Tomorrow Wendell (White Dragon Black) (32 page)

His chance to find out came soon enough. The second of the beasts he’d shot rose up swiftly from the floor in the front office.

Even knowing the speed these things had, Jonathan took the moment to aim. He only had so many of these bullets, and the revolver only held five.

The ‘Judge’ sounded its own thunder, temporarily drowning out the incessant thudding from above. The rope, already snaking out to grab him, suddenly went awry. The monkey man jerked back, twisting left as the slug drove into its heart.

Jonathan pulled his head back to miss the rough line snapping by his face. The thing appeared to be dead, but it had before as well.

He tried to think how long it had taken for the creatures to recover but didn’t have time to dwell on it, as a chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling to his left.

He spun, raising the gun towards the ceiling. The lathe was exposed where the plaster had cracked loose, but nothing more.

“That constant pounding is killing me,” Wendell said. “I almost wish they’d—”

Jonathan cut him off. “Don’t even think about saying it, Wendell. It’s never a good idea to tempt fate.”

Another patch of plaster fell in front of the door. Jonathan counted it as a favor from the gods since it brought his attention to the fact that another of the ugly monkey men had made its way to the hall. It sidestepped into the front office as he sighted.

Jonathan pulled the trigger, hitting the one in the hall which had been behind the first monkey man. It dropped, but before he could do anything further, the first of the two lashed out with its rope.

The line caught his left arm at the elbow, and a circle of fire erupted there as the rope jerked tight.  Jonathan worried his elbow had been dislocated. At least it had happened to his left.

He brought his ring and middle fingers together and spoke quickly. The energy surged into him, and he released the spell a second before the line pulled him forward.

Orange fibers flew from his fingers across the room. The ugly monster tried to dodge the conjured strand, but enough made contact and wrapped tight around it.

Grabbing the rope in his right hand, he ran at the beast, realizing he should have kept hold of the lethal bottle. He didn’t know if his left hand would work, so he didn’t try using it. He wrapped the rope one handed around the struggling monkey man’s neck twice. It had worked the first time; Jonathan was willing to bet it would work again.

Clutching the line in his right, he turned so it was over his shoulder. The ugly beast was nearly a foot shorter than he and already lifted up by its neck.

Jonathan bent forward. He felt the creature’s back slide against his. The spell fibers would hold for a while yet, so it couldn’t get purchase.

It bucked and jerked against his back, and Jonathan fought off his own agony as his ribs screamed murder. He tried to hold fast. The rough fibers abrading his hand, Jonathan knew, would be doing more damage to the fiend’s neck. However, with just one hand, the weight and movement became too much.

He allowed the rope to slide off his shoulder. The monkey man landed hard, but used the reprieve to increase its efforts to escape the spell. Jonathan hauled on the line, dragging the creature across the floor and into the small bathroom behind the secretary desk.

The orange fibers were starting to turn brown and give.

Jonathan grabbed a handful of the course copper hair in his good hand and jammed the ugly face into the toilet bowl. He pushed down with all his might as the water sloshed and bubbled.

When he felt one of the strong, thin hands grasp at his arm, Jonathan lashed out with his foot and kicked it in the ribs. He did that a few more times until the last air bubble escaped the water, and the limbs hung limp. Then he did it again—just to be ornery.

A cracking sound over his head warned Jonathan of the state of the ceiling above him, and he darted out the door.

The plaster fell on the creature’s back, and it gave no reaction.

Another one down, but he couldn’t keep this up, especially if they actually broke through.

The walls had yet to be breached, the chains not able to deliver as much damage sideways as straight down. But if he couldn’t figure out a more permanent solution for these creatures, other than strangling them one at a time, they’d be pouring in the rooms like blood through a shattered skull.

Leaving the sacrifice to the porcelain god, Jonathan went back into his office to check on Wendell.

As soon as the tall man laid eyes on him, he pointed to the place where the first piece of plaster had dropped. The lathe was shattered. Even as he watched, it flew apart, showering the room with splinters.

He saw a form through the gap and raised his gun, but hesitated. It would almost certainly be a wasted shot.

