Mystic Jive: Hand of Fate - Book Four (14 page)

I had my shears out, and Rhys had drawn his sword. He pounded and stabbed at the invisible shield, to no effect. I tried the same with my shears, but the barrier surrounding the summoning circle was a thick, invisible wall of air—like rubber cement.

A muffled scream of terror from inside the summoning circle caught my attention. Honey was awake. Bound as she was, she’d managed to wriggle off the altar and lay helpless in the grass. Baldy grabbed her by the arm, the knife in his other hand glittering in the torchlight. John Fewkes never stopped his chanting, but nodded at Baldy to put her back on the altar.

Baldy lifted Honey by one arm and flung her, like a ragdoll, onto the granite slab of the altar. She squirmed to a kneeling position, but with both her hands and feet bound, she could hardly move.

He grabbed her and she spit at him. He retaliated with a punch to her face.

Her head whipped back—the force of his blow knocked her sprawling across the altar, blood streaming from her nose and lips. Baldy held her down, the sharp blade at her throat, his eyes turned to Fewkes as if waiting for a signal. Blood dripped steadily from her broken nose, pooling on the altar. Silvery threads reached out from the spirit tree, like tendrils of seeking roots, questing blindly toward the bloody altar.

My chest tightened. “What the hell is that?” They were so close, but we couldn’t get to them. I wanted to tear my hair out.

“It’s too early for blood,” Rhys said. “That’s not right.”

Liddy moved to the altar where Lou lay, holding her knife less than an inch from his right eye.

Arby lay unconscious on the center altar, blessedly unaware of the murderous drama around him. In another minute or two, it would all be over.

I had to act now. I willed my shears into my hand and leapt toward the summoning circle. Rhys and I hit the wall together and collided with an invisible shield as firm as a rubber ball. We both staggered back and I fell. I scrambled to my feet.

I slammed my arm against the force field repeatedly with the same results. I kicked at it, and even tried stabbing at it with my shears, but it made no difference. A dozen feet from me, Rhys paced warily, his efforts no better than mine.

Nothing made any difference.

Inside the circle, the tendrils from the spirit tree had grown thicker. The chanting had stopped. Liddy and the other cultists stood at rigid attention, waiting instructions from their leader, the black sorcerer, John Fewkes. The press of power gathering within the circle increased, approaching critical mass, like an overinflated tire getting ready to blow. Then, at a nod from Fewkes, Baldy plunged, his knife into Honey’s chest.

Noooo!

The spirit tree’s tendrils crept like a carpet toward each of the altars, moving fastest toward the dark stain spreading out across Honey’s pale blue tee shirt.

I fell to my knees, cursing. I pressed my hands up against the unyielding, greasy shield of the summoning circle. The keening wail of the wolves grew louder, echoing across the vale.

Rhys panted beside me, breathing hard, as if he’d run a long ways.

“We’re too late,” I told him. I could barely speak—my breath came in shuddering gasps.
Too late, too late, too late…

“Don’t,” Rhys said, with a certainty that came from a millennia of experience. His anger brought me back to myself. “We’re not done yet. Think.”

“I’m trying!”

Thready roots, leading from the tree to the altar where Honey lay in a pool of her own blood, thickened and twisted together into corded cables of what looked like pale grey ectoplasm. Blindly, the rootlets sought the red liquid, and on contact, blackened and thickened as the blood was siphoned up and flowed back to the tree.

Rhys tried using his short sword as a shovel to cut a path beneath the surface of the soil, but the circle seemed to extend into the earth as well.

Liddy moved in on Lou, like a tigress stalking her prey, but he was ready for her. Even with one leg encased in a thick cast, he managed to land a solid kick with his other foot, hitting Liddy square in the chest. She fell and dropped the knife. The rootlets reached for it, and began to cover the blade. Liddy had to wrest it away.

The first drops of Honey’s blood reached the spirit tree, and the trunk began to twist, emitting a series of sharp cracking sounds. Dust and needles rained down on us in torrents. Thousands more rootlets reached for Honey’s chest, covering it. Baldy stared in mute fascination.

 “Quit screwing around, Mattie—just do it!” Rhys ordered. He panted like an angry dog, his sweatshirt wet with sweat. He looked as angry and dispirited as I felt. He stalked the edge of the circle like an angry panther.

