and built until the land itself seemed to skew out of balance from the compressed force.

“‘By the pricking of my thumbs . . .’” Michael muttered. He sighed and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. Beside him, Astra visibly braced herself.

Something wicked this way comes.

It approached with a confident and unhurried pace.

The dark cloud was aimed at them, and released.

MARY WAS GOING to remember that damn forest path for the rest of her life. Her lives. However long any of them might last.

Her body couldn’t keep up with her adrenaline-spiked mind. Every step she took felt leaden and slow, as though she ran through waist-deep mud. In contrast, the ghost of Nicholas floated effortlessly in front of her, while her kestrel flitted at an almost leisurely pace from branch to branch.

When she heard that first staccato percussion of gunfire, she stumbled to a halt.

Nicholas swung around to face her. Don’t stop.

She shook her head at him. Terror made her leg muscles go watery.

Terror not just for Michael, but for whatever abomination might be sent after her, like Sport Coat and Spring Jacket with their dark, smudged auras. The dinginess clung to them like pollution belched from a coal-burning plant, telling a tale of spirits that had become skewed or perhaps had died. Those bizarre smiles had never left their faces even as the hawks had torn them to shreds.

One ghost and a small, fierce bird would not be able to stop a creature like those two men.

She shuddered even as she called Michael, frantic to know if he was all right. He was. His calm reply soothed and chastised her.

So she started running again. The hand that clutched the gun hung at her side. The other pressed at a stitch that gnawed just under her ribs.

Follow the path. Skirt around the lake then go north again. It was afternoon, so she should keep the sun to her left. None of this was rocket science either. Even someone who was directionally challenged couldn’t screw that up, right?

Michael probably came with an internal GPS system already installed. He would find her. She just had to have faith and follow orders. She had to trust his expertise, because, surely to God, she didn’t have a clue what to do next.

He had trained his whole life for this conflict, whereas so far she had managed to avoid bleeding to death. Not that she wasn’t glad of the result. She was, but let’s face it. She had only achieved that much by asking for someone else’s help.

She had life-altering realizations to ponder, and a powerful deadly danger to avoid, and Michael to fret about. But in her panic, she had managed to yank on her old socks, the ones she had washed in the bathroom sink and dried on the water heater. They felt stiff and rough, and blisters were forming on her heels. Soon the raw pain consumed her attention until each step felt like a jolt from an electric socket that shot up her calves.

She hated this path. She hated these woods. She hated this gun.

As soon as she could, she was going to shoot her socks.

She was so consumed with her own internal misery, the rest of the world slipped out of focus for a heartbeat.

Nicholas rushed at her. Her attention snapped to him. Even though he was not corporeal, instinctively she jerked out of his way.

Get down! he hissed at her.

Far be it from her to question him. She dropped like a stone, cheek to the ground and gun hand protectively covering the back of her head.

He rushed away. A few moments later, she felt a nearby snarl of violent energy. Still a step behind events, she switched her focus from her physical surroundings to the psychic and tried to glean details of what was happening just a few feet away.

Nicholas had tangled with a transparent darkness that seemed to have no form at all, yet it wrapped around the ghost’s brighter form and flexed, as if squeezing him like a boa constrictor. His presence blazed with a savage fury and dislodged the dark form. He took hold of it and ripped it apart.

Then he came and knelt beside her. Cautiously she lifted her head and stared at him. What the hell was that?

One of his spies, he said. A greedy little bastard. If I’d been weaker, it could have drained me completely. Watch out for creatures like that. They could drain you too, if you become injured badly enough.

Thank you , she said.

He tried to put a hand on her shoulder then seemed frustrated. Keep your senses sharp for any more of those. We can’t let any of them take word of our position back to the Dark One. Come on.

She pushed to her feet. There seemed to be a lesson every minute these days. If she could be affected by creatures in the psychic realm, like the dragon or this formless, dark creature, then she could affect them too. Maybe she could tear them apart like Nicholas did. She had to remember that, in case it ever became necessary.

Then she sensed something in the distance behind her, something so strange and wrong she stumbled over a tree root and would have shot a sock while it was still on her foot if she hadn’t kept the gun on safety.

She stopped, turned and scented the air like a bloodhound. Her kestrel flew around her, dive-bombing her head as it tried to shepherd her into moving in the right direction. She ignored it.

A massive black mass teemed and buzzed in the distance. She fumbled with her rediscovered abilities. She had none of Michael’s prowess. She swiped at her sweating forehead as if it would help her to see, but the mass wasn’t a physical one. It existed in the psychic realm, like the dragon or the dark creature, and it seemed to be coming from the direction of the gravel road.

What could it be?

She longed to be with Michael, or to at least feel able to contact him telepathically. But she didn’t dare to interrupt him a second time.

What IS that? she whispered to Nicholas.

That is a lot of creatures like the one I just killed, he said. He sounded grim. Thousands of them. Come on. We’ve got to go.

At a loss for anything else she could sensibly do, she turned to start running again after the ghost.

Behind her, the black cloud reached critical mass. It shot toward the cabin.

She jerked to a halt, made a noise and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth. If that many creatures attacked Michael, could they do any damage? He was whole and strong, and he shone like a tower in the backdrop of the psychic realm.

But according to Nicholas, if he were injured, those creatures could feed on him. That would weaken him further and expose him to greater injury, which would then in turn make him more vulnerable to their attack. Sometimes battles were not won in any dramatic, decisive move, but through the force of sheer numbers grinding the opposition into dust.

“Do as you’re told,” she whispered. Her voice was a ragged mess, but she was so scared and lonesome she said it out loud just to hear the sound of someone’s voice. “Don’t do something stupid. Don’t be a TV heroine and go in the basement where you know the vampires are.”