Thursday, April 23, 2015

Helsing Chronicles: The Bastard of Rosmarus; Chapter 9

     “That was a hex,” said Ephraim as he drew his head back through the window. “Inscribed on a rug that somebody dumped on a public highway. On the perimeter of our town.” His face contorted into a snarl. “This is not acceptable.”
    “We need to get to cover fast,” said Shelley. “Does anyone know a place?”
    “There’s a Hmong church nearby,” said Troy. “I know some people there. The preacher is some kind of yokai, so he understands our kind of trouble.”
    “And he won’t mind us bringing that trouble with us?” asked Ephraim.
    “It’s early Tuesday morning. There won’t be anyone there except Pastor Kou, and that’s only because he lives there,” said Troy.
    “So get up here and tell me where to go already,” shouted Shelley.
    Without another word, the werecat clambered up to the front of the van and started a new, equally noisy discussion. It was less than a minute later that they heard something heavy land on the roof.  Then there was another thud, and Daniel could sense something else closing in on them on the street. Then a side window shattered and a clawed hand tossed a grenade inside. Before it was halfway to the floor Ephraim grabbed it out of the air and shouted, “Barukh lylah!”
    After a second of not-explosion confirmed the trick had worked the knight gritted his teeth and muttered, “Never throw a fiendflayme grenade at a professional exorcist.”
    The clawed hand appeared again, and this time there was a gaunt, pale face framed by short blonde hair peeking down with it. The vampire hissed as it slid another hand inside and lunged at them. Apparently Ephraim felt it imperative that the bloodsucker understand precisely how little it impressed him, because he grabbed its nearest wrist, curled his remaining hand into a fist, and delivered a flurry of punches to the vampire’s throat and face. The sin-eater’s skin erupted in glowing, silver markings, the crucifix swinging from his neck burned a bright gold, and the vampire’s flesh erupted in the blisters wherever he touched it. The vampire was no pushover, however, and after it got over the immediate shock of Ephraim’s response it shrieked and raked at him with its remaining hand. It vomited thick, caustic blood at him, and as Daniel watched the exchange he realized that the blood--the remains of its last meal--was an expression of pure malice and corruption. It was exactly what Ephraim’s hunger naturally latched onto, except that this time there was no life behind it for him to feed on. The two warriors were engaged in a duel of attrition, each one beating senselessly at the other in an effort to kill the foe before being savaged to death himself.
    It had just occurred to Daniel to do something when the other vampire smashed open the opposite window. This one had darker features, and it could have passed for human if not for its milky eyes and the fact that it was casually clinging to the roof of a moving vehicle. Then it extended its fangs and claws and grasped for Rachel. Daniel summoned the energy bolt he’d just been considering firing at the first vampire, and instead launched it at the second. As it turned out, the spell was about as dangerous as a bee sting the fiend. Fortunately, Rachel was a trained fighter and she still had her tools. Of course, combat wasn’t exactly her specialty and she was still wearing her seatbelt. It wasn’t until Troy rushed back in his feline form that they were able to put a real defense against the fiend, and even then it wasn’t a particularly astonishing display.
    It wasn’t a balanced fight by any measure, especially since the only full knight besides Ephraim was stuck at the wheel, and Daniel could sense that there was more on the way. Already something that could only be a hellhound was galloping into view beside the van, and Daniel didn’t see how they could handle one more enemy. He was racking his brain for some brilliant, desperate move when the spirit beast erupted in flame. There were several thundering bangs as tiny infernos erupted across the backside of the more human vampire, and then a motorcycle came up beside them. The biker raised a large pistol with a glowing, red barrel and pointed it at the first bloodsucker. It took several seconds for him to get a clean shot, but when the moment presented itself he pulled the trigger and sent a burning comet into the still heart of the original attacker.
    “There are others nearby, but Rios is keeping them busy,” said the biker. He wasn’t shouting through the window, but was rather speaking through the van’s com system. “I don’t know if they’ll send reinforcements from other outposts, but I certainly hope so. It would give the rest of the knights the perfect opportunity to take out some more hidey holes. Anyway, pull up somewhere so we can wash off the trace and then I’ll get you to shelter.”
* * * * *
    Shiori Kirihara was ready to kill something. Unfortunately, the camp had a rule mandating regular rest for all combatants, which meant that Shiori was sitting in the middle of a tent behind over a dozen layers of enchantments and fortifications waiting for her chance to leave. She looked over at Melody, who was sleeping off the aftereffects of the wraith attack, and was reminded of another time. She remembered Melody in a skimpy, violet outfit with heroin running through her veins as Shiori’s old boss literally sucked the life out of her. Shiori’s grip on her sword tightened as she felt the urge to kill something redouble.
    “Drugs?” asked Mr. Rosenberg as he offered her a mug of coffee.
    “I don’t drink coffee,” she muttered in a hollow tone.
    She looked up to see him giving her a strange glare with an arched eyebrow.
    “What?” she asked.
    “I’m sorry,” Mr. Rosenberg replied. “I thought we were having some kind of  intense-off.”
    Shiori’s face hardened even more and she said, “People are dying. This isn’t the time for jokes.”
    “People are always dying,” he said. “The world is always full of tragedies and acts of horrible cruelty, but somehow people have always managed to go on telling jokes and playing games and living life. There’s always been soldiers telling stories and playing cards while they waited to kill and be killed.”
    “So what?” Shiori asked. “I’m supposed to play games while someone out there tries their damnedest to kill my best friends?”
    Mr. Roseburg shrugged. “I don’t really care what you do,” he said. “Just as long as it’s something other than grinding your teeth and glaring at passersby. I don’t know what the chances are of the things out there killing you, but I do know that acting like it’s your job to win the whole battle will kill you.”
    “Oh, don’t some dour, Shmuel,” said a soft lyrical voice. “Everyone loves a really driven protagonist, especially when she takes it to an irrational extent.”
    Shiori looked over to see a tall, light-skinned figure bundled robes of pale green and blue. His hair was white with streaks of red, his cheeks were spotted with purple freckles, four bushy tails protruded from beneath his robes, and his eyes were a mix of green and hazel with tiny specks of blue scattered across the whites. Beside him was a woman in her mid-twenties wearing a grey tee with a rune-covered cardigan which had obviously been modified into a casual set of mage’s robes. Her blonde hair was dyed violet at the tips, here eyes were nothing but a single pearl of violet exactly the same shade as the dye set into an otherwise unbroken field of green, and in one hand she held a staff of some yellowish wood with a sort of crescent moon design at its top. On the woman’s left shoulder was an unusually large crow with grimy feathers, a long neck, and red, human eyes.
    “He does have a point, you know,” said the crow to the pale man. “Humans can be so delicate, after all.”
    “I’m a shinigami,” said Shiori with a touch of indignation.
    “A half-blooded shinigami,” said the crow. “And that’s close enough as far as I’m concerned.”
    “I’m sorry,” said Shiori. “Who are you exactly?”
    The pale man’s eyes lit up and he drew in a deep breath with the look of one about to inflict a rambling poem upon some hapless victims.
    But then the woman interrupted him and said, “That’s Eldest Sandman, and this is Eldest Culsu.” She pointed first at the crestfallen pale man and then at the crow. “I’m Lena Vallon. I agreed to host Eldest Culsu and he likes to stay close to Eldest Sandman--”
    “He’s afraid one of the knights will try to smite him,” said Eldest Sandman.
    “--Who got bored and decided to come snack on your friend there.”
    “Oh don’t make it sound so grim,” said Eldest Sandman. “All I want is her story of that fight from earlier. In return I’ll give her another, perhaps milder, tale that should help ease her through the healing. She doesn’t even need to wake up for it.”
    Shiori ignored the pale man, lifted her sword, and asked the woman, “Will it hurt her at all?”
    Lena shrugged and said, “I never really met these two before this mess, but everything I know says that she should be fine.”
    Shiori looked back at the pale man and casually unsheathed an inch of her blade. “If I think you’re hurting her,” she said. “I’ll kill you.”
    Eldest Culsu let out a hoarse laugh and Shiori struggled to keep from flinching. “You know what, Sandy?” it said. “I think the girl could actually do it. If she got the first shot, at least.”
    “It’s always possible, especially with the rabbi there,” said Eldest Sandman as he stepped around Shiori, his eyes still fixed on the shinigami girl. “I think I might like you, child.”
    Shiori had heard of these two before, and lena’s eyes made her think she was a wizard like the Rosmarus brat they had picked up recently. Supposedly the Morrigan had a personal guard made up of six fey, each one being the progenitor or leader of their species and each one corresponding to one of the other courts. They were her highest generals whenever she entered a state of open warfare and since the Moonlit Court was the weakest of the courts in terms of raw power they were all of such a kind that they could steal power away or somehow cheat their subtler natures. Eldest Sandman was the guardman corresponding to the Summer Court, and according to the lore he could feed on stories for power. He could also change into different forms that grew and took on various characteristics depending on the stories he ate. Supposedly he was a mostly benevolent fellow, but Shiori didn’t trust faeries. Eldest Culsu was the guardsman corresponding to the Winter Court, and he and his kind had a much less pleasant reputation. The culsus were known for possessing people, corpses, and animals by climbing down their throats. Faerie magic or not, that couldn’t be fun. They also were known for taking little chunks of their hosts with them afterwards, which allowed them to increase their own power much like the sandmen did with stories. The only good thing about the culsus was that they needed permission to enter a living person. Of course, if they really wanted a particular body they could always kill the person and then make use of the corpse. But that kind of thing was generally considered rude, not to mention gauche, by the Moonlit Court.
    “So what’s the Morrigan doing sending champions into a big open fight like this?” asked Mr. Roseburg as Shiori stared at Eldest Sandman. “Isn’t this kind of blatant for her?”
    “I assure you,” croaked Eldest Cursu. “There is plenty of work being done in the shadows. Or did you think that there was no strife about the paths of the Veil leading here? Besides, Ken Blackwell is here and Sandy and I always enjoy time with him.”
    “Ken Blackwell,” said Shiori, momentarily distracted. “You mean the Bogeyman?”
    “The very same,” said Eldest Cursu. “I believe we spotted him during the last bout, but I was distracted at the time.”
    “Distracted with what?”
    “With me,” said Lena smugly. “He basically shares the mental workload when we’re working together. He keeps track of threats, helps with really complex spells, that kind of thing. It’s really cool what I can put together when I’ve got a backup brain. There was this horse of cursed rats earlier that I fried, and they all made these funny little popping noises while a hex I buried in the evocation used the rats to jump over to the casters commanding them.”
    “The child is wonderfully creative,” said Eldest Culsu. “Though she could stand to study other fields that her preferred arts. A wizardess of all things shouldn’t be so--”
    The fey stopped and his head to the side. Then his beak somehow stretched into a smile, and he looked back at Shiori. “How much longer do you have to wait, little reaper?”
    “Two more minutes,” said Shiori as she glanced at her watch.
    “Let’s pretend this is two minutes later, then,” said Eldest Culsu. “It sounds like someone is about to throw us all a party.”
* * * * *
    As the van pulled into a warehouse, Ephraim was leaning out of his seat and clutching the nearest handle. The moment it stopped he jumped out and looked for the highest authority figure in view.
    “What the Hell?” he yelled as he strode toward Margaret Jensen. “What the actual Hell?”
    Daniel stumbled out and followed close behind, though not too close. The last time he’d seen the captain of the Fresno keep there had been nails driven into his brain.
    “Nice to see you’re alive,” said Margaret. “I was wondering how that would turn out.”
    “Vampires,” said Ephraim. “Vampires. and hellhounds, and hexes on highways!”
    The sin-eater had apparently lost the ability to form coherent sentences. When they had stopped to get rid of the trace he had just sat there silently fuming at everything. Daniel had found it at least twice as terrifying as anything Fellbrook had done.
    “And smoke,” Ephraim said. “Fires in the city! They are burning our city!”
    “Actually, that was me,” said Hassan, who had been the biker that escorted them to safety. “We found three of the holes the vampires, hellhounds, and things you haven’t been introduced to yet were hiding in.” A grin spread across the knight’s face. “So I set them ablaze. I figured the air pollution couldn’t get that much worse anyway.”
    “Good!” said Ephraim. Some semblance of intelligence seemed to be returning to him. “Burning them is good. Now who are they, and what are they doing in our city?”
