Anthony Francis - Blood Rock

“ Fuck that,” Tully said. “We can’t take that thing on.”

“That thing is a vampire,” I said. “A cartoon of one, spirit of one, essence of one. I don’t care. It feeds on the life force of the living. And we’ve just let it in. We need to stop it here, or the bodycount will make the tagger’s vampire genocide look like a pretty little utopia.”

“How the hell are we going to do that?” Tully said. “I never saw anything like that, and from the looks on your face neither have you.”

I glanced over the wall, then ducked back down at another intestine-churning roar swept over us. We hunched down from the fire, and I concentrated on what I saw. Whatever was coming through wasn’t yet physical: it was still a construct, a projectia like Zipperface.

“God help us if we see the source for that self-portrait,” I said, “but for now, it is just a portrait. Whatever that thing really is, it’s on its side of the door, what we’re dealing with right now is a projectia. A construct obeying the rules of magic, of graphomancy.”

“How does that help us?” Cinnamon asked.

“You have to do it, Cinnamon,” I said. “ You have to break the circuit.”

“Me!” she said. “I’m not a graphomancer.”

“Cinnamon, you’re a genius,” I said. “You’re the smartest mathematician I ever met.”

“Fuck! How does that help us?” she asked.

“Magic is mystical, magic is special, magic can break the walls of space open and let the bad ones in-but the logic of magic is just math, ” I said. “You studied tattoo magic under the Marquis and graffiti magic under the Streetscribe. If anyone can find a weakness, it’s you.”

Cinnamon stared down at her hands. Then she pulled out the soaked copy of the tagger’s blackbook from her back pocket and began carefully flipping through its damp pages.

“You knows,” Cinnamon said, “I listens to more books than anyone. Reading’s like slogging through someone’s garbage. Listening’s like, hahhh, like they’re talking to you.”

“That’s… nice, Cinnamon,” I said; the flames had paused for the moment, but there was a slow crackling, splintering sound rippling through the cavern. “But how-”

“I got to talk to Marcus Aurelius,” she said. “Emperor of Rome, and he gots the same problems in court I gots in the lunchroom. I wants to reach out and hug him, but he’s gone, two thousand years, eleven twos standing up, more or less, and all I gots left of him is one little bit of his soul, talking to me, telling me everything is all right. But it isn’t the listening that puts me in touch with him; that just makes it easier. It’s the book. Books holds bits of people’s souls.”

We just stared at her, as she stared down at the tagger’s notebook.

“The tagger isn’t gone,” Cinnamon said. “We gots one little piece of him left.” She looked up at us. “We gots to destroy the blackbook.”

“Easy said, easy done,” Tully said, reaching forward, but Cinnamon hissed.

“For the love, go slow,” she said, jerking it away. “There’s a plan.”

The whole cavern shook, another deep cracking sound echoed above us, and a giant chunk of masonry fell, splattering water and debris a dozen yards out into the pool. “For the love, hurry,” I said. “Sounds like it’s breaking loose from the wall. We don’t have much time.”

“Shreddin’ it won’t do it,” she said. “And we can’t really use its magic against the tag-he’s gone beyond the blackbook and the tag’s loose anyways. But the tag is all his ideas-and his book is filled with his ideas. One can link to the other, like sympathetic magic.” And then she stared right at me. “Mom, you’re gonna need to short out that link.”

She explained her plan, and I nodded grimly. This was not going to be pleasant, but the hot flashes of the tagger’s fire had resumed, hotter now, and it was clear we had no more time.

Cinnamon explained the designs to me as Tully tore out rebar from the piled masonry; then we divvied up Tully’s remaining markers. They took the spray cans; I took the oil chalk-just two, one to draw and a spare in case the first broke. Hopefully I would need only one.

I reached up against the triangle of the wall and began drawing a row of unicursals, little hexagrams with X’s through their centers that began sparking magic almost as soon as I finished them, shorting out the creeping graffiti flames and leaving me room to work on the big design.

“Ready?” I said, as Cinnamon muttered to herself and Tully tensed.

Then the flames died, Cinnamon said, “It will work,” and we moved.

I leapt up atop the pile of debris and screamed “Hey asshole!” The shapeless thing on the wall screamed and shot out a barbed tongue that cracked against the pavement just as I leapt back behind my triangular shield of stone. Then another gout of flame ripped past its edges.

I was now alone behind the shield. Good. Cinnamon and Tully dove into the water in opposite directions when I leapt, and by now were each halfway to shore. I pulled out the oil chalk- God, I loved the tagger’s materials. This was going to be so much easier than the way I’d marked magic circles before-and began drawing on the rough surface of the brick.

The geometry of magic at first seems simple. The circle I drew would act as a shield, keeping the magic of the flames off me for a few crucial moments. The five pentacles Cinnamon and Tully would spray would act as receivers, drawing more magic away.

I began drawing the next arcs. Combining symbols is where simple turns deceptive. A circle around a pentacle acts like an insulator, shielding it from our world, turning it into a receiver for good and evil spirits from other planes. But draw the circle a shade smaller, so its circumference touches the tips of the pentacle, and you’ve created a magical diode that lets mana pass through only one way. The circle still protects whatever is inside it from your magic, but the intersecting points enable it to project its magic out upon you. And so the careers of your wannabe demonologists often end before they ever begin.

But I wasn’t drawing a pentacle inside my circle. I was drawing a unicursal hexagram, a Star of David with the two horizontal lines crossed. It was a magical short circuit, a receiver that lets magic flow freely out of its center. The centers of the tiny versions I’d drawn to short out the graffiti flames creeping over the rock were going off like sparklers. With all the mana in this cavern, stepping to the center of my big unicursal would be suicide.

A tremendous crash shook the vault, and I saw dust and water splash up from the impact of a foul, twisted hand that had torn free from the painting and slammed into the floor. The gripping mass of white, wrinkled flesh was bigger than the body of an elephant, attached to an arm thicker than ten trees; but there the resemblance to any plant or animal I knew ended.

Arteries of neon and veins of mercury surged through flaccid, fungal flesh. Muscles bulged in frantic lumps like boiling water. A skin like tattered canvas frayed and reknitted as I watched. Jagged edges of its skeleton were briefly visible, more like thorny vines than bones. The great nasty thing surged forward in waves, pulling and stretching, ripping and reforming, tearing itself out of the painting, piece by painful piece.

The monster screamed, rattling my teeth, and I briefly wondered what kind of thing it was. What kind of thing the Streetscribe had drawn on. What kind of thing led him to build magic that collected the intents of tortured people, trapped and struggling to get free. Concentrated intents that it could use… for what? Perhaps, to break free itself?

Whatever it was, we had to stop it.

A gout of fire leapt through the air at the far wall, and I saw Cinnamon leap out of range of the flames, a high curving arc, tail flickering. Snapping tentacles whipped at her, but she dodged and dodged, ducking behind a pillar as another blast of flame swept over the area.