Night Terrors (Sarah Beauhall Book 4) (25 page)

She opened the door and looked into the living room.

“Oh, my god,” Mary whispered.

Sarah sat in the middle of the room, a glowing book on her left thigh, Gram in her left hand, and her right resting palm down on a shield on the ground. The place was disheveled. Everything that wasn’t nailed down flowed, floated, or wiggled around the room—chairs, pillows, books, socks, toys, playing cards, and dishes—each falling into a pattern of intricate swirls, spiraling through the room in a decaying orbit around Sarah and the artifacts that glowed around her.

“What in heaven’s name?” Mary asked, reaching over Julie’s shoulder and plucking a toothpick out of the air. As she held it, her bracelet began to pull away from her wrist, wiggling along her arm, tugging toward the gravitational pull of whatever held Sarah frozen.

“I think we’re in trouble,” Julie said, pushing Mary back out into the hallway.

Mary gulped, dropping the toothpick which floated in the air for a moment and began to gracefully reenter the orbit of floating things. Julie looked back, feeling her hair lifting back toward the vortex.

“Magic?” Mary asked, her voice quiet and strained.

“Oh, yeah,” Julie agreed. She backed up, pushing Mary with her, and pulled the door most of the way closed. Her hair fell back to her shoulders.

“I recognize the sword and the shield,” Julie continued. She leaned against the doorframe and rubbed her eyes.

“What about Edith?” Mary asked, her voice a whisper, as if the magic could hear her. “Do you think she’ll know something?”

Julie shook her head. “I’m gonna try something here. You stay back. If anything happens to me, call Edith. Hell, call Jimmy out at Black Briar.” She paused, taking a deep breath, all the old fears suddenly rising in her. The dragon Duchamp breaking her thigh for the pleasure of hearing her scream; the giants and trolls leering at her, waiting to play with her as soon as the dragon tired of causing her pain. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, willing the memory away. Her leg began to throb, even though the bone had mended. Psychosomatic, she knew, but her brain registered pain nonetheless.

“You know, forget that. If something happens to me, call Qindra.”

Mary blanched. “The dragon’s witch?”

“Oh, yeah. We’re definitely out of our league.”

Julie poked her head back into the room briefly, watching as the smaller items in the room flowed ever so slowly in their languid progression into Sarah’s orbit. Like a black hole, sucking in matter, Julie thought. But small, a pinprick, nothing too severe. Maybe it wasn’t too late yet.

“You know what?” she asked, turning and digging her truck keys out of her pocket, careful to keep Sarah’s spare keys in her pocket. “Could you run down to the truck and grab my first aid kit out of the tool box in the back?” She handed over the truck keys, and Mary nodded.

“Back in two shakes,” she said, hurrying down the stairs.

“Good enough,” Julie said, stepping back into the apartment, knocking several small items out of their spiral, but they just found their new position and began the slow fall in toward the center of the anomaly. She let out the breath she’d been holding, turned and threw both deadbolts. “Sorry, Mary,” she said, her face set.

She set Sarah’s spare keys on the table by the door and they began to twitch, scooting toward the edge of the table. She glanced over as a playing card completed its final orbit and flared in a brief flash of green fire as it got too close to the glowing book next to Sarah

“Shit,” she said, looking down at the keys as they slid off the table and found their buoyancy in the twisted gravity of the room. “None of that,” Julie said, snatching the keys back up and shoving them into her pockets.

Ignoring the way her hair floated about her as if she were immersed in water, Julie focused on Sarah, who was thinner and looked to be in some sort of distress. Julie imagined this was what Qindra looked like when she held the dome in place out in Chumstick last year. That level of concentration, that out-of-body feeling that said lights are on but no one’s home.

She knelt down, bringing herself eye level with Sarah and studied her for a second. The buzzer on the wall began to make a racket. Mary was trying to get back into the apartment.

Julie ignored it, reached her hand across the room, testing the air for anything. When she didn’t meet an invisible shield or something, she inched forward, keeping herself low. She made it almost within kissing distance of Sarah before anything happened.

The book shook, its pages ruffled, and a burst of green light blinded Julie. She drew back, covering her face with her hands and squeaked in surprise. It was like a breeze of frigid air had swept from the book, forcing her back, taking her breath.