In the next second, the chain rattled through the hole with terrifying accuracy and speed. It smashed the gun out of his hand, sending it skidding across the floor.

Jonathan clenched his teeth in anger, and to bite back the scream of pain. He wouldn’t give the sons of bitches that satisfaction.

Luckily the chain had hit the gun and not his hand; his fingers were still working, though sore.

He moved to get the revolver and saw the glint of the metal as it once more slashed down towards him.

Jonathan managed to twist enough that the chain missed him and smashed down onto the floor. He reached out and grabbed a hold of it, intent on pulling the creature down.

The thick links seared into his skin, setting the nerves in his hands screaming with pain. He let go of the chain and shook his hand, as though that would dispel the burning heat etched into it.

Jonathan heard another loud crack and knew another portion of the plaster had cracked on the ceiling.

He whipped his head around and saw a piece the size of a dinner plate strike Wendell on the head, the blood instantly visible through the pale hair.

“No!”

Wendell slumped in the chair.

“Wendell! Wendell? Talk to me!”

He heard the clattering sound of one of the little bastards’ chain unfurling from the front office and had to turn away from the sight of his unmoving client.

He dropped to his knees and canted his head to his left shoulder. The chain struck the edge of the desk, and a chip of wood dug into Jonathan’s cheek. Without thinking, he grabbed the chain and jerked. The creature, surprised by his action, tumbled forward.

Jonathan flung another loop over his hand and, as it seared into the flesh on the back of his hand, he stood up, leading with his chain-wrapped fist.

He felt the jawbone crack, but before it could fall away, he grabbed it by its thick orange hair and smashed its face again, and again.

When he dropped it to the ground, the face was a bloody pulp.

Jonathan spun, hoping to see that Wendell had sat up again. If anything, he had slid further down the chair. His body limp—lifeless. Blood caked the side of his head, coated his neck, and stained the collar of his shirt.

“No, no! Gods, no!” Jonathan yelled.

Even then, a second, smaller piece of plaster fell, bouncing off Wendell’s shoulder. Jonathan looked up and saw another of the cursed beasts had punched through the ceiling.

A chain shot down from the hole and wrapped around the arm that hung limply over the chair.

Jonathan simply stared. Wendell hadn’t reacted at all to the touch of the chain.

I failed
.

He hadn’t protected his client.

The chain slid from around his hand.

I couldn’t save you, Wendell. I couldn’t even do that.

He let a good man die—had killed him.

Jonathan felt the blood sticky on his hand and stared at the lifeless body.

He remembered telling Wendell what his father had said, that there was nothing more right than defending the innocent—no matter what the cost.

What was the cost when you failed?

The chain wrapped around Wendell’s arm moved up, and his body jerked out of the chair. Jonathan heard another of the monkey creatures shrieking its approach but didn’t bother to look.

What does it matter now?

Jonathan saw Wendell hanging like a side of beef from the ceiling.

He clenched his fists and roared—a sound of pure rage and challenge.

Hurtling himself forwards, he leapt up in the air and grabbed onto the chain around Wendell’s arms.

“You can’t have him, damn you! Even now—you-can’t-have-
him
!”

Jonathan reached up into the hole, wrapped his hand around the beast’s neck, and let go of the chain.

He dropped a foot and then heard the howl of the creature above him turn into a whimpered mewl, as its head slammed into the floor above. Blood splattered down on Jonathan’s face.

Letting go, he dropped to the floor. Crouching beside Wendell, he said, “I’m sorry,” as he stripped the chain from around the man’s wrist.

Jonathan tried to push him back into the chair properly but didn’t have the strength left in him.

He looked over and saw the monkey man that had been coming before he leapt to recover Wendell’s body.

It didn’t have a chain, only the rope. It seemed confused as to which it should try and target.

Jonathan didn’t hesitate.

He lifted his hand, moved his fingers, and uttered nine words that were as ugly as the thing before him.

A dark energy surged into him, and he bit down on his own tongue to keep from crying out in pain.

