Taking Back Sunday (22 page)

“What is it?”

“Don’t you feel that?” she asked, grimacing.

“Feel what?”

“Sorcery,” Sunday said, lowering her voice as if the shadows were alive with spirits who could overhear. “Something terrible. Probably residual, like a psychic memory of the space. It’s bad,
really
bad. Ghosts, maybe. I don’t know.”

The air should have been stale, but it wasn’t. Sirens went off in her head. Angry spirits roamed. Behind the putrid stench of death, violent energy still hummed. The darkness tugged at her senses. Every centimeter of Sunday’s skin was alive with the prickling sensation of being targeted by tortured souls desperate to share their misery.

“Can you manage this, or should I take you back outside?”

Cyrus turned her to face him. He brushed the hair from her damp forehead. She was cold to the touch and shivering.

“I can do this,” Sunday responded shakily. “Now we know that some demented shit has gone on here is all. I’m sensitive to it. Bernadette should have told you this. You should know this about me.”

“She did, and I do,” Cyrus said. “I’m sorry, Sunday. I’m sorry for all of that.”

Sunday shook her head and pulled herself upright. Her lips formed into a line.

“We’re not talking about this here. We’re here to investigate.”

She looked over her shoulder to the dark breadth of space ahead of them.

“Can you see in here?” she asked, squinting into the darkness. It was pitch black.

“Yeah,” Cyrus answered. “I can see just fine.” He took his hands from her shoulder and dug them into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out his cellphone and flicked over the screen until it beamed a blinding white light.

“Use this,” he said, offering it to her. He held it up and faced it toward the darkness. The light illuminated the space around them for two feet.

“Thanks,” she replied, gently taking the phone from his hand and moving it around her. In the minimal light, Sunday could see the silhouettes of boxes and crates lining the farthest wall.

“I’ll go check those out,” Cyrus said. She watched as he walked ahead of her until he was covered in darkness.

Sunday moved carefully through the warehouse in a glow of cellphone light, the space around her was hazy and grey. Each step she took toward the open center of the room echoed. The further she went, the stronger the energy around her battered at her senses. When Sunday reached the center of the room, she stopped moving entirely. As if fused to the floor, she couldn’t lift her feet. The air hummed around her. Sunday lowered the cellphone so she could see the floor. The plain concrete was covered with black sigils all around her, a thick black line encircling them just at the edge of the light.

“I’m at the origin point,” Sunday said. Though they were alone, she didn’t trust speak at her normal volume. Even so, her words bounced off the walls. “I’m standing at the center of the warehouse, I think. This is where Constance conjures. I can feel it. The magic is seeping through the floor beneath my feet. Energy is swirling around me.”

“There’s a workman’s table just ahead of you a few feet and…” His voice trailed off as Sunday picked up the distinct sounds of shuffling papers. “There are some engravings in the wood under this stuff. Sunday, it’s magical symbols and words in a weird language. You should see this. Take about twenty steps forward and you’ll reach the table.”

Reaching out with the glow of the cellphone flashlight in her hand, she followed Cyrus’ directions. The table and Cyrus facing it emerged from the shadows. Cyrus’ silhouette stood with its back turned to her and blocking her view of what lay on the table. She reached him and stood at his side. They were indeed ritual engravings. Sunday moved her hand gently over them, tracing them from a few centimeters above. Hovering over them, she could pick up the vibrations of Constance’s intentions as she’d made the markings: dark, evil, and self-possessed.

Cyrus slid a book with papers shoved haplessly into it to Sunday. On top of the book lay the pendant Michelle wore on her necklace in that single photo online. It was no larger than a dollar coin. As she picked it up, Cyrus asked Sunday what she made of it. Sunday held the charm in the palm of her hand. It was heavy. She fingered it, feeling the craftsmanship that had designed and formed it.

“This,” she began, her voice deep with resonance, “is an ancient Malaysian black magic charm. The feel of it is wicked. It’s been used, recently, to draw the focus of a curse… or something…. something dark… something powerful.”

Sunday held it up so that Cyrus could take a closer look at it.

“I don’t know what she’s using it for, yet, but I will. Whatever it was, the pendant is dusted with the energy of the spell. I’m holding up shields, but I can still feel it.”

Sunday curled her hand into a fist around the charm and turned back to the center of the room where she had been standing a moment earlier. She strode into it, hardly needing the light to guide her way, letting the pendant guide her instead. It pulled her toward the center of the circle marked on the floor just as she knew it would. As she reached the spot, she turned back to Cyrus who had, again, fallen into shadow.

“Constance stood right here crafting her spells. When I close my eyes, I can hear her praying, reciting dark verse. The pendant feels that this is the source of power.”

When Sunday closed her eyes, she felt the pull of the nearby river. Places of great magical origin were usually near moving bodies of water. Just as it was for mundane electricity, running water was a conductor of magical energy. It gave Constance a nearby source of power. The warehouse they now inhabited was a carefully selected location for harnessing power. Acknowledging that she’d sensed the source, the charm grew hot in Sunday’s clenched fist.

After a few moments of silence, Cyrus interrupted Sunday’s inner musings to reflect on what they would do next.

“Let’s get to those crates and take them apart,” he told her. “We can see if there’s anything in them that will give us an idea of what’s going on.”

“Not right now, Cyrus,” Sunday answered. She couldn’t explain it, but where she was standing held the key to unlocking the mystery of what Constance had been planning. Sunday ordered Cyrus to collect everything from the table and take it to the truck.

“Even if Constance gets a chance to come back,” Sunday explained, “it won’t matter. You need to take that stuff and get to those boxes over there. Get as many as you can to the car too. We’re taking all of it.”

“And what are you going to do while I’m doing all the heavy-lifting?”

“Well, I’m going to stand right here and wait till you finish. Then, I’m going to keep standing here after you start the truck and get ready to fly out of here.”

“What? I’m not leaving you behind!”

“Yes, Cyrus, you are,” