I gritted my teeth and kept firing, scurrying backward like a crab to present a moving target, until my back hit a tree and my bullets gave out. I managed to pop out the spent clip but reloading was a problem with my left arm now useless, like a dead limb attached to my body. The mages realized that and grinned, watching me fumble one-handed in the coat’s many pockets, trying to find another clip.
It was obviously useless—even if I came up with one, they would kill me before I could slam it home—but I kept up the comedy routine anyway. I’d thought it might give Pritkin a chance to get away. Only that didn’t seem to be what he was doing.
He’d already dealt with the guy who’d jumped him—at least that’s who I assumed was sprawled on the forest floor, his head at a very unhealthy angle. Now he sprang forward and grabbed one of the mages in front of me, clamping a hand tight over his nose and mouth to prevent any sound escaping. One quick, hard twist and the mage jerked and went still. Pritkin went still, too, clutching the guy to his body. He waited until the mages dropped their shields in preparation for finishing me off. Then he reached around and lifted the man’s gun.
He killed two of our attackers before the third had even whirled around. But the mage got a gun up and his shots bit into the dead guy Pritkin was holding with meaty-sounding thuds—right before he was taken out with a shot to the head. But that took Pritkin’s last bullet, and a mage who had been smart enough to hold back, waiting in the shadow of the trees, stepped out and got him in a headlock he wasn’t strong enough to break.
My gun was still empty and I wasn’t likely to be much good in a fight one-handed. The only advantage I had was the fact that what I was doing was so stupid, no one would expect it. So I went with that, screaming and leaping onto the back of the mage trying to asphyxiate my partner.
“Don’t kill him,” Pritkin gasped as the mage backed me into a tree, slamming me against the trunk and sending a flare of agony up my injured arm. My gut twisted and I felt the edges of my vision go gray. It loosened my hold enough for him to get his hands around my arms and throw me over his head right into another tree.
“No problem,” I croaked, sliding down the trunk.
I heard a commotion but was too busy getting my limbs sorted out, most of which were over my head, to follow it. I looked up to see Pritkin kneeling in the leaves, looking tiny next to the mage draped over him. The man’s head rested against my chest, his body sprawled limp and warm over my thighs, his tangled hair wet with blood. His eyes were open.
There was an excited flutter in the treetops, and before I could move, a swarm of unearthly things dropped out of the sky. I realized what I’d seen from a distance earlier, when Pritkin had killed Adidas. Because this time, I had a front-row seat.
Wrong-colored things descended in a fluttering, clawing mass, dozens on each corpse. A creature on the body nearest me brushed a clawlike hand down its cheek softly, gently, almost like a lover’s caress, and a ghostly mirror of the dead man’s face emerged. The new ghost slowly sat up, dazed and blinking, detaching from its body in a shimmer of silver light.
My eyes focused on it thankfully, able to see it even in Pritkin’s body because of my clairvoyant abilities. Soft and hazy, still indistinct as all ghosts were at first, it rose to its knees—or what it was still probably thinking of as its knees—and then to its feet. The creatures rustled and jostled each other as the spirit stood there before them, naked and defenseless without its body.
I’d seen thousands of ghosts before, but never at their birth, so to speak. The ones I stumbled across had had time to learn the ropes, to decide how they wished to appear to others. And to figure out that the confines of their new home—their graveyard or house or whatever they were haunting—served as their new body, in a way. It energized them, protected them, allowed them a small measure of freedom. Because without it, they were like these spirits, columns of pure energy exposed and vulnerable with their former protective shells crumpled at their feet.
But these ghosts never had time to find their way home. The pack edged closer, flickering in and out of sight. Slick with sweat, I froze in the darkness, muscles locked and singing with strain as icy panic gnawed at my spine. I knew what was coming. It was in the silent, mesmerizing smiles that lit the not-faces, in the half-starved hands that reached out to pluck at the spirit’s form, at the naked want in alien eyes . . .
I watched, sickened, as the new ghosts managed to focus their senses on the approaching tide, as their faces changed and they opened their mouths to scream. And then the demons attacked. It
was
like a pack of vultures, I thought, horrified, as they tore into the ghosts with things my brain insisted on calling claws and beaks, although that wasn’t right.
The demons ripped into the beautiful, shining souls, biting and slashing, tearing them to shreds in a matter of moments. Each demon crouched low over its bit of soul protectively, almost lovingly, as the rendered spirits shrieked and wept and sent hopeless cries into the deaf night. Even as the things finished their meal and started, one by one, to wink out of sight, the terrified, butchered souls cried on.
The forest rang with their silent cries, the darkness shone with their reflected light for a moment longer, and then all was silence. It was like a door had slammed shut. Leaving us alone with a bunch of rapidly cooling corpses.
I scrambled to my feet and half ran, half stumbled to where Pritkin sat in the wet grass. “Are you hurt?” My voice rasped in my throat because of course he was, he had to be.
He lifted a hand red with blood. It mingled with the rain, dripping off his fingertips to the muddy ground. “It’s not mine,” he said, which would have been more reassuring if he hadn’t slurred his words.
“Would someone please tell me what is going on here?” The farmer’s voice came from over my shoulder.
“Some assholes jumped us; what does it look like?” I snapped, holding on to Pritkin with trembling hands. Damn it, now we had a norm to deal with, on top of everything else. My head was pounding and my eyes were still full of the carnage I had unwillingly witnessed. I didn’t need this, too. I looked down at Pritkin, who appeared a little woozy. “Can you put him under a memory charm or something?”
“No,” he said, struggling to stand up.
“They are a bit tricky with mages,” the farmer added helpfully.
I rounded on the man—the mage—furious. “Would it have hurt you to sling a spell or two? Or have you forgotten how?”
“I think I remember a few,” he said, looking amused. “But you seemed to be doing well enough on your own.” I stared at him, shocked and amazed at his careless tone, until I realized that he hadn’t seen that last part with the ghosts. His human eyes had been mercifully blind.
He switched that owl-eyed gaze from me to Pritkin. “Well, well. You do manage to get yourself into some interesting situations. Don’t you, John?”
I looked back and forth between the two of them. “You know each other?”
Pritkin sighed, running a hand through my filthy curls. “Cassie, meet Jonas Marsden.”
“Marsden? That sounds familiar.”
“It should. Until about a year ago, he led the Silver Circle.”
On closer inspection, the former head of the Silver Circle didn’t look much like a farmer. Of course, he didn’t look much like a renowned war mage, either. His clothes were normal, if boring—an old oatmeal sweater with suede patches at the elbows, a blue plaid shirt and brown slacks. But he’d have stood out in any crowd because of the hair.
It was even worse than Pritkin’s, although in a totally new way. It would have been almost shoulder length if it hadn’t insisted on floating away from his face as though trying to escape his head. He had static electricity hair when there was no static. But at least it was a nice shade—silver white instead of salt and pepper. And his eyes were very blue behind the thick glasses.
We followed him to a two-story farmhouse. It had walls of jumbled gray stone in all shapes and sizes and no discernable pattern all held together by a weathered slate roof. It sat on a hill overlooking the forest on one side and a river on the other. It looked pretty normal except that it listed faintly to the left, like it was trying to escape the garden that had gone wild and appeared to be trying to eat it. A third of it had already disappeared under massive old vines. It was charming, in a run-down, overgrown, slightly quirky way—except for the pentacle smoking on the front door, its thick lines bubbling dark and angry against the fresh green paint.
“You had visitors,” Pritkin said, dripping onto the
Cave Canem
doormat.
“Will they be back?” I looked around nervously, unable to tell if anyone was sneaking up on us due to the aggressive flora.
“If they do, they won’t get in,” Marsden said cheerfully. “Renewed the wards myself last week. That’s my blood under the last coat of paint.”
I didn’t find that statement as soothing as he apparently intended but was too tired and wet and freaked out to make an issue of it. I bumped the door frame walking in, adding another bruise to Pritkin’s already impressive collection. His shoulders were broad and I hadn’t yet adjusted to the way this body moved or took up space.
Even more annoying were the sensations caused by his body starting to mend itself. He usually healed almost as fast as a vamp, but he’d lost a lot of blood in the fight and it seemed to be slowing the process down. All along my left arm were weird crawling sensations—pins, needles, knives,
hot
—like something was moving under there. I’d loosened the makeshift tourniquet on the way back, but it hadn’t seemed to help. I had my arms crossed to keep from clawing at his skin.
Marsden led us to the kitchen, which was huge, but its exposed wooden beams, bright saffron paint and log fireplace made it seem cozy. It also had a dog. It didn’t help so much with the cozy.
It was large and shaggy and gray and it drooled a lot—a fact that was much less disturbing than its coal-red eyes. “What’s wrong with it?” I asked Pritkin quietly while Marsden puttered around, brewing things.
Pritkin paused to regard the dog-shaped creature under the window for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed and he looked at Marsden accusingly. “Jonas! What did you do?”
Marsden turned, coffeepot in hand, and followed Pritkin’s gaze. He looked a little guilty. “Well, I didn’t have much choice, did I? They forced me to destroy his other form.”
“You were supposed to release him!”
“After all the trouble I had trapping him in the first place?” Marsden snorted. “Not likely.”
“Trapping what?” I eyed the dog warily.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” Marsden said, placing a mug in front of me. “Have some coffee.” I took a sip and had to work not to choke. Marsden’s concoction could beat up espresso and take its lunch money. He noticed my reaction. “Is something wrong?”
I scrubbed at my chin, and beard stubble rasped under my fingers. I yanked my hand away. “I’d really prefer tea,” I managed to say.
“Now I know you aren’t John,” he commented, but he bustled off to plug in a WWII-era kettle.
I watched the dog mangle a rawhide chew bone, half of which had already dissolved into soggy mush, and I could have sworn I saw something pass behind those eyes. Something that looked awfully familiar. I got up so fast, I turned over my chair.
“There’s one of those things in there!” I told Pritkin, stumbling back against the fridge.
“What things?” Marsden looked intrigued.
“Rakshasas,” Pritkin said, glancing at me. “And it isn’t one, although it would be less dangerous if it were. Rakshasas can’t hurt the living. They’re scavengers, looking for an easy meal. They’re drawn to murders, battlefields, places where violence is about to happen. They feast on the dead.”
I sorted through that and picked out the relative bit. “You’re saying there
is
a demon in there and it
can
hurt us?”
“Oh, no, no. He’s perfectly harmless.” Marsden patted my arm. “He was my golem for years. But when I ‘retired,’ the Council forced me to give him up. Said I wasn’t a war mage any longer, and civilians aren’t allowed to have them. Can you imagine? I led the Circle for almost sixty years, but I can’t be trusted to keep one pesky demon in thrall!”
“So you put it in the
dog
?” Pritkin demanded.
“Temporarily, until I get a few things sorted. It seems to be working out all right. Orion has started piddling on the rug, but that could be his age.”
“You have a devil dog?” I sat down again but moved my chair a little farther away. The dog chewed on, oblivious.
“Demon,” Marsden corrected. “War mages are allowed to trap certain of the incorporeal demon races as our servants. Very useful in combat, although ticklish to acquire in the first place. Poor Parsons,” he added, and Pritkin winced.
“Who is Parsons?” I asked, deciding to just go with it.
“Who
was
Parsons. He wanted to trap a demon, you see, but he’d barely passed the trials. I told him he might want to give it a while, find his legs, so to speak, but he was having none of it. All the leading mages had golems—it was seen as a mark of prestige at the time—and he wouldn’t rest until he’d acquired one, too.”
“Did he?”
Marsden sighed. “Well . . . in essence . . . no. You see, when you summon a demon, there are several possible outcomes—”
“He didn’t trap the demon,” Pritkin said roughly. “It trapped him.”
He and I looked at each other, hollow and blank and grave. I wasn’t sure how much he’d been able to see of the demon attack through my eyes, but apparently, it had been enough. Or maybe he was just remembering similar scenes. And I’d thought I saw bad stuff. I couldn’t imagine living with that kind of double vision all the time.
Marsden was looking thoughtful. “Do you know, I wonder if Parsons’ disappearance had anything to do with the practice of golem-making falling out of fashion? You don’t see that many with the younger sort, do you?”