The immense tree began to jerk, as if a great moth was about to emerge from its cocoon.

CHAPTER 19

THE FIRST PALE roots of the spirit tree reached the altars where Lou and Arby lay, slithering between the row of black-eyed dolls surrounding the unconscious boy. One of those dolls had begged Morta to for help. That had been weeks ago. I should have listened.

I cursed the decision we’d made to keep Charlie out of this. He could have freed the trapped souls inside those dolls. Without the dozen souls, the ceremony would certainly fail. But Charlie was too old and fragile—he wasn’t up to something like this. It had only been a few months since I’d ripped a hole in his soul when I’d incorrectly banished his djemon.

A sudden idea came to me. “Oh!” Of course the words of the incantation were right there—I had to remind myself to be careful every time I banished a djemon. I knew the words by heart. This I knew I could do.

 “Get ready,” I said.

Rhys glared at me, his short sword in one hand, Morta’s two-foot long Kinjali dagger in the other. “Do it!”

Liddy Fewkes made another tentative stab at Lou, who he managed to dodge by rolling off the edge of the altar.

I took a deep breath and yelled. “Zeypax! I summon you!”

A ghostly shadow hovered in the air before me. I couldn’t see Zeypax, exactly, but I could sense his pissed-off presence. When I’d banished him, it was only from materializing physically in any earthly plane. I’d rendered him incapable of answering to or serving his master, but he was still attached to his master’s soul. Even after his master’s death, he would only be able to exist in the ether. I wasn’t in physical contact with the sorcerer, but I didn’t need to be. I was stronger now. I reached for Morta’s light and let it fill me.

The crown of the spirit tree began to whip back and forth, filling the air with needles and dust. Something was fighting its way out of the top of that tree.

 “I hereby banish Zeypax, the djemon servant of John Fewkes,
from every and all
physical and metaphysical planes, never to return!”

From inside the summoning circle, the sorcerer let out a scream of agony and grabbed his chest. His knees crumpled and he fell to the ground.

With a soft pop, the protective wards around the summoning circle disappeared.

CHAPTER 20

A DOZEN SNARLING wolves dashed forward and encircled the coven, herding them like sheep into a tight cluster. At Fewkes’ collapse, Baldy and Liddy had rushed to his side. Baldy was the first to realize that the shield surrounding the summoning circle was gone. He picked up the knife that John had dropped and stormed toward us.

”I’ve got this,” Rhys said to me. Get the boy.”

John Fewkes lay on the ground in a fetal position, between me and Arby, his expression a painful grimace. Zeypax had been a good-sized demon—probably served his master for decades before I came along. Banishing Zeypax must’ve hurt like hell. The sorcerer clutched his chest, fighting for breath. Good.

The top of the ancient yew whipped around like a sapling, broken branches and needles rained down upon the clearing. The sounds of wood cracking and the blade-on-blade battle between Rhys and Baldy filled the air.

I swept the wooden dolls off the altar and gathered Arby’s limp body into my arms, feeling for a pulse at his neck.
There
. My shears made short work of the zip ties that had been used to bind his hands and feet. What kind of cowards would do such a thing to a child?

Something grabbed at my ankle. Instinctively, I kicked out, knocking Fewkes’ hand away.

From behind me, a familiar voice said, “Give me the boy.”

I whirled, clutching Arby tightly to me.

Liddy Fewkes held a sacrificial knife in her blood-covered hands. Her expression held no fear—only a flinty determination. She held the blade with a casual familiarity that made me believe she knew how to use it. I glanced at the bloody third altar, where Lou had been lying, but he was no longer visible. Grey-white rootlets stretched from the spirit tree to the stone altar.

Shit.
I held my shears in front of me. “Stay back,” I ordered.

Off to my left, I heard a sudden curse from Rhys and a shout from Baldy was abruptly cut off. In the distance, sounds of an approaching helicopter echoed across the vale. A searchlight honed in on the frantic movement of the treetop.

From the center of the trunk, a sharp crack rang out, and the tree sort of exploded outward, directly toward us, spraying us with splinters and pointed shards. The concussion threw us back a dozen feet.

