Chapter 8
Whit heard the screaming before he saw the encampment. A woman’s scream, followed by many more, from women
and
men, and the shrieks of children. His blood iced, but he spurred his exhausted horse onward. One of those screams could belong to Zora, and the thought of her in danger urged him toward greater action.
He rounded a bend in the road and instinctively pulled up on the reins in disbelief. What he beheld resembled a painting of the underworld, only this was no painting—it was real.
The Gypsy camp was being attacked. Not by angry peasants, nor men of the law. The things attacking the encampment were not
men
at all, but demons. Actual demons. Two dozen of them.
The fire revealed everything in macabre contours. Some of the demons had the forms of twisted men, their hands and feet clawed, mouths gaping, and skin the color of charred wood. Their mouths were three times normal size, running literally from ear to ear. Their eyes were inflamed and sickly, oozing opaque matter. Just as their mouths were oversized, so were their hands, with long, stretched-out fingers and sharp, iron-gray talons at the tips. The demons ran through the camp tearing apart tents and striking at terrified Gypsies.
A loud buzz grew deafening as enormous creatures swooped and darted among the panicked crowd. The things were a monstrous amalgam of wasp and bat, nimble and insectlike, yet covered with fleshy membranes over their bodies, wings, and dangling legs. Gypsy men tried to fight back the creatures using pitchforks, torches, and other makeshift weapons as many of the women huddled or attempted to flee with their children. Most everyone bore wounds, from scratches to deep, bleeding gashes.
Not all of the women tried to run or cowered in fear. Zora stood in the midst of the chaos, swinging a torch at any beast that tried to get within striking distance. A cut gleamed red on her cheek, and her clothes were grimy, but she appeared unhurt. For now. As she fought back two of the clawed demons, more gathered.
Whit’s vision narrowed to just Zora. He saw nothing else but her, imperiled. He kicked his horse forward. Just before he thundered into the encampment, he drew his saber.
The weapon was perfect for attack from horseback. Whit had practiced only on hay targets before, never actual living things. A different sensation entirely to feel muscle and flesh and bone against his blade. He resonated with a dark, primitive thrill as he slashed at the massing demons, chopping down at them without stopping his onslaught. Bodies fell heavily like rotten meat.
Not everyone in his path was an enemy. He held his hand as terrified Gypsies ran hither and yon, seeking escape. Thank God Whit trained and had honed his instincts—he was no former soldier like Bram, but he kept his body and responses sharp. A gambler ready for any eventuality.
Zora glanced up from her struggle. Her eyes widened when she caught sight of him. Fierce triumph briefly illuminated her face, but it did not last long as she struggled against an advancing demon. She swung her torch at it, and it scuttled back, yet the creature did not retreat.
Whit pushed his skittish horse forward, trying to reach her. Hot pain blazed through his shoulder as one of the enormous flying insects swooped down, and tore at him with its giant mouth. Whit swung his saber at the demon, but the cursed thing kept coming at him. His horse grew more and more panicked.
Zora shouted in anger and fear as the clawed demons pressed closer. Whit had to get to her. He could use his one shot with his pistol, but in this pandemonium he might hit an innocent, might hit Zora. If only he had some other weapon....
He
did
have another weapon.
Probability.
Drawing his pistol, Whit took aim at one of the flying demons hovering above the camp. He fought to steady his horse and calmed his racing heart. Then he delved into swirling patterns of probability. It was
his
to manipulate,
his
to control. The
geminus
said he could win only things of importance. Nothing was more important than keeping Zora safe.
He cocked the hammer. Took a breath. And pulled the trigger. Flint struck steel. The igniting powder flared, bright and white, followed immediately by the explosion in the pistol’s breech. Then a thick clot of smoke as the bullet tore from the barrel. The pistol’s report disappeared in the surrounding noises of terror.
The bullet slammed into the insect demon, hitting the creature exactly in a vulnerable space just behind its front leg. It screeched, lurched, then fell from the sky.
The wide-mouthed clawed demons closing in around Zora did not have time to jump out of the way. The winged demon’s enormous body plummeted down onto them, smashing them beneath its carcass. Zora barely missed being crushed. Instead, she stared down at the bloody, broken heap before her, stunned by her close call. Her stare traveled from the slain demons to Whit.
They locked gazes, with chaos all around them. Fierce, brutal exultation burned in him. He had taken his gift and used it not for selfish intent, as Mr. Holliday had intended, but to help another. To help Zora. Perhaps there was some good in the magic, after all.
Her gaze suddenly darted from his to something right behind him. Whit wheeled his horse about, but too late. A clawed demon leapt and dragged him from the saddle.
Whit found himself on the ground fighting off the hulking demon’s slashing talons and cavernous mouth. The thing stank of putrid flesh. Whit gritted his teeth to keep from shouting in pain as the tipped claws tore through the fabric of his coat, his shirt, to his skin beneath. Distance was needed in order to make proper use of the saber; otherwise he would do as much harm to himself as he would the demon. He struggled to push the creature back. The cursed thing did not budge, but redoubled its attack.
A blast of heat and flame above. One moment, the clawed demon slashed at him, and the next—it vanished. Whit raised himself up on his elbows to see. No, the creature had not vanished, but it was now a smoldering heap of carbon. Ash coated Whit.
He rose gingerly, searching for the source of the killing fire. Turning in the direction from which the blast had originated, he saw Zora. She held a torch in one hand. Her other hand
was engulfed in flame
. Good God, had she accidentally set fire to herself?
Whit took a step toward her as he pulled at his coat. He planned to throw the coat over her, douse the flames, but stopped when Zora held up her fiery hand. She stared at the fire on her skin in fascination. Her flesh did not blister. She did not scream. She looked, in fact,
pleased.
Above the anarchic din, halfway across the camp, he heard her say in wonderment, “I was right.” She glanced between the torch in one hand and the torch that
was
her hand and smiled. “It needs
this
fire.”
He had no idea what she meant, nor how it was possible for Zora to burn without actually burning. More of Mr. Holliday’s doing? It could not be. Zora had proven herself stronger than the Devil’s temptation. What, then?
The time for mulling this remarkable, unsettling turn of events was not now. A roaring clawed demon charged at Whit, and he found himself battling creatures on every side. He lost himself in a frenzy of combat, slashing and hacking at the demons on the ground and above. The hides of the clawed demons proved thick, difficult to pierce with a single cut. Yet he still had mastery over the odds and drew its power into himself to find the demons’ most vulnerable spots.
As he fought he caught glimpses of Zora learning and using her own magic. Tentative at first, then with growing strength and confidence. She darted between running Gypsies and evaded the claws and bites of demons. She wielded fire like a whip, lashes of flame leaping from her to strike at attacking creatures. Had he not been so occupied with cutting down demons, he would have gladly focused his full attention on Zora in her beautiful, lethal dance. The fire lit her face in crimson and gold, as though she were an ancient war goddess receiving burnt offerings.
An insect demon swooped down close to an older woman who bore a striking resemblance to Zora. There wasn’t time to prime another shot, so Whit darted forward, blade at the ready. The woman screamed as she threw her arms up to shield herself from the demon’s attack. Whit stabbed the demon just as Zora lashed it with flame. The beast shrieked as Whit’s saber tip pierced its abdomen, but its shriek was cut off abruptly as the demon turned to ash.
Whit and Zora shared another look. Whatever dark gifts they each had, they fought well together. Her willingness to fight, her skill and grace as she did so—it heated his blood more than any flame. And he and Zora complemented each other, acting together, taking up the defense when the other needed support.
A frightened whimper sounded behind him. Whit turned and carefully helped the older woman to her feet. She had several years on him, but that did not dim her beauty, only added patina to an already lovely surface.
“You are safe now, madam,” he said.
“Please,” she gulped, “help my daughter.” She looked toward Zora, where the last remaining demons concentrated their attack.
It made sense now, the resemblance, the unique beauty. “Get yourself to safety beneath one of the wagons.”
“Protect her,” Zora’s mother pleaded.
“I will, but you must seek shelter.”
Assured, Zora’s mother did as Whit directed, gathering several terrified children and hurrying off toward the wagons.
Whit plunged back into the fray. He slashed and carved his way through the demons, feeling the splash of their thick black blood as he hacked a path to Zora. The creatures fought back, and he parried their strikes, twisting, lunging—all the skills he had practiced in genteel fencing academies but never had true use for, until now. Now it seemed as if those many, many hours he spent bruised and sweaty at the fencing school had but one purpose, and that purpose had finally arrived.
He felt the heat of Zora’s fire as she, too, battled the demons. As he got closer to her, the very tip of his queue sizzled, and he smelled burnt hair. His own.
Zora looked briefly apologetic as he reached back to clutch the end of his queue in his fist, effectively putting out any persistent burning.
Down to two demons, one on the ground, one in the air.
“The one on foot first!” Whit shouted to Zora.
He drove his saber into the clawed demon’s back, straight through until the blade appeared sticking from the creature’s chest. At the same time, Zora lashed the demon around the neck with her fire. Flame burned through the neck, as sharp as a wire garrote. The demon’s head toppled from its body, face contorted in rage.
The insect demon possessed more intelligence than one would have supposed in such a loathsome creature. Seeing slain demons and their charred remains dotted throughout the encampment, the one in the air rose up higher, then darted away. The last Whit saw of the thing, it flew northwest, and its wings buzzed angrily in the predawn air.
A moment passed. And then another. Everything was quiet—save for the whimpers of wounded and frightened Gypsies. The attack was over.
Whit wiped the blade of the saber on the grass before sheathing it. Zora cast her torch into the campfire. The flames surrounding her hand shrank, then died.
They faced each other, panting, as the Gypsies came out from hiding all around them. In the aftermath, Zora’s hair hung wild and loose about her shoulders. Her clothing sustained tears, revealing glimpses of dusky flesh scored by demon claws. Blood had dried on her face. Her eyes were dark, fierce. She was indeed a warrior goddess, the loveliest—and angriest—thing Whit had ever beheld.
More than anything, he wanted to wrap his arms around Zora and hold her tightly, if only to assure himself that she was whole and well. Common sense prevailed. If he tried to touch her, she would burn him to cinders.
It might be worth it.
“They came for me,” Zora said, her voice curiously toneless.
“Seems as such,” Whit answered.
She cursed, a florid string of English and Romani oaths. Whit knew half the words, and those that he didn’t he could easily surmise. He also knew that at least some of the curses were intended for him. He couldn’t blame her for her anger.
Bodies of slain demons lay everywhere, and men and women skirted them warily. Gypsies crowded around Whit and Zora, pressing close, all speaking in the same half-English, half-Romani patois. Wails, imprecations, pleas, questions. A deluge of people and words that buffeted and made his head swim after the madness of fighting actual demons. Women tugged on Zora’s arms, entreating, and a small child clung to Whit’s boots. Some of the Gypsies looked with fear at Zora and her hands. Her magic frightened them. It
had
been a terrifying sight. Terrifying and also remarkably exciting—for Whit, anyway.
He wanted to know where her magic had come from, but now was not the opportunity for questions, not when nearly fifty agitated Gypsies massed around him.