    “Overflow from Buchanan, it seems,” said Margaret. “A group that showed up for the original attack and then ran off looking for someplace else to pillage. Plus there’s the mercenary group, the Crimson Curs. They were the ones who put up the hexes around the city, and they have greater curses isolating the keep. It’s some kind of Aztec blood magic, I think.”
    Ephraim and Shelley looked around now at the Helsing gathered in the warehouse.
    “Is this everyone that’s not at the keep?” asked Shelley. “Hassan said that Rios was dealing with another team. Is there anyone else with her?”
    “We have a few other places the troublers don’t know about,” said a knight Daniel hadn’t met. “But most of us that are free to act are here.”
    “What about the Weird Sisters?” asked Ephraim. “Where are they?”
    “Those three are at Buchanan,” said Margaret. “They went to help the reclamation before this lot came into town.”
    Ephraim looked back at Hassan. “What about Desmond”
    Hassan’s grin remained, but it was a hard, crystalline thing. “He’s over there,” he said, gesturing at some beds in the corner. “Recovering from six cursed rounds.”
    “And the ones who shot him?” asked Shelley.
    “It was a team of mercenaries, mostly the curs, but also some others,” said Hassan. “Desmond mauled two of them to death and I barbecued the rest.”
    “Except for Bobby Merrick,” said Margaret.
    “Except for Bobby,” agreed Hassan.
    After that the rest of the group started jumping in and asking questions. The knights at the warehouse came around greeting them all, and the exchange resolved into a vague cloud of chatter. Daniel tried to pay attention to pick out the important snippets, but he found himself distracted by the mention of that name.
    When you deal with the villains of the Netherworld, you meet a lot of seriously evil folks. Some of them are alien and predatory, some have an elegant malice which they've developed to an art, a few are downright friendly when it's not time to hurt someone, some are nothing but massive bundles of hunger and spite, and then there's Bobby Merrick. Bobby was born in 1820s Ohio into a family that would have been labeled "trailer park trash" if anyone had used the term back then. He'd had just enough magic in him back then to give him an edge in a fight, and he liked to fight. Bobby had been instructed in the art of bullying by his father, he had been at the top of his class in the field as a child, and he had been working on his doctorate when the Venetian had found him in the streets of Cincinnati. It didn't take long for the Venetian to realize just how remarkable a thug the man was. Bobby Merrick wasn't intelligent but he was cunning, he was patient when he prowled, ruthless when he fought, handsome enough to be charming, plain enough to be forgettable, and he had vices enough to make him a satisfied employee without ever letting his pleasures make him stupid. And Bobby became all the more dangerous after the Venetian gave him power. After that happened he went on doing more of the same, except that the jobs were a bit weirder and the payoffs were a lot bigger.
    What Daniel hadn’t known until then was that Margaret Jensen had met Bobby once a little under twenty years ago. She'd met the woman he'd taken to that decade, she'd seen the bruises he'd left on her, and when Bobby Merrick had spilled some vital intelligence to save his neck (he always made a point of knowing something that could get him out of trouble with the other side without putting him in further trouble with his major clients) she had sworn that if she ever saw him again she would kill him herself. The oath didn’t surprise Daniel. He’d once spent five minutes in a room with Bobby and during that time the man had absolutely oozed smugness and sadism in equal parts.
    Daniel drew himself away from that particular detail and tried to focus on the total mass of chatter, picking up basic information until he had a clear picture of what was happening. From what he heard, the villains of the piece were a coalition mostly made up of vampires, witches, and skinwalkers, plus a handful of other nasties. Like many of their comrades from the Buchanan attack, they were out looking to carve out a chunk of territory for themselves. They had hired the Crimson Curs to help clean up the Helsing and patrol the areas they had under their control, but mostly they just needed the mercenaries for their skills in blood magic. Apart from laying out hexes on the highways, that blood magic was mostly being used to put the keep on lockdown and craft a giant sigil to bind the invaders and their power to the city itself. Because what else would you do with a bunch of a experts in blood magic? So far at least sixty people had disappeared--mostly homeless people and illegal immigrants--to be used for these rituals and for food, and there had also been disappearances of several Netherworlders who had tried to stand up to them.
