Lead Demon

Passed On

The walk back to base was long and silent. Seven ate some jerky from their packs, but it didn’t assuage the hunger gnawing at his bones. That, he knew, would take hours and a few days of rest to overcome, just like the waves of sadness that kept washing over him. He didn’t stop scanning the fields, but both he and Christal kept their Spheres closed off. Christal didn’t ask him any more questions; somehow that made things worse. He was asking them all himself, and he didn’t have an answer.

How had Water opened like that? The Spheres weren’t sentient, they were just energy centers. Everyone had them, but only those who were attuned could use each particular Sphere. Even then, it required training and concentration to get them to influence the outside world. Magic wasn’t just something that happened; it was something you had to force. So how had Water taken over? As though it were a reflex, as though the Sphere itself hadn’t wanted to die. And where the hell had that power come from? It should have been beyond him, should have drained him entirely. Yet here he was. Alive.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Everything. Everything.

For the first time since he’d been attuned to Water, he was scared. Not of the monsters. Not of the world outside. But of the power that rested within him. The power that seemed to be scratching for control.

Only one thing was certain, and it wasn’t a truth he wanted to think about. The Howls they’d faced weren’t the army his troop had been warned about. It had been a roaming band, one of the thousands scattered throughout the uninhabited swathes of America.

That meant there was still another, bigger fight left.

They reached Outpost 37 before nightfall. Home sweet home. Once, it had probably been some quaint touristy harbor town. Now the scattered houses along its perimeter were empty. Whole lots were charred to piles of ash, while other homes were unscathed save for shattered windows or scratched facades. Lawns entangled forgotten toys, and fences lay like dominoes. Everything had that sick old stench of antiquity, like a sodden vintage store. Even here, though, there were no bodies or bones, no scavenging birds or mice. The Howls were efficient, if only because they were hungry.

Cities were often the emptiest. After all, what was a city to a flesh-craving beast besides a buffet?

It wasn’t just the Howls that had destroyed the town. Necromancers had done their own part, and the Hunters that fought against them probably hadn’t helped. Lake Michigan swallowed half of the buildings, and a small hill erupted through another city block, the houses there toppled and tossed. Much had changed in the chaos of the Resurrection—whole cities burned or buried, mountains collapsed or created. Magic had altered the face of the country in more ways than one.

The world didn’t like being manipulated. At times, it seemed, the very planet fought back.

Christal said nothing as they trudged through the streets, stepping over rusted bikes and piles of old refuse, dodging craters and overturned cars. Both her swords were clean and bared, and Seven’s grip on his staff was just as tight as hers. No matter that the rest of their troop was only a hundred yards away—anything could have happened in their absence.

Every time Seven walked through the base, he was reminded that they hadn’t been stationed here to thrive. Nothing in this shell of a town hinted at humanity—the storefronts were shattered and looted, the houses razed. There was no music, no industry, no trace of civilian life. No real reason to wake up in the morning, save to fight.

Shadows shifted over the rubble, and he jerked his staff to the ready. Then the shape stepped into the road: a small fox, its ribs horribly pronounced with hunger. The creature didn’t flinch as he and Christal walked past. It watched them intently before finally turning and slinking back into an alley.

When houses gave way to the broad downtown avenue, his nerves calmed. Their motel rose up from the buildings on the other side, one of the few structures still intact. Uprooted trees stretched like black veins across the concrete. Marble slabs and pillars of other structures tumbled across the road in piles of white bone. Only the motel stood strong and seemingly deserted, the clean red brick and white marble an anachronism in the destruction surrounding it.

Something moved and Seven turned on the spot, ready for the attack. A girl in black stepped out from the crumbling post office.

“Stephanie,” he said. He lowered his staff.

“Jesus H.,” she said. There were two daggers in her hands, the kris blades glinting like wolves’ teeth. “I thought... We thought you were in trouble. Derek’s had us on high alert since noon.” She looked between them, and it seemed to click then that Mustapha was missing. Her voice became a whisper, and her shoulders slumped. “What happened? I’ve never felt that much power. It was like a bomb going off.”

Seven’s pulse began to race. If the troop had felt their use of magic all the way back here, there was no way the necromancers had missed it. There was no way Derek would let him live for his insubordination.

“Where’s Derek?” Seven asked. The last thing he wanted was to admit what he’d done. Not when he wasn’t certain himself. He didn’t want to face their commander, either, but it would be easier to get it over with than wait in fear.

Stephanie nodded to the motel. “His office,” she said. “He’s meeting with the captains now. Everyone else has been stationed in the field in case...”

“In case we brought anything back,” Christal finished.

“Yeah.”

“How pissed is he?” Seven asked.

Stephanie gave a small grin, though it was more forced than anything.

“Well, I wouldn’t go near him. Though maybe he’s cooled down by now.”

“Right,” Seven said.

He’d have rather faced another bloodling.

*

Their base was depressing even during good days. Today definitely wasn’t a good day. The rain wasn’t helping.

Outpost 37 hadn’t been built to house civilians, but to act as a buffer between Outer Chicago and the wild lands beyond. Wild lands that were inhabited by necromancers—mages who bowed in service to the Dark Lady, the Goddess of Death—and the Howls they created and controlled. There were other settlements and other outposts scattered across the States, many of which Seven had bounced between after the Resurrection. Hunters had no say in where they were stationed to fight the forces of the Dark Lady. They went where the battle was. And, frankly, the battle was everywhere.