She lowered her hands, blinked a few times and started forward again, slower than last time. This time she touched the shield under Sarah’s hand. A shock flowed up her arm, almost a mild electrical current. It didn’t hurt, so she didn’t let go. Next she reached for the book again, but the light flared, a tendril of green snaked upward, reaching for her. She pulled her hand back.
That looked like it would be a bad idea
, she thought.

Gram lay angled across Sarah’s knee, the fuller pulsing with the red light of a solid coal fire.

This I know
, she thought and reached out. She touched Sarah’s hand where it grasped the hilt of the sword and more energy poured into Julie, through her and into the shield. Voices rose in her head, screaming and dying voices. Anger and battle cries.

Then Sarah drew a breath, a deep gasping thing that made Julie look over at her. “Sarah?” she asked. She started to release her hand from the shield but the power surged and she couldn’t let go. Magical energy flowed through her like she was a switch, connecting a circuit.

Her vision blurred and suddenly she could see the lines of energy flowing around the room. The book was definitely the center—a pulsing orb of conflicting sources, battling for control of the artifact. This was way out of her league. The book’s energy flowed into Sarah, but the sword pulled it, as did the shield. The extra pull of the sword and shield were the only things keeping Sarah from being totally burned out by the overwhelming energy. And as she watched, the power seemed to be growing.

“What have you done?” Julie asked in a whisper.

With a great effort, Julie was able to slide her hand forward, over the rim of the shield without breaking contact. It was like pushing her hand through tar, the resistance almost too much for her. Once she had her hand over the rim, she grasped it and tried to pull it toward her without allowing it to break contact with Sarah. Then she lifted it up, fighting the death grip Sarah had. She managed to get it up onto Sarah’s lap and pushed it against the book.

Immediately green energy flared from the book and raced across the shield. Sarah shuddered. Julie slid the shield forward a bit more, scooping the edge under the book, feeling the room begin to vibrate under her. The vibration was growing at a rapid pace, and her eyes were beginning to lose focus. She pulled Sarah’s hand with Gram in it, pushing the book from the left and continued to push the shield from the right. With a flip of her right wrist, the book hopped into the air and landed in the shield. There was a burst of green light like a flash bulb, and she yanked the shield up and to the right. The book sailed across the room with a dull clatter. Julie fell back, releasing the sword and shield as the detritus of the apartment fell around her. Then, after a heartbeat, Sarah screamed.

Thirty-nine

I crept into the village, alert for enemies. By the number of bodies scattered along the streets, there’d been fighting here recently. The center of the village held a raised platform with a statue of a tall woman with a book held above her head, and a sword in the other hand, held parallel to the ground. Thirty or so bodies lay scattered around the base of the statue, like they’d taken a final stand there. A great wooden cross sat propped against the statue and hanging from the crossed beams, a small figure hung loose, bound by ropes.

I saw no one alive, no monster men, no eaters.

The village had been prosperous once, tinkers and smiths, coopers, bakers, cobblers, and taverns. Each with a sign outside their establishment, each dulled by the elements, scarred by battle, and darkened by fire. But I could make out each one as I crept through the village streets. I had to see who was crucified. Had to know if it was Katie.

It began to rain then, the first rain since I’d come to this land, and it stung as it struck my exposed skin. There was as much ice as water in this slushy mix. I held the shield over my head and cut across an alley, past a small house and into the main courtyard. The crucified body was small, a child perhaps. The rain made details difficult to make out, so I took the plunge and dashed across the courtyard, leaping over the slashed and broken bodies of a small militia, their weapons rusted and their leather jerkins rimed with ice.

The base of the statue was a circle about ten feet across. It rose about hip height above the cobblestone square. I leapt up onto the platform and squatted down before the small body. The ropes were tied across his small chest, keeping the tension off the shoulders. It was a boy. Thank god it wasn’t Katie. I took a deep breath, trying to slow my racing heart and reached forward. He hung leaning forward with his head bowed and long hair down the front of his face. I gently pushed the hair out of his face and he gave a weak cry.

It was Gletts.

“Holy Jesus,” I said, my voice croaking like an old hinge.

“Trap,” he whispered, his face a broken mess.

“Oh, god, Gletts,” I set the shield on the ground the touching his face.

He winced. “Go,” he gasped, his voice a ragged sigh.

“I’m getting you out of here,” I said, leaning my shoulder into his chest and slashing at the ropes that strung him up to the tall cross. He dangled there, pulled forward by gravity, his arms out behind him.

But his arms had not been pulled from their sockets. As the ropes gave way, I lowered him to the ground, holding the shield over his face and glancing around quickly to see if anyone was coming.

“What happened?” I asked him.

“He came,” Gletts croaked. He pointed to the right.

I raised my head. On a high road, just outside of town, the man in the bowler hat sat atop a writhing creature with a billion legs. I hadn’t seen him coming into the village. The town hall had blocked him.

“Poison,” Gletts choked. “Run.”

“No!” I said, standing over him. “I won’t leave you.”

He watched me for a moment, “Fool,” he whispered.

I reached down, offering him my hand as lightning flashed in the skies overhead. The Bowler Hat Man had not moved, just watched us as the rain grew stronger and the wind began to howl.

The second Gletts’s hand touched mine, I could feel a bit of my life force flow into him. For a moment he shone brighter.

“Can you kill him?” he asked, his voice weak with pain.

“You bet your ass I can,” I said, drawing Gram and stepping to the edge of the platform.

“Come on, you bastard,” I cried, shaking Gram and the shield into the air. “Come face me like a man.”

His only response was laughter. He raised an axe above his head, swung it once in my direction and eaters poured out of the shadows.

“We are so fucked,” Gletts said, crawling back to the feet of the statue, her flowing cloak a stone alcove to protect our backs. I stood before him, ready to protect him.

I spun once, there was no way out. Every alley and lane was filled with biting, writhing things, each bent on eating us.

“Yeah,” I said. “Fucked is right.”

I had moments before the fastest eater would reach us. I bent, pulling my pant leg up with one swift motion. Gram thrummed in my fist as I pushed aside the bandages on my right hand, revealing several healing cuts. I dragged the edge of the blade across my palm, bringing forth a swell of blood. I ran my pulsing hand down my calf, feeding the runes. Obviously this wasn’t the first time I’d performed this ritual since coming to these dead lands.

Strength blossomed in me, a rush of silver and pain. I squeezed my right fist against the stained bandages, pulled the shield up, and turned to face the oncoming hoard. It was as good a day as any to die.

I danced that night, danced and fought with the drumbeat of my heart releasing the berserker within. Time slowed. The enemy crept toward us, their sudden charge a piteous crawling mass of targets.

The smaller eaters were easy to dispatch. One flick of Gram and they fell into wisps of smoke. The larger ones, those that had flesh to rend, they took effort. The dead were piled at the base of the statue—but Gletts and I were cut and torn from the pincers, claws, and ragged horns of the eaters.

Twice Gletts intercepted a scuttling biter, kicking it away, earning a new wound for each effort. He saved me. I saved him. The endless night grew colder.

I kept waiting for the rifles to start, but no shots rang out.

They couldn’t stand up to Gram and the shield. Any touch from either sent the crawling things shrieking back or reduced them to bubbling ooze. Gletts kept the riffraff away, allowing me to keep the larger ones at bay. We held the high ground against a relentless tide. But we were growing tired. Each bite, each scrape or nip drained us, bled our spirit.

Then, like a miracle, there was a moment when nothing came at us. I was winded, desperate for breath. Had we defeated them all? Really?

I sheathed Gram, jumped onto the plinth, and pulled myself up onto the statue’s arm, using the formed stone cloak as a step. I wanted higher ground, a way to see beyond our little island. Scrambling a little, I was able to wedge my feet into a fold of the cloak, and the crook of the arm holding the sword. I stood, steadying myself against the arm that held the book aloft and looked across the valley.

Pouring over the edge of the hills surrounding the village things squirmed and shuddered, scuttled and writhed, flowing toward us—a sea of hunger.

“Dear Odin,” I grunted. I couldn’t breathe. We’d already lost. There was no chance. I looked down at Gletts. While I’d been climbing, he’d jumped down, grabbed a rusty sword from the dead and now sat huddled against the foot of the statue, his knees up to his chin and a blade held tight in one fist. He stared out across the commons, staring toward the Bowler Hat Man.