A ragged crevice opened up at the root line of the tree, and ran up the trunk. The bark of the giant yew peeled back from the central core, branches and all. A rich evergreen scent filled the air. Black, opaque smoke drifted up and out of the exposed inner bark. It quickly coalesced onto a long, narrow figure, some twelve feet high, with glowing red eyes. Will-o-the-wisps encircled it like a manic halo.

At the explosion, Liddy had ducked behind the altar, but she was back, coming toward me with knife in hand.

I backed away. From somewhere behind me, one of the cultists screamed.

Overhead, the black smoke compressed and the figure gained substance as it grew. A mouth opened. I was close enough to see several rows of pale pointed teeth emerge from blackened gums. Its fetid breath filled the air with the reek of burning pitch. My eyes watered. I coughed to clear my throat and lungs.

The helicopter flew closer. I recognized the logo of a local television station. The Nalusa Falaya pawed at the searchlight, as if the glare hurt its eyes, but when whoever was manning the light didn’t get the hint, the demon stretched its long arms out thinner and thinner to grab at the chopper with its long skinny claws.

The pilot only narrowly avoided contact, and immediately backed off. The searchlight went out.

In the flickering torchlight, Rhys was on his feet—running at the demon full tilt, the gleaming blade of his long sword angled for a killing blow. He hit the creature with a mighty swing, and the blade bit deep into the black flesh. There was a spark where the blade met flesh and the demon screamed. The earth shook. I felt my eardrums pop and warm blood tickled down my jaw. I scrambled to my feet and ran toward them, screaming his name at the top of my lungs.

The Nalusa Falaya scooped up Rhys and shook him until his sword went flying. After a moment’s inspection, the demon bared a toothsome grin and threw Rhys at the gaping crevasse in the center of the spirit tree. The impact shook the whole tree, and another shower of dust, branches, and needles rained down upon the scene.

Rhys grunted. A spar, thick as a broom handle protruded from his shoulder. He hung, suspended in the heart of the tree, until he caught sight of me running toward him, cradling Arby in my arms.

But the Nalusa Falaya wasn’t finished. He gripped the spirit tree by the trunk and with little apparent effort, twisted the yew’s trunk until the crevice disappeared, sealing Rhys inside. The tree appeared whole again. The pale rootlets, which had emerged from the tree, broke off during the demon’s efforts, and lay like crispy noodles, scattered around the base of the tree.

“Rhys!”

 He was trapped inside the spirit tree as surely as a djenie in a bottle. I dropped Arby and raced toward the demon, my shears aloft to strike, the beat of angry drums and Morta’s magic thrumming in my veins. “I hereby banish--.”

The monster batted me aside like a bothersome gnat. I flew a dozen yards before crashing against one of the larger tombstones, the breath knocked out of me. I gasped for air, fighting to remain conscious. Pain—serious pain, spasmed through me like a full-body cramp.

This couldn’t be happening. The Nalusa Falaya was free. How the hell had everything gone to shit so fast?

Liddy Fewkes walked unsteadily toward the tall black figure. “I greet you, Nalusa Falaya. You have been freed as promised,” she said. Her voice trembled, but she stood firm. “Fulfill your part of our bargain and grant me the immortality you swore to deliver on your release.”

The creature scanned the carnage of bloody and broken bodies within the circle. “My oath was to your brother,” it said, its voice like the crunch of boots on gravel. “I see him not.”

She pointed to the huddled form of John Fewkes, who lay where he had fallen, amid the clutter of scattered dolls and carved figures. “It is too late for him. Take the sacrifices offered and fulfill your vow to me.”

The Nalusa Falaya leaned down and poked at the sorcerer’s body with a six-inch claw. Fewkes groaned. The monster nodded. Then, casually, as if picking up a canapé it plucked up one of the wooden dolls and popped it into its mouth. Its eyes widened, seemingly in appreciation, and glowed red like a pair of giant rubies. It proceeded to consume the remaining wooden figures with single-minded concentration; one-by one, in rapid succession, until all were gone. Each time it shoved one of the spirit-trapped offerings into its maw, it seemed to solidify and grow even taller, until it towered above the scene like some giant black cobra with long skinny arms and claws.

Something was terribly wrong with me. I could not move. I wondered if my back was broken. Arby lay unconscious in the grass, out of reach, oblivious to everything. I thought if I could speak, maybe I could banish it, but I couldn’t get enough breath to get the words out.