Authors: J. G. Faherty
“Praise be the Gods!” someone shouted.
“Yes!” Christian raised his hands over his head. “Praise them! Praise them all! Let them know you live to do their will!”
“Praise the Gods!” the group called out in unison. “Praise the Gods!”
Christian dropped to one knee and placed his hands in Marjorie Campbell’s blood. Standing, he held his hands out to the gathered women.
“Come now, and feel the power of Marjorie’s sacrifice.”
One by one, they bowed their heads and stepped forward to be anointed.
With each touch of his bloody fingers, the power within Reverend Cyrus Christian grew a little more.
John knew something was wrong the moment Danni entered the kitchen. She strode past her little brother without so much as a hello, her face twisted in an angry grimace.
“John Root, we need to talk,” she said, her voice cold and hard.
“What’s the matter?” John asked, rising from his chair.
“I want you out of my house. And you’re never to go near Mitch again.”
“Danni!”
“Shut up, Mitch. This has nothing to do with you. Go upstairs. We’ll talk later.”
Mitch stood still, prepared to argue further.
“Listen to your sister, Mitch,” John said, not wanting the boy to get in trouble.
Stomping his feet in anger the whole way, Mitch left the room.
“What happened, Danni?” John asked. He had a good idea he knew what her answer would be, and she didn’t disappoint him.
“Reverend Christian told me all about you. The missing boys. The stolen money. Did you honestly think you’d get away with it?”
John shook his head, in sorrow rather than an admission of guilt. “You’ve been misled, Danni, and not by me. But I don’t want to cause any trouble. I’ll get my things and go.”
“No.” She held out a hand. “You go now. You can wait on the porch while I get your stuff. I don’t want you to say another word to my brother.”
“All right.”
Ten minutes later, John stepped off the Anderson property and onto the highway, then paused.
So where do I go?
All the hotels and motels were closed to him. The townspeople were under Christian’s spell and more likely to stone him than give him a place to stay.
You could just go home. People are going to die here no matter what you do. It’s just a question of how many. And it’s not like this town is going to complete the cycle, set the final clock in motion. You know the Stranger has a lot more work to do, many more places to visit before he has enough power to open the Gates.
John recognized the voice. It was that side of him open to influence from the Powers the Stranger served. All people had it, were vulnerable to it. Sin, temptation, selfishness. It all stemmed from the same place. But even knowing that, he couldn’t help arguing with his own internal weakness.
Yes, but if I stop him here, it sets him back decades or even centuries. Maybe even for good.
For good? Hah! You cannot stop Chaos; you can’t end Evil. And what about all the good you could be doing while you waste your time here, on this town full of people who could care less if you live or die?
That’s only because they’re under his influence.
No, it’s because they’re human and weak. They’re more concerned with helping themselves than helping others. In fact, if you think about it, the world might be better off without them. These are the kind of people who killed your son, your wife.
John set down his bag so he could swipe a hand across his face, brushing away more than just the ever-present summer sweat. Just the thought of Clara and Jack never failed to bring tears to his eyes.
That’s right. Your family, who you should be growing old with you right now. Instead, they’re in graves, thanks to a superstitious swamp rat with a gun and a can of gas. In fact, you might say this is all your mother’s fault. If she hadn’t raised you in magic, you might’ve had a normal life.
Suddenly, the images in John’s head broke into pieces, replaced by his mother’s face.
Never let temptation fool you, John,
she said, her voice as clear as if she was standing right next to him
. Remember, it’s not
you
. Don’t give in. Doing the right thing isn’t always easy, but it beats losing your soul.
She smiled, and her face faded away, leaving John’s thoughts clear again. In the aftermath, he realized who’d really been speaking in his head.
The Master of Illusion.
“Nice try,” he whispered to the night air. “But it will take more than that.”
So be it, the dark voice of the Stranger said. Have a nice night, John Root.
With a sigh, John picked up his bag and began the long walk into town.
