Steven Montano - Crown of Ash

“You are a remarkable creature,” he smiled.

“Yeah. I get that a lot. So…” She lit another cigarillo. God, I do n’t need to get hooked on these again. “Since clearly you’re just dying to tell me…w hat’s the event?”

“A race.”

“Oh, goody,” she said. “Chickens?”

“ Automobiles,” he smiled.

“Oh. G oody.”

Blacksand’s racing arena was a tall and columnar structure made of red steel and dark stone. T he stadium seats were arranged at such a steep angle Danica felt sure she’d tumble out of the stands and back down to the central racing pit if she didn’t step careful ly. Spectators packed the complex. They were ruddy-face d and sweaty-palmed drifters, merchants and runaway soldiers. People desperately clutched cash and coins in their dirt-caked hands, and t heir faces were dank with sweat and industrial oil.

F ueling pits billowed thick plumes of gritty steam. Exhaust and heat turned the air hazy and thick. The arena hummed and vibrated.

Danica, Vago and his bodyguards were seated on the uppermost balcony of the stadium seats, a semi-private box that hung precariously out into open air. Danica felt the sting of salt wind and saw churning clouds in the distance.

The height at which they sat was truly dizzying. H ard winds came in from the sea and shook the structure. The seats were made of hard metal and covered with loose red blankets and imitation wool that smelled like goats. Black didn’t want to use her spirit to shield her self from the cold, so she pulled her armored coat tight and did her best to ignore it.

“I don’t like being this exposed,” she said to Vago. The box was separated from the nearest seats b y metal rails, but she and Vago were plainly visible to everyone around them. “I thought the idea of hiding was to keep a low profile.”

“My dear Danica,” Vago smiled. “You must trust me. I’ve hidden people before. The best place to hide is in plain sight.”

“ It’s also the best place to go if you want to get shot in the face,” she said.

Their seats were located a good 300 feet over the race track. Black was able to make out a surprising number of details from their vantage, like the fact that human skulls bordered the road and that the names of prominent dead racers had been carved or slashed into the concrete.

The growl of revving engines shook the arena. Massive vehicles crafted from black steel and magically hardened bone drove up to the starting line. Tail pipes spat spectral-laced smoke. The vehicles sported a rmor plate, gigantic ram blades and massive chain-wrapped wheels. Drivers buried beneath thick leather and iron helmets looked up and salute d the crowd, which had worked itself to frenzy. Money exchanged hands as bets were placed. People rushed to their seats.

Danica and her spirit felt more tension in the air than excitement. The spectators expected someone to die, and based on what Black saw that was exactly what they were going to get.

The racers were all highly stylize d showmen with bizarre costumes, bull horn helmets and purple and black face-paint, fetishist leather zipper masks or flamboyant gladiator steel. One racer was dressed up like a psychotic clown with fangs, and he had blood on his button nose and his oversized lips; another was dressed like a dystopian vampire opera singer, complete with a top-hat and a cane carved out of bone. Their cars were grungy and dark, covered in blood and oil and armed to the teeth with blades and melee weapons (no projectiles were allowed, as the risk of injuring the crowd was too great). M any of the vehicles bore logos and stylized designs like leering faces or skull-and- crossbones or scantily clad women with bat’s wings.

An announcer came over the crackling intercom and announced each racer and his vehicle. Barely dressed showgirls smiled and waved at the crowd as they marched across the arena floor with excessive banners.

Danica found the entire scene preposterous. It reminded her of the death races they’d held at Black Scar, only this event was jovial, and someone might actually survive.

A blaring horn s ounded, and the race began.

A dune-buggy equipped with blade d ram plate s quickly took the lead as it knocked a retrofitted Trans Am into the wall. A thick red truck so loaded down with armor it was a wonder it could even move bullied its way into the middle of the pack, followed closely by an El Camino with saw blades in its grill.

While she watched the race from their dizzying perch, Danica noticed that others were watching her, merchants and black marketers, mercenaries and drug dealers, all associates of Vago’s who were clearly impressed by the “date” he ’d brought to the races.

I’m surprised he didn’t ask me to wear a cocktail dress, she thought bitterly.

Crashes sounded up from the arena and shook the narrow stadium. The crowd roared as the El Camino skid, fishtailed and spun into a massive spike in the wall. The vehicle ripped apart in a shower of steel and blood.

Danica looked up. Something was wrong. She wasn’t sure what, but she sensed something, some presence at the periphery of her vision.

The crowd roared. Another crash sounded down below. Three of the nine cars had already wrecked.

She smelled acid in the wind. Danica felt off- balance as the chaos of motion and sound twisted around her. Normally she ’d have used her spirit to fight off th e feeling, but she didn’t dare, not with how exposed they were.

God damn it, Vago, it’s like you want me to get caught.

That thought didn’t settle well with her. She was already suspicious of their so-ca lled “host”, and s he wouldn’t have put it past him to arrange her capture, so long as he saw a profit in the deal.

Her spirit burn ed against her skin. H e ’d detected something, some danger, and he wasn’t about to sit idly by while it got closer.

Danica hadn’t actually seen anything except for a shimmer in the air, a faint disturbance, like a shadow had pass ed in front of the sun. W hatever it was, it was gone now, lost in the cacophony of shouts and coins. People held their drinks high as another vehicle was demolished in a blast of red fire and black smoke.

Her spirit wrapped around her. If there were any Revengers nearby they’d detect her in seconds, but at that moment she didn’t care.

S omething had already found her.

M etal rip ped open the air. S omething oozed through the wound in the atmosphere and seeped through like sick honey.

Danica sent h er spirit into the crowd to find out what the intruder was. I t s presence filled her with dread. She felt like she’d stepped through a cold waterfall.

S he drew a katar and wrapped it with vitriolic energy. Danica felt eyes on her. Vago shout ed at her to sit down. H is bodyguards step ped close, but she shot them a look that made them back off.

Her spirit’s vision broke things down to their baser elements. Danica looked through a lens of blood and saw through people’s skin and bones and sensed their life energy. She noted the hexed security measures in the arena, measures that hadn’t been enough to keep this creature out.

It came into view: the murderwraith. To everyone else’s eyes it was a tall human male, slightly heavyset with thick fingers and a balding pate. He wore workman’s clothes and was armed with nothing more than a racing sheet and a mug of green beer.

But through the eyes of her spirit Danica saw the alien presence for what it truly was: walking ooze, a monstrous pile of human-shaped slime and gelatin that stood some ten feet tall.

Eyes like bleeding winter narrowed as the slimy brute flew at her. The smoking wraith expanded, stre tched and fused with the clouds before it condensed into a solid fog giant. H ooked blades took shape at the ends of its cumulus appendages.