Karsten Knight - Afterglow

For a moment, given the way he was staring into the embers crackling out of the furnace, Ash thought that her little speech had done the trick, that Modo would cave and come with her. This oblivious engineering student somehow factored into Colt’s dark vendetta. If she could keep Modo out of Colt’s hands, maybe she could prevent the trickster from putting Pele back together.

But Modo had other plans. He scooped up his sword, which was still glowing, limped across the tent, and submerged it in a trough of water. With a hiss, a thick curtain of steam billowed out of the trough as the sword rapidly cooled. “I have a choreographed duel to get to,” he said, withdrawing the wet blade. “At least the cripple gets to be the hero—the audience loves cheering for the underdog.” He waved his sword at her and turned his back as he hobbled out of the tent.

“Shit,” Ash muttered. She’d gone the straight-up honesty route, and now Modo thought she was a total psycho. She would have probably had better luck luring him away from the Renaissance fair by seducing him, then springing the whole “surprise—you’re the reincarnation of a Greek god” concept on him.

She dropped onto the footstool next to the trough and sighed. And to think most men would be flattered to be called a Greek god.

She was stirring her finger in the trough, letting it burn hot and creating her own veil of mist, when she saw something that made her blood run cold, so cold that the flame on her finger instantly extinguished.

Through the wall of steam, shimmering like a desert mirage, a figure in a medieval cloak was jostling her way through the crowd. Ash might have just written her off as another costumed fairgoer had she not spotted the telltale jeans sticking out from under the knee-length cloak. And when she turned at just the right angle, Ash was able to see beneath the hood.

It was Eve, in the flesh.

The desire to punish Eve for her treachery urged Ash to leap over the trough and tackle her sister, but she stopped herself. So far Colt and Eve had no way of knowing Ash had followed them to Massachusetts. To reveal herself now would be to piss away any advantage of surprise she currently had. She hesitated just long enough that Eve disappeared into the milling crowd.

Well, two could play the chameleon game. Ash grabbed Modo’s hooded brown cloak that was hanging from the roof and wrapped it around her shoulders. It was big on her, but that could prove useful, since it was long enough to cover her jeans. She popped up the hood and slipped into the marketplace.

The fairgoers were gathering in the outdoor amphitheater for the six o’clock sword-fighting demonstration. Eve had somehow stealthily blended in with the audience, and Ash was having a difficult time finding her again—the Wilde girls were on the shorter side, and the upcoming duel had drawn a brood of taller teenage boys. It was like trying to spot a shrub in a copse of redwoods.

Already the show was beginning. From what Ash could see between heads, a burly boy wearing lightweight armor and a red dragon crest had given Modo a rough shove across the stage. He leveled his finger at Modo. “You dare to block the path of the king’s guard?”

Modo, who had rather ungracefully regained his footing, leaned on his sword like a crutch. “You? You’re one of the king’s knights?” He turned to address the audience. “It’s so generous of King Edward to give his court jesters the opportunity for advancement.”

The crowd rumbled with laughter. Meanwhile Ash elbowed her way closer to the stage. Still no sign of Eve.

The knight drew his sword. “Step aside, knave, or I shall skewer you like a swine upon a spit.”

“Skewer me like a swine?” Modo echoed. “So you’re a knight, a jester, and the king’s cook. A true Renaissance man.” He turned to the audience again. “Apparently good servants are exceptionally hard to come by these days. And to think with all that money the king spent on wanted posters for Robin Hood, he could have invested in a help-wanted ad.”

More laughter from the audience. At this point Ash pushed her way through the last of the spectators to reach the front of the stage. She scanned the crowd for Eve, but with so many people in medieval garb Eve’s cloak had effectively camouflaged her in the sea of browns and blacks.

“Your retorts are as lame as your foot, blacksmith,” the knight said.

“And your face bears striking resemblance to a lady I frequent at the brothel,” Modo replied. “What was your mother’s name again?”

This time the crowd stepped forward to cheer on Modo, and as they pushed closer to the stage, the river of people parted just at the right time for Ash to spot Eve’s cloak. The weather goddess wasn’t watching the duel.

She had her face angled to the sky.

This wasn’t good.

The knight leveled his sword at Modo, and two identically dressed swordsmen joined him on stage. “I’ll give you one last chance to move aside before we cut you up and feed your remains to the king’s pet pig.”

“Pet pig? You mean the queen?” As the audience roared once more, Modo lifted his sword and brandished it at the three men. “In the words of a good wizard friend of mine: You shall not pass.”

The cheers were deafening as the fairgoers prepared for the fight—the three knights had fanned out in a circle around Modo. But the cheering spectators were missing the little details that Ash was beginning to observe.

The way the air pressure around the amphitheater was rapidly plummeting.

The clicking in their ears.

The point of light gathering at the tip of Modo’s sword.

The way his matted hair was slowly beginning to rise off his head from the static electricity.

Ash vaulted up onto the stage to the surprise of both the spectators and the nearest knight. Modo, however, was oblivious, with his back to Eve and his weapon raised, ready to strike the incoming swordsman.

Ash knocked aside one of the king’s guards and tackled Modo around the waist, right as the clouds overhead crackled. She hit him just hard enough that he relinquished his tight hold on the prop sword and it went sailing into the air.

It didn’t even land before the lightning snaked down from the sky and, in a blinding flash, zapped the makeshift lightning rod.

The lightning strike was about as loud as a high-speed car crash. The stage itself quaked where the lightning continued right through the sword and pounded an electrical fist into the wooden floorboards. Screams broke out in the audience, but even the shrieks couldn’t drown out the ringing that had erupted in Ash’s ears.

Ash could feel Modo—who was still crushed beneath her—staring at her in shock, but she had already locked eyes with her sister through the crowd. Eve had her hand outstretched and looked momentarily taken aback to see Ash protecting her target. Once the shock wore off, however, Eve seemed to be considering whether or not to send another bolt of lightning through the crowd to kill Modo . . . even if it had to pass through Ash first. Ash held out her own hand in warning. Even Eve wasn’t immune to a fireball to the face.

The clouds overhead gave way to a monstrous typhoon. The sudden downpour was enough to send the spectators running for shelter. Ash shook her head. So the crowd had just stood there gawking when a lightning bolt nearly fried them all, but they fled for their lives as soon as it rained. Common sense at its best.

As soon as Ash had helped Modo to his feet, she stepped between him and Eve, who was sauntering unhurriedly toward the stage. “There are two of you?” Modo asked, his voice cracking.

“Remember that time I told you that there were evil gods after you,” Ash snapped over her shoulder, “and that you needed to come with me . . . and you decided to have a fake sword fight in a public place instead?”