* * *
Cyrus Christian opened his eyes; the taste of Marjorie Campbell’s blood was still sharp on his tongue. He’d held a small hope that the power it contained might be enough to break through John Root’s defenses—both magical and personal.
“No matter,” he said to the empty room. “There are other ways to skin a cat. Or a man.”
He closed his eyes again.
* * *
Twenty minutes of walking brought John to the town limits. During that time, he’d decided on a course of action. After using his black bag to search his shelves at home, he’d determined he had everything he needed to break Christian’s spell on Danni Anderson and possibly to drive the Stranger from town completely, except for one crucial item.
Holy Water.
Normally, he would have just taken a jar or flask to the nearest church and filled it. But with Christian’s influence befouling Hastings Mills more and more each hour, there was no telling if the Holy Water at any of the town’s churches was contaminated or not. Which meant a trip outside the city limits. And since he had no car and couldn’t trust any of the local cab services, he had no choice but to walk the eighteen miles to Elmsville and back again.
The idea of being away from Mitch and Danni for almost a full day had John in a bit of a frenzy. It felt as if he was abandoning them, even if his reason for leaving was to help them.
Just goes to show how attached you’ve become to them,
he told himself
. Which is the one thing you
shouldn’t
be doing.
Shouldn’t, it was true, but then again, how can you tell your heart what to do?
Facts were facts, as his mother used to say. And you can’t take them back. And the fact was, he cared for Danni and Mitch. Too much so, especially in Danni’s case.
With a sigh, John headed up Route 16.
* * *
“Rise and shine, Mitch. There’s a lot to do today, and I need your help.”
Mitch rolled over, ready to object to Danni’s brusque good morning, but something about her expression killed the words before they reached his mouth. It wasn’t anything he could pin down. She wasn’t frowning or glaring, her lips weren’t tight, her teeth weren’t clenched. But there was a lack of warmth, a stony, blank look that seemed somehow familiar even though he couldn’t remember ever seeing it on his sister’s face before.
Then it came to him.
It was the reptilian gaze of a cobra, like the one he’d seen on Animal Planet a few nights ago. The snake had been in hunting mode, its head raised, dark tongue flickering in and out as it tasted the air. But all the while, the eyes had held that same cold look, as emotionless as a robot.
“Okay, sis,” he said, tossing back the sheets. John’s warnings about her suddenly seemed all too real. The idea that his sister was under some kind of evil spell made him want to scream. But he had to act normal. If Danni suspected anything, she’d go right to Reverend Christian, and that would end any chance John had of breaking the minister’s enchantment.
“As soon as you’re dressed, come downstairs and help me load up the car. Then you can set up chairs at the church.”
“What about breakfast?”
“They have juice and rolls at the church for everyone.” Danni’s words came back to him from the hallway; she was already heading downstairs.
Mitch pulled on a T-shirt and shorts, knowing the church had no air conditioning. Great. Not only am I gonna have to deal with the congregation from hell, I’m gonna be sweating my ass off all day.
He glanced out the window, hoping against hope he’d see John walking down the drive. Instead, all he saw was a sky full of ominous gray clouds and a lawn covered by heat-yellowed, desiccated grass.
John, wherever you are, please hurry back.
* * *
At exactly eleven a.m., Reverend Cyrus Christian opened the doors to the rec center and townspeople began streaming in. It was easy enough for him to pick out those who hadn’t yet succumbed to the force of his will. Unlike their sullen friends and neighbors, they still looked eager to chat and say a nice word to one another.
That will change soon enough.
The fact that the bake sale had started on time was a bit of a small miracle in itself, considering how many arguments and shoving matches had broken out during the early morning hours as the volunteers finished setting up.
Every insult, every rough gesture, had been music to Christian’s ears. Although they didn’t know it, his parishioners were doing his job for him, sending even more negative energy into the invisible miasma that hovered over the town, as nasty and heavy as the brooding rain clouds that refused to release their pent-up liquids.
And just like the clouds, my own smog is also growing toward critical mass. And when it reaches it...
Oh, what a fun time we’ll have!
* * *
Mitch Anderson breathed a sigh of relief when Reverend Christian opened the doors. With the sale officially under way, he could finally escape the insanity that was the Bake Sale Committee. For the past three hours, he’d stood by and watched normally pleasant old ladies act like the bullies who enjoyed pushing him around at school.
Worst of all, Danni had been right in the center of things, calling people names and threatening to break one ancient crone’s nose for not putting out napkins fast enough.
On top of everything else, his stomach had been complaining all morning. When they’d arrived at the church, nasty old Christian was opening boxes of buttered rolls and donuts, a sight that put an unpleasant thought in Mitch’s head.
What if he laced the food with something that makes people do what he wants? Maybe all he has to do is touch the food, and it’s poisoned.
After that, Mitch had refused to eat or drink anything, pretending he wasn’t hungry. But as the hours went by, his stomach had delivered increasingly loud announcements that it wanted food, and wanted it
now.
Pulling a dollar from his pocket, Mitch hurried over to Mrs. Hildebrand’s spot at a nearby table; an assortment of cookies and muffins sat in front of her, practically begging for someone to eat them.
Better still, his old third-grade teacher was actually smiling, unlike the two crow-eyed ladies sitting next to her.
“Hello, Mitch. Are you here for the food or helping out?”
“Hi, Mrs. Hildebrand,” he said, laying his dollar on the table. “I was helping. Now I’m ready to eat!”
Just then, his stomach let loose with another thunderous growl.
Mrs. Hildebrand laughed. “So I hear. Well, since none of this would have been possible without good volunteers like yourself, I’ll give you a special deal for your dollar. How does two cookies and a muffin sound? Take your pick.”
“Thanks!” Mitch selected two chocolate chip cookies and a chocolate muffin with colored sprinkles. He had a cookie in his mouth almost before he finished saying good-bye.
Wishing he could have a glass of milk to go with his overdue breakfast, Mitch figured it was time to get away from the crowd and eat in peace.
Two steps out of the church, he immediately wondered if he’d have been better off eating somewhere cooler, like the boiler room. As hot and sticky as the church basement had been, at least the fans set up around the room had provided a breeze.
Outside, the offensive humidity hung heavy in the air, so thick and wet that Mitch felt like he was standing in a sauna. Streams of sweat ran down his neck and chest, and he decided to take his snack down to the river, where at least he could dip his feet in the cool water.
When he got there, he took off his shoes and socks and sat down on a large rock, his feet dangling in the drought-shallow currents. For the first time in days, the heat seemed just the tiniest bit less oppressive, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought to come down here sooner. He’d always loved the quiet serenity of the place.
He was leaning back, eyes closed, when a voice spoke behind him.
“Hello, Mitchell.”
Mitch let out an involuntary yelp and scrambled to his hands and knees, his heart knocking against his ribs like a caged animal trying to escape. Balanced on his rock, he looked over at Cyrus Christian, who stood a few feet away, his lips cast upwards in a smile as cold and dangerous as an icy sidewalk.
“Uh, hello, uh, Reverend.” Mitch glanced around, but his only choices for escape were into the river or right past Christian.
“I looked for you at the church but you were nowhere to be found. Your sister was worried, but I had a feeling you’d be down here. Young boys love the river, I told her.”
“Uh, yeah.” Mitch’s bladder called for attention and he pressed his legs together. “Is, uh, something wrong?”
Christian shook his head, a quick, birdlike gesture that somehow carried undertones of violence. “Oh, no. But it’s almost time to start cleaning up, and you promised to help.”
“Time to...?” Mitch looked at his watch. Four-thirty? I must have fallen asleep. But I don’t remember...
All the false pleasantness disappeared from Christian’s voice, and his eyes narrowed. “You do intend to help, don’t you?”