A mist, glowing so dark red it was nearly black, issued from his hand, and the creature gibbered and turned away. The malignance of the oncoming energy was unmistakable.

The monkey man wasn’t fast enough.

The fog enveloped it and the creature screamed—as Jonathan’s soul screamed. He watched, refusing to turn away as the skin slid off the muscles, and then the muscles themselves dripped from the bones—all the while the creature screeched.

It fell silent as its organs dropped to the floor, its bones tumbling after.

Jonathan wanted to be sick. Not from what he watched, but from the energy he’d used to do it.

The spell came from one of his blackest grimoires and used perverse energy. There was no White Dragon now, only the Dragon Black, twisting his intestines with its barbed tongue, tearing at his battered soul.

He didn’t know if it was over—if there were more. It didn’t matter. Not now.

He heard the sounds of them above. He leaned his shoulder on the side of the chair, panting and holding back his nausea.

Wendell mumbled then, and Jonathan snapped his head up.

“Wendell?”

“My head is killing me,” he groaned.

“Oh, gods!” Jonathan gasped. “Don’t do that to me.”

“What did I do?” he asked, blinking his eyes and raising his hand to his head.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Wendell took a moment to focus on Jonathan.

“Do what?”

He shook his head and smiled. “Touch your head.” He pushed himself up to his knees. “Think you can stay conscious for me?”

“Yeah, I—I think so. The pain should help.” He still wasn’t all back, but he wasn’t dead. Jonathan thought that a damn fine move in the right direction.

He got his feet under him and stood up. He looked about the room, taking in the damage, the bodies, and the chaos. They hadn’t just breached his defenses and harmed his client—they had defiled his sanctuary. The pounding and shrieks told him they weren’t done, either.

Jonathan slowly rolled his hands into fists and felt the pain arc hot across his palms. The memory of the dark spell rippled through his soul. He let his fists fall open.

Crossing to his desk, he drew a cigarette from the silver case. With a flash of energy, a flickering flame sprung up on the tip of smoke. Jonathan drew in a long drag and closed his eyes. He remembered the feel of the creature’s face shattering under his fist and exhaled.

“Jonathan?” Wendell’s voice seemed distant—from another time.

Another drag, and he thought about the image of Wendell unmoving.

He opened his eyes and growled deep in his throat.

Crushing the cigarette in his hand, he tossed it to the floor. He opened the desk drawer with his shoe and snatched out the bottle. He drank off the first quarter of the bourbon before putting it down.

Looking at the clock, Jonathan drew in a deep breath. He kept his eyes on the minute hand as he held that breath. He used the willpower with which he wrestled with the Dragon Black and found rage a much weaker beast in the end. The self-reproach was a slipperier thing to control.

Wendell was fine, but Jonathan’s guilt had been let out of the box and had no plans of going back in. It stung old scars with jagged barbs.

Jonathan let it.

Perhaps it was time to let the thing wear itself out. He knew too well, wounds only hurt if you pay them any attention.

He exhaled slowly. “Time to finish this.”

Jonathan crossed over to the body on the floor—the third one he had managed to kill, the one that had actually laid its hand on his client.

He kicked the body over onto its back and, crouching down, took its hand in his. He opened the fingers and looked at the palm. He’d been right; he had smelt burning meat.

Seared into the creatures palm was a symbol. The image seared there when it had grabbed the medallion under Wendell’s shirt.

“Om Mani Padme Hum. Seems it does protect the bearer of the symbol.” He looked to the dead, ugly face. “So, you’re from the Hindu side of things. You traveled a long way just to die, my friend.”

Getting stiffly to his feet, Jonathan swayed for a moment, but the sounds from the hall and above them informed him he didn’t have time for a coffee break.

He needed something with which to draw the symbol and the floor space to do it.

“Wendell, think you could manage to clear the plaster off the circle as best you can?”

“I’ll try.”

Jonathan hoped he wasn’t endangering his client by asking. He didn’t see much choice.

He dashed into his closet and looked about, hoping for inspiration. He had to use something that wouldn’t just get scuffed if any more plaster fell, something more permanent.