    “Wizard, are you listening to me?”
    Daniel’s head jerked up. “Huh?”
    Margaret sighed and said, “I was asking if you could fortify this area. You know, lay down some hexes and illusions in preparation for a fight. We need to face the bastards soon, and this area is relatively uninhabited. I figure we let them know we’re here, and most of stick around to slaughter whoever comes while a small party sneaks out and runs to Abuela Salamanca’s place.”
    “Uh-huh,” said Daniel. “And are you sure they won’t slaughter you instead?”
    “That’s why I’d like you to fortify the place,” said Margaret in a tone such as she might have used with a preschooler.
    Daniel bit back a quick retort and instead answered with, “It depends on how much time I have.”
    Margaret tilted her head for a moment and then said, “I’d prefer it to take no more than four hours. If you absolutely need more time I can give it to you, but keep in mind that our enemies are literally eating the people I am sworn to protect.”
    Daniel brightened up immediately. “Are you kidding? Give me ninety minutes and I’ll give you a deathtrap!” Then he paused and added, “For them. Not for you. In case that wasn’t clear.”
    There was the sound of snorted laughter and he was pretty sure he heard Rachel giggling.
    “Yes, wizard,” said Margaret in a dry tone. “I am capable of discerning such tangled subtleties.”
    As an afterthought, Daniel asked, “I don’t suppose I could get anyone to help, could I? I’m thinking of starting with an enchantment to absorb spells and then building on that.”
    Margaret nodded and said, “Proficiency with battle magic is a requirement for the rank of knight.”
    Daniel was about to say something about differing standards of proficiency, but then he saw Ephraim shaking his head and thought better of it. Mouthing off to Margaret Jensen might not be such a good idea. In any event, he was determined to keep up a stern expression in her presence, but that plan didn’t last too long. In a few minutes the wizard realized he was whistling as he pulled leftovers from the Nevada mission out of the van, and a few minutes later he was struggling to stop himself from cackling as he charged a circle full of fire spells and illusion traps. Then he realized that dignity is boring and he resumed cackling.
    Ever since Daniel had been grabbed and taken captive--Merlin’s beard, had it been just a week or so before?--he had been faced with all manner of situations well outside his skillset and comfort zone. He had been in the middle of combat, he had been told to make choices that he could not possibly be prepared to make, and Ephraim had hit him with a mental and spiritual whammy worse than any of the illusions his old mentors had challenged him with. But this he knew how to do. He knew how to scheme, to lay traps, to work magic. It was time to brew up a little havoc.
* * * * *
    Apparently, the fiends in Buchanan had called up another round of reinforcements. Battalions had come in from Morpheum and the Veil, and now monsters of both the fey and kami variety were charging toward the encampments. At the same time, packs of vargulfen, upir, and general thugs had gotten together to hit them from outside the estate, forcing at least some of the encampments to fight on two fronts.
    As Shiori rushed out of the tent, Eldest Sandman offered a casual salute and sprinted off in the direction of the outward attackers. As he did, he doubled and then quadrupled in size, changing into a horned  and vaguely feline thing that looked like it had leapt from the fever dreams of Lewis Carroll. The werewolves howled as they charged the defenses, and Eldest Sandman answered with a lilting, undulating roar. At the same time, Eldest Culsu leapt into air, spun around, and crumpled into the open mouth of Lena Vallon. Shiori tried very hard not to shudder at the sight of the large bird sliding down the wizardess’ throat, and a moment later she saw her nails thicken into black talons and even in the dim light she could still see the veins of dark purple reaching for her pupils.
    “Bring it on!” shouted Lena with a cackle. As she ran forward here pupils turned violet the rest of her eyes--except for the veins Eldest Culsu had added on, of course--turned a bright green. An orb of bright green energy with flecks of violet appeared between the points of the crescent head of her staff, and several smaller spheres slowly came into existence orbiting it. The runes along her cardigan began to glow, crystals and talismans shone through the pouches and pockets in which she kept them, and luminous sigils appeared scrawled across her body. The woman cackled wildly as Shiori felt the arcane energy with which the whole area was saturated being drawn into her. “See you in the battlefield,” shouted Lena to Shiori with a wink, and a moment later she ran up a tree in a blatant disdain of gravity and left the shinigami’s field of vision. A few moments later Shiori broke through the tents and foliage and reached the barricades.
    Off in the distance there was a line of ogres--none of them less than nine feet tall, and most considerably taller--with what could only be described as canons hoisted over their shoulders. Scattered around them were mages of various species, each of them raising rods and talismans and preparing a barrage against the defenses of the camp. Shiori couldn’t see most of the mages, but she could guess at their existence based on the writhing streams of arcane power gathering together above each one. What she could see much more easily was the tide of cannon fodder running up ahead of them. There were goblins riding on hellhounds, minor oni, upir, and an abundance of humans who had somehow or other wound up in someplace other than the mortal world and consequently been twisted beyond recognition.
    Something with entirely too many mouths tumbled toward Shiori, and the shinigami cut it down with a dismissive wave of her blade. Behind that was a minor spirit in the shape of a clown, and when it say Shiori several many-eyed tentacles burst from beneath its false skin. She decided to give that an extra two swings before she whirled on the thing coming up behind her. The horde was mostly made up of minor thugs, vicious creatures that could be deadly to anyone knocked on their back but which had little skill when it came to real combat. Cutting them down was more a matter of reflex than anything else for Shiori. She barely lost a step when she and everyone else saw the bolts of violet lightning descend on the battlefield.
    As it turned out, Lena Vallon had fired her earlier spell directly into the conjured cloud that bound the estate in undying night. Once there, the working had uncoiled into a twisted right back up again into a vast knot of arcane power until it became saturated with energy. Now the whole thing came bursting down in bolts that went deep into the enemy lines, mostly targeting the ogres and battle mages. At the same time, the evocation also blasted away at the occupation’s defensive enchantments and even disrupted some of their ongoing rituals. The whole thing lasted less than a minute, but it through the whole attack into chaos and provided an excellent introduction for the young wizardess as she hurtled like a comet into the middle of several changeling battlemages, her eyes alight with savage joy.
    Shiori laughed as she resumed her lethal dance. She whirled and flashed through another cluster of enemies with all the expert precision of a sparrow darting through thick, thorny foliage. And then her blade struck against another of its kind and without warning she was face to face with a foe totally unlike helpless fiends she had just been cutting down.
    “Hey, Shio-chan,” said Katsuo Ryou. “I thought I might see you here.”
* * * * *
    There were twenty-six members of Crimson Curs, fourteen upir, and five camazotzes when the warehouse came under attack. It was just before five in the morning when they came, so the whole area was pretty much empty of bystanders. Daniel could see all this from where he sat muttering in the middle of the circle, his consciousness projected into it and each of the sigils carved and painted around the warehouse and the nearby streets and buildings to correspond with that circle.
    The wizard watched the enemy thugs approach and waited until they were all within range before he and the two knights assisting him began the show. There was a flash of indigo light, and several illusions and mind-bending hexes unfurled from where they had settled into the sigils. Over a dozen of the enemy combatants simply fell over or started running into walls, effectively incapacitated. Others stumbled in a daze and still more were shielded almost entirely by the protective enchantments on their body armor. That was okay, though, because those enchantments weren’t nearly as effective as all the bursts of fire and ice that came a moment later. Neither did they protect against against the light poles that suddenly swung down to strangle them. And they were no help at all against the bouts of acid. In those first few seconds the entire team of attackers had been cut down to less than half of their original number.
    A moment later Daniel’s attention was drawn away from the working as the camazotzes, all of whom had survived, came crashing through a pair of windows. They moved faster than any living thing Daniel had ever seen, but then there was a flash of claws, steel, and battle magic and Margaret Jensen crashed through two of the camazotzes. The other three were quickly engaged by several other knights as she finished dispatching those two, and Daniel turned his attention back to the other attackers. The mercenaries were frustrated by unsurprised to find all their guns hexed to uselessness and they had already tossed them aside in favor of more functional weapons. A few of them happened to have fiendflame grenades, and with a start the wizard realized they were already tossing them through the broken windows. It was too late to block the explosives so instead he reached for the defensive runes that had been scattered across the floor and focused them on the coming explosions. Somehow he managed to focus most of the damage away from the Helsing and himself, and the result was a thick column of arcane fire blasting its way through the roof.
    Daniel refocused his attention on the mercenaries while some part of his mind noted the vampires who had joined in the fight inside the warehouse. The vampires were unimportant. The knights were dealing with them. The mercenaries, on the other hand, were drawing sigils in the blood of their fallen comrades and chanting something that the wizard found supremely unnerving. They were his job, and he immediately began throwing every supernatural monkeywrench he could into their working. He easily poked holes in their spell, scattering the power and twisting up its structure, but these were skilled mages and they repaired the damage almost as quickly as he could cause it. Besides, each of them had at least one talisman or other that was overflowing with witchcraft. A thrown dagger passed a few inches by his head, briefly reminding him of the physical battle raging all around him, but he remained focus on his spellwork. He went back and forth with the mercenaries for several minutes that felt like hours, until at least their working finally came together, a thing so intricately and firmly formed that it would be impervious to any of the jinxes Daniel had been throwing at them so far. At the same time, Daniel noticed a handful of reinforcements  entering the battlefield.
    Suckers.
    With a thought, the wizard reached for a small collection of enchanted items scattered around nearby rooftops. He had tinkered with them until they had connected with the circle and then again until they had become suitable receptacles of arcane energy. Throughout the fight these artifacts had been absorbing all the fallout of each spell that had been unleashed by both Daniel and the mercenaries, and now they stretched tendrils of magic out toward one another until they formed thick net. In a moment Daniel had pulled enough power into this last enchantment to turn it into a thick disk of glowing power. If he’d had any time he would have admired his work, but there wasn’t any time. So instead he simply shattered it into thousands of jagged shards of crystallized enchantment and sent them all crashing down on the heads of his enemies.
* * * * *
    When it came to swordplay, Katsurou had always been second best. On the other hand, he always run circles around Shiori when it came to magic. The two had each been one half of a single infant hurricane for several minutes now, and the fatigue was beginning to get to her. And maybe it was that fatigue, or the maybe the magic coursing through the field, or maybe it was some trick of psychology, but she felt as if she was lost in time. One moment she and Katsurou were trying to kill each other, and the next they were back in San Francisco in a sparring match desperately trying to impress Sensei Katashi. Then another moment they were in Florida putting on a demonstration for another yokai clan. Except that he had never been that good back then. He had never landed so many hits back then.
    “Come on, Shio-chan!” he said. “Are you taking this seriously?”
    Shiori backed away as blood leaked from a shallow gash on her right leg. Now she was back in the blood den, back with the young people dressed in skimpy, violet outfits so you knew they were food. Back in the place where she understood what she was, and who and what she was working for. Who and what Katsurou was still working for.
    “Please don’t tell me this is it,” said the young man is a pitiful tone. “We were just starting to have fun.”
    Then he conjured a gust of wind, and in second Shiori found herself sprawled on the ground.
    Some fey creature loomed over Shiori, its fangs gleaming, its figure blurred with darkness and blood loss, and its eyes fixed in ravenous delight upon her prone form. It reached one gnarled hand down toward her, and an instant later there was a flash of steel as Katsurou lopped off its head.
    "This one's mine," snarled Katsurou Ryou as he glared at the surrounding mob.
It was then that Shiori understood something. The reason he cared so much that he be the one to kill her was because he understood the entire conflict to be nothing more than one enormous game. He was here because he was bored. He had joined the Ashura clan because he was bored. He had followed Lady Kaoru into a place where Melody was shot up with heroin and literally fed to the clientele because he had been bored.
    Fuck that.
    Shiori Kirihara felt her shinigami nature stirring within her. She felt all the death of that battle flowing into her, feeding that nature, and suddenly it was as if all her pain were happening to somebody else. She slowly came to her feet, and as she did so she looked at her girlhood crush and said, "Your continued existence...is an obscenity I cannot tolerate."
    The young man cackled as he lifted his katana into a ready stance.
    "Perfect!" he hooted. "I'd been afraid you were finished, my sweet Kurosuzume. Come on, then! Come at me in the way of monst---"
    That was all he managed to say before his torso fell from his waist.
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