And the dark fae let go of his disguise.
White horseflesh swelled and split as it darkened to a sickly, drowned blue-grey. A hideous stench filled the air, and the n?cken’s body bloated to nearly impossible dimensions. The smell of fetid water and rotten meat rose from Karl’s body in a smothering miasma, and with a surge of power that threatened to throw me from his back entirely, despite the saddle, the n?cken leapt from the street to the balcony of a nearby building, bounding to the lower roof of the building next to it, then reversed direction and flung itself onto the roof of the original.
The Thule Society awaited us.
The roof was a flat space and not overly large. Much of it had been filled with a painted pentacle, the points of its star lapping outside of the binding circle around it—a symbol of chaos and entropy, unbounded by the circle of will and restraint. That same cold and horrible energy I’d felt earlier shuddered thick in the air. Torches burned green at each point of the star—and at the center knelt my quarry, the warlock Alexander Page, a plump, lemon-faced young man, beating steady time on a drum that looked like something of Indian manufacture.
The Briton and the other two Thules stood in a protective triangle around Page, outside the circle. The Briton’s eyes widened as the savage n?cken landed on the roof, shaking the boards beneath everyone’s feet with his weight and power.
“Kill the Warden!” the Briton shouted.
He flung out his hand, and a greenish flicker of lightning lashed across the space between us. I stood ready to parry the spell, but it was poorly aimed and flew well wide of me—though it struck Karl along his rear legs.
The n?cken bucked in agony and screamed in rage. I flew clear, barely controlling my dismount enough to land on the building rather than being flung to the street below. I landed on my feet and rolled to one side, avoiding a cloud of evil-looking spiders marked with a red hourglass, which one of the other Thule sorcerers summoned and flung at me.
I regained my feet and shot twice at him with the Webley—but the first shot was hurried, and the second wavered off course as the third Thule sorcerer called something like a small violet comet out of nowhere and sent it screaming toward my head. I lifted my left hand in a defensive gesture, shouting the word of a warding spell, and the thing shattered against an invisible barrier a foot from my head, exploding into white-hot shards that went hissing in every direction.
Page took one of them in the arm and let out a small shriek of startled agony, dropping the drumstick he held in his hand.
“No!” shrieked the Briton. “The Master is all that matters! Keep the beat!”
Page, his face twisted in agony, reached for the drumstick and resumed the rhythm—just as the n?cken thundered furiously toward Page.
The three on their feet rushed to interpose themselves—even as the n?cken crashed into the mordant power of the evil circle they’d infused, as helpless to cross into it as any fae would be.
But in the time it took them to realize that, I had caught my breath and my balance, aimed the Webley, and sent several ounces of lead thundering through the chest and, a heartbeat later, through the skull of the second Thule sorcerer.
Page screamed in terror. The third Thule spun to me and sent multiple comets shrieking toward me, howling curses with each throw. I discarded the emptied revolver and drew my blade. The enchanted silversteel shone brightly even in the dimness of the night, and with several swift cuts I sliced through the energies holding the attack spells together, disrupting them and changing them from dangerous explosives into exploding, dissipating clouds of violet sparks of light.
The Briton, meanwhile, dove out of the circle, spoke a thundering word of power, and sent Karl flying back through the air like a kicked kitten. The n?cken screamed furiously and vanished into the darkness.
I had no time. I surged forward, striking down one deadly comet after another, and with a long lunge, rammed my slender blade into the third Thule’s mouth.
The blade bit deep, back through the palate and into the skull, and I could suddenly feel the man writhing and spasming through my grip on the sword, a sensation oddly like that of a fish hooking itself to an angler’s line. I twisted the blade and ripped it back in a swirling S motion, and as it came free of the sorcerer’s mouth it was followed by a fountain of gore.
I whirled, raising a shield with my left hand, and barely intercepted another strike of sickly green lightning. It exploded into a glowing cobweb pattern just in front of my outstretched hand, little streaks leaping out to scorch and burn the roof, starting half a dozen tiny fires.
“Grevane!” screamed Page.
“Drum!” thundered the Briton, even as he raised his hands above his head, his face twisting into a rictus.
And as swiftly as that, I heard the dry, clicking, rasping sound of the dead beginning to scale the building toward us.
Terror filled me. My allies were gone, and I was outnumbered two to one, even before one counted the coming terrors. Further, I’d felt the power of Grevane the Briton’s strike firsthand—and the man was no half-trained warlock, or even a senior sorcerer of the Thule Society. Strength like his could only come from one place.
He was a Wizard of the White Council.
And then, swift on the heels of my fear came another emotion. Rage, pure and undiluted, rage that this man, this creature, would spurn his responsibility to humanity and distort the power that created the universe itself into something so obscene, so foul.
He was a warlock. A traitor.
I flicked my sword into my left hand, then hurled my right hand forward, and a bolt of searing fire no thicker than my pinky finger lashed out at him, blinding in the night. Grevane parried the blow on a shield of his own and countered with more lightning. I caught part of it on the sword, but what got through was enough to drive me down to one knee and send agony racing back and forth through my nerve endings.
Even as I fought through the pain, I saw movement in the corner of my eye: the dead, swarming up the building and beginning to haul themselves onto the roof. In seconds, they would tear me apart.
I gritted my teeth, staggered back to my feet, and rushed forward, sword leading the way.
Grevane gathered more power, but held his strike until the last second as I closed on him—and then he bellowed something and smashed down at the roof beneath us with pure kinetic energy, opening an enormous gap just in front of me.
I dove to one side, a bound as light and graceful as any I had ever made, rolled, and felt the horrible, tingling, invasive presence of necromantic energy course over me as I crossed into their summoning circle—and drove my blade straight out to one side and into the heart of Alexander Page.
The warlock let out a short, croaking gasp. The drumstick fell from his suddenly nerveless hands, and, seconds later, silence reigned, marred only by the dry clatter of bones falling two stories down to the streets of Dodge City.
I stared at Grevane, crouched, as Page quivered on my sword. My left hand was lifted, a shield of pale blue energy already glowing, ready for the necromancer’s next attack.
But instead, Grevane tilted his head to one side, his eyes distant. He smiled faintly. Then, without a further word, he simply stepped backward and fell over the edge of the building, dropping silently into the darkness below.
I ripped the sword free of Page and sprinted to follow him—but by the time I got to the edge and looked down, I saw nothing. Nothing at all but bones in an empty street.
I was so focused on Grevane that I didn’t sense the attack coming at my back until it was nearly too late to survive it.