We exited the cemetery and pushed through throngs of zombies. Tremont Street was crammed with them, standing shoulder to shoulder, craning to see the stage. We skirted the thickest part of the crowd, crossed Tremont, and headed toward Bromfield Street. Half a block down Bromfield, there was more breathing room. More diversity in the audience, too. I spotted some werewolves and even a few humans. No vampires. It was dinnertime for them, and there wasn’t much in this crowd to whet their appetites.
We were almost at the building where Kane had scented Pryce when a low thrum of guitar chords pulsed from the speakers. A cheer went up. I turned around to see dry-ice fog covering the stage and spotlights sweeping the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen!”
shouted an amplified voice.
“Zombies, monsters, and things that go bump in the night!”
The cheering swelled.
“Vaughn? You there?” Norden’s voice came from my walkie-talkie. I unclipped it from my belt.
“What’s up?”
“Are you ready to meet your worst nightmare?”
yelled the announcer.
Norden said something over the walkie-talkie, but I couldn’t hear him over the music and the roaring crowd.
“Are you ready to dance with the dead?”
“What?” I shouted into the handset. I pressed it against my right ear and plugged my left.
“Are you ready to meet …”
Over the walkie-talkie, static. “… spotted the target. I’m …” More static.
“Where?”
“MONSTER PAUL?”
With a scream of guitars, music blasted out. Pyrotechnics exploded onstage, and Tina and the other two backup singers appeared through the smoke, doing a stiff zombie-walk dance. All around, zombies jumped up and mimicked their movements. The noise was ear-shattering.
I thought Norden said “cemetery,” but thanks to the static, the guitars, and the screaming crowd, I wasn’t sure.
“Repeat that.”
More fireworks onstage, and Monster Paul ran out. The crowd went berserk as he launched into the first verse of “Grave Robber.”
Through the walkie-talkie, Norden screamed.
“Norden!” I took off running down Bromfield Street toward the burial ground.
Kane caught up immediately. “Cemetery!” I shouted, and he surged ahead. At Tremont Street, the crowd was nearly impenetrable, but the zombies moved aside for Kane. I followed; it was better than trying to shove my way through. Zombies don’t move unless they want to.
The security guards had left their post at the gate. A dozen steps inside the cemetery, I stopped, breathing hard. Nothing moved. The music continued to blare, but we were behind the amplifiers, so it wasn’t as brain-thumpingly loud. I tried to raise Norden on the walkie-talkie but got only static.
“Norden said he saw Pryce, but we lost contact,” I told Kane. “Norden may be hurt. Let’s split up and look for him. Be careful.”
We agreed I’d go left and he’d go right; we’d work our way through the graves row by row and meet in the center. I drew the Sword of Saint Michael and started forward, moving quickly but with caution.
The final chords of “Grave Robber” crashed to a halt, and the audience thundered its approval.
I unclipped the walkie-talkie and tried again. “Norden?”
Daniel’s voice came back: “He’s hurt.”
“Where are you?”
“About halfway in, two rows in from the west fence.”
I ran in his direction, leaping over gravestones that got in my way. “Wait, Vicky.” Daniel held out a hand as I got near. “It’s bad.” I pushed past him. Norden lay in a heap on the blood-soaked ground. He was cut to ribbons. Pryce and his goddamn sword work.
“He’s alive,” Daniel said. “I’ve called for an ambulance.”
Good. There were at least two standing by; I’d seen them near the news vans. Norden didn’t look like he could wait long. His skin was ashy pale, his breathing rapid and shallow. Blood speckled his face, and blue tinged his lips. Daniel had already sprinkled activated charcoal on the ground—Norden would’ve carried that from his Goon Squad days—to soak up blood and absorb its odor. Still, it’d be bad for Norden if any zombies got a whiff of all that blood. The sooner we got him out of here, the better.
Red lights splashed across the tombstones, and a couple of EMTs unloaded a gurney from the back of an ambulance. “Over here!” I called.
Onstage, a guitar chord reverberated, followed by a squeal of feedback. “Helloooo, Deadtown!” growled Monster Paul. “Tonight, we show the world that—hell, yeah!—the dead
can
dance.”
Drums crashed, and a heavy bass line thumped out. The night suddenly grew several shades darker.
As the dead dance, the Brenin shall claim what’s his.
Overhead, the sky teemed with crows—so many it looked like the darkness itself seethed. They cawed and shrieked, their clamor overwhelming the music. There were more than I’d seen outside the slate mine. More than enough to destroy every zombie here.
Daniel’s eyes followed my gaze, then widened.
I sheathed my sword and took out Home Sweet Home.
“Daniel, listen.” I spoke quickly. “That’s the Morfran. I’ve got to do the ritual to imprison it. Pryce will try to stop me. Whatever it takes, don’t let him.”
Daniel nodded, still watching the Morfran. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
“Detective Costello? Daniel?” We both turned at the voice. Behind the EMTs came Lynne Hong, cameraman in tow. “What’s happening?”
“Get out of here!” I shouted at her.
At the same time, Daniel yelled, “Lynne, don’t—”
The bassist faltered, hit a sour note, then stopped. Three more beats and the drummer stopped, too. That’s when the screaming started.
Hong stopped in her tracks. The cameraman spun around, not sure what to film.
I looked at the plaque in my hand, then up again at the overcrowded sky. Even with magical enhancement, could this one small slate hold all
that
? It didn’t seem possible. It had taken an entire slate mine to contain this much Morfran.
Screams pierced the night like sirens of terror. Now wasn’t the time to wonder.
I leaned the plaque against a tree and backed up ten feet. I took a centering breath and gripped Hellforged in my left hand. I tried to ignore the screams, the massive amount of Morfran overhead.
Focus. Be pure. Do what you have to do.
With my left hand, I traced large, clockwise circles. Immediately, I felt a shift in the energy around me as tendrils of Morfran were pulled into the movement. The screaming quieted. An eerie silence settled.
Circling felt like stirring a huge vat of nearly set concrete, there was so much Morfran dragging on my arm. Making the circles smaller increased the strain, but I kept going. With a strong tug of will, I pulled the Morfran toward me. A tsunami of ice-cold power charged up my arm. It lifted me from my feet and slammed me down flat on my back. Hellforged rocketed from my hand and spun into the darkness.
Screams again shredded the night, more this time. There was too much Morfran here. I couldn’t control it all at once.
Okay,
I thought, rolling onto my hands and knees and feeling around for Hellforged,
I’ll subdue it in smaller batches
. Some zombies would get hurt, but if I worked fast, maybe I could imprison all the Morfran before the attacks made it to phase three.
I found Hellforged. The athame jumped when I put my hand on it, but I caught it and got back to my feet. I took a deep breath—two, three—and tried again. This time, I kept the ritual light, drawing only the nearest Morfran closer instead of putting everything I had into pulling all of it toward me. The screams lessened. Sirens approached. Monster Paul urged the crowd to stay calm.
Please let Tina be okay.
I offered up that thought like a prayer, then closed my eyes and refocused on my task. I proceeded quickly, feeling for balance. When I’d pulled in as much Morfran as I could handle, I circled smaller and faster. It was almost time to switch hands.
“Put her down, you son of a bitch!” Daniel yelled.
His voice threw me. My eyes flew open, and Hellforged wobbled in its orbit. I kept circling, but I felt some of the Morfran slip away.
Daniel had his gun out, aimed at something to my right. Pryce held a struggling Lynne Hong a foot off the ground, his hands around her throat. She clawed at his fingers with her mittened hands, her eyes bugging out. Pryce looked at Daniel and laughed an ugly laugh. He tossed Hong aside. Daniel fired, but Pryce disappeared before the bullet left the gun.
Daniel sprinted to where Hong had fallen. He scooped her up in his arms and ran toward the ambulance.
My arm was still circling, almost like it was on auto-pilot. I returned my focus to the task at hand, tightened the circles more … more. I pulled in the Morfran that was still in my orbit and got ready to make the transfer.
Pryce popped back into the Ordinary, not ten feet in front of me. He picked up the plaque. “Home Sweet Home. How quaint.” He disappeared into the demon plane, taking the slate with him.
38
THE WHOLE DAMN SKY WAS BOILING WITH MORFRAN, AND Pryce had stolen my target.
Hellforged twitched, but I kept hold of it. I slowed the circles and widened them, just enough that the energy wouldn’t charge up my arm. The energy waned a tiny bit. The screams from Monster Paul’s audience didn’t. It sounded like full-scale panic out there now.
I was close to panic myself. My circling arm ached from the Morfran’s drag. I relaxed the circle a little too much and felt more Morfran slide out of Hellforged’s orbit. Again I picked up the pace; daggers of fiery pain stabbed my shoulder with each circuit. I couldn’t keep this up. Soon, I’d stop from sheer exhaustion, and hundreds of zombies would die.
The cawing rose to an insane pitch. The zombies were dying, anyway. I was holding back one small bit of Morfran, while the rest tore viciously into its victims.
“Vicky?” Kane called from the darkness.
“Here.” My voice croaked with fatigue.
He hurried toward me, winding through the tombstones. “There are two PDHs back there, the guys from the gate, and they’re—” He stopped when he saw me.
“Under attack by the Morfran,” I finished for him. “I can’t help them, Kane. Pryce stole the slate target Mab gave me. I don’t know what to do.”
“Slate?” He frowned. “Does it have to be a special kind of slate?”
“No, but—”
“Vicky, look around. Most of the headstones in this cemetery are slate.”
I nearly dropped Hellforged when he said it. He was right. All around me stood hundreds—
hundreds
—of slate gravestones. And that meant hundreds of Morfran targets.
“Keep Pryce away,” I said.
Kane nodded, and I went to work.
Quickly, I tightened my circles and pulled in the Morfran. I zeroed in on the nearest gravestone. I transferred the athame from left hand to right, pointed Hellforged, and shouted,
“Parhau! Ireos! Mantrigo!”
The stone split like it had been struck by lightning. The halves fell away from each other, and smoke spewed out. Overhead, the sky grew half a shade brighter.
I let out a whoop of triumph.
I scanned the cemetery. Rows of crooked gravestones stretched into the darkness; the center obelisk glowed an eerie white. No sign of Pryce lurking among the graves. He was here somewhere—I didn’t doubt that for a second. But Kane would keep him back from me, and there was no way he could steal all the slate from the cemetery.
Success brought strength back into my limbs. I began the ritual again. And then again. And again. Over and over, I pulled in a batch of the Morfran—as big as I could handle—and slammed it into a slate gravestone. I made my way across the grounds, scooping up as much Morfran as I could as fast as I could, stoning it, moving on. Some gravestones split, some fell over, a few just shuddered. But nothing broke my focus on my task. I was aware of sirens, footsteps, voices; none of these pushed through my concentration. Gradually, the drag on my circling arm became less. Degree by degree, the inky darkness lightened. Finally, after what felt like days of effort, I chanted the incantation and made the hurling motion … and nothing happened.
I’d done it. I’d imprisoned the last of the Morfran.
My knees turned to water. I sank to the ground, limp with exhaustion.
But not for long. Behind me, sounds of fighting broke out—grunts, curses, the smack of flesh hitting flesh. Then Kane’s voice shouted, “Don’t shoot, damn it! I’ve
got
him. Just get that human the hell out of here!”
I fastened Hellforged in its sheath, got up, and ran over to where Kane clasped a struggling zombie around the waist, holding him in the air as he kicked and thrashed. One EMT pointed a gun at them; the other shoved at the gurney holding Norden, but its wheel was stuck and it wouldn’t budge.