Cat Adams - To Dance with the Devil

Thomas scowled at me but didn’t move. I hadn’t expected him to like it. But if it was really him, he was professional enough to respect the necessity. If it wasn’t, well, I’d know in a minute.

I stepped forward, intending to spray a drop or two onto his palm. When I did, he lunged at me. “Damn you, Graves.” Connor Finn’s voice came from Roger Thomas’s lips as he drew his Ruger. Fuck, Connor Finn was dead, all right, and now he was a ghost. Had to be. And he’d taken over the nearest channeler. He didn’t have time to aim as I closed the distance between us and chopped down on his right forearm with my left hand as I fired holy water into his eyes with my right. The gun fired as his forearm broke; the bullet went wild.

He screamed in pain and rage, his right arm now practically useless. The water hadn’t burned him, but he’d pulled back reflexively anyway, giving me the opening I needed. I dropped the little water pistol and slugged him hard in the jaw, sending him staggering backward.

Chris drew his gun. Bubba moved behind Thomas, putting him in a classic choke hold, cutting off his oxygen. Thomas’s face turned red, then purple, as he struggled to loosen the muscular arms that held him, bucking and struggling, trying to get air. I knew he’d lose consciousness any second. I was glad. I didn’t want him dead. Thomas wasn’t the problem; Finn was. I was about to explain that to them when Talia screamed and I felt warm blood splatter down on me like rain.

I looked up as she rolled off the roof into the truck bed, screaming obscenities. Her right shoulder was a red ruin. As Bubba used his belt to tie Thomas up, Chris climbed onto the truck bed and began giving Talia emergency medical attention. I scrambled up behind him, heading for Talia’s previous position.

To the left, where the wall had been breached, I heard screams and heavy fire. The enemy had arrived.

There was no time to wait for Bubba or anyone else. It would have to be me. I took Talia’s place behind the rifle. Ignoring the noise and chaos boiling around me, I set my eye to the lens of the scope.

What I saw was astonishing, awe-inspiring, an image that I would take to my grave. The destructive power of the enemy mages had grown, and they were using it to create a force of pure devastation that would wipe out anything and everything in its path, our small resistance band and their own troops as well. It looked like a tornado made of fire. Flames flickered up from the base, forming a long, narrow rope of orange and red that threaded up the center of a whirlwind of gray and black smoke and fury. Through the lens I could see individual flickering flames. I said a quick prayer as, taking a deep breath, I adjusted my aim downward, looking for that small pinpoint of light beneath the flames and whirling smoke. There it was, their vosta, a ruby as big as my two closed fists. I focused on the faceted red stone. With a small, silent prayer that my instincts were right, that this was the best true target, I tightened my finger on the trigger.

The rifle kicked painfully into my shoulder.

I looked into the distance, ignoring the chaos that boiled around me.

There was the briefest of pauses—perhaps the space of a heartbeat—then an explosion. The stone, unable to withstand the impact of the bullet after being weakened by the titanic magics forced into it, shattered, sending a shock wave outward. The fiery tornado was blown out like a giant birthday candle. The ground lurched sickeningly beneath me, as the power behind me expanded without resistance, flowing over me in a burning wave. I closed my eyes against both pain and nausea, bracing myself as my body reacted to the conflicting magical powers. Pure energy swept outward from the enemy encampment, flattening everything outside our walls, squashing the enemy army like so many roaches before burning their bodies to dust in an instant. The power hit the sandbags with hurricane force, the ground itself rocking from an earthquake that probably scored high on the Richter scale. The truck I lay in bucked enough to drop me into the bed.

When the powers met in the air above me, there was a sound like the chime of a huge bell. I opened my eyes, turning to see the pure blue-white light change to a vivid neon purple that shone more brightly than the noonday sun. People dropped to the ground, burying their faces in their hands, turning away from the light. I tried to use my forearm to shield my eyes, but I cared too much about the people in that circle to turn away. My four mages were tiny black specks against the painful brightness. As I watched, three of them fell to their knees. The hood of the standing figure’s cloak was thrown back by eldritch winds, revealing Isabella’s face as she shrieked the final words of the spell. Power poured into and back out through her, rebuilding the Needle’s defenses, renewing them, making them more powerful than they’d ever been. The pain of the magic ripped across my skin and I screamed, writhing in agony, for an endless instant until the world went dark.

I forced my eyes open to find Bubba kneeling next to me. He looked a little worse for wear; one arm was strapped to his body and he was covered with dirt and scratches, but he was alive. There was something weird about his eyes. They were blue—really, really blue, like lasers or the light sabers in that old sci-fi movie. His eyes hadn’t been that color before. Had they?

“Graves, you’re back.”

“Jeez,” I wheezed, “can’t a girl even take a nap without everyone getting spooked?”

It was a weak joke, but he gave a snort of laughter anyway, settling himself cross-legged onto the ground beside me as I sat up. Chris dropped a blanket over me and handed me a bottle of water. The blanket was rough wool and army green. Looking around I saw a lot more people milling about than had been there when I’d passed out. Most of them were in uniform.

“Drink this. Stay warm. I’ve got other people with worse injuries to tend to, but shock is tricky. Bubba, keep an eye on her.”

Bubba nodded his assent. When Chris walked off to his next patient, Bubba turned to me. “Before you ask, they’re National Guard. The governor sent in a unit at the archbishop’s request. There’s a group of militant priests here, too, working to banish the thing in the middle of the battlefield. The guard’s pretty much taken things over. Bruno’s fine. So’re John and Matty. Mrs. DeLuca is alive, but every hair on her body is white, even her eyelashes. And she’s blind. Chris bandaged her eyes, but I’m pretty sure it’s permanent.”

I was pretty sure it would be, too. She’d been a conduit for too much powerful magic. She was lucky to have lived. I figured she probably knew that. She’d been prepared to die. Blindness would be hard, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But it was better than dying.

So was being a werewolf.

Apparently it was a night for tough choices and compromise.

“What’s up with your eyes?”

“The magic did it. Everyone the magic hit has blue eyes. You do, too.”

Really? Wow. How weird. No matter how much I learn about magic, I’m always startled by the odd, esoteric stuff that gets left out of the textbooks.

“I have blue eyes now?” I knew he’d just said that, but I seemed to be a little slow on the uptake. Besides, I’d wanted blue eyes like Ivy’s since I was a little kid.

He nodded.

“Don’t suppose you have a mirror?”

“Nope, sorry.”

Oh, well, I could wait to see my face. At least the color change didn’t seem to have affected my vision. I could see the bustle of cleanup activity easily thanks to the full moon and the huge fluorescent lights mounted atop four big National Guard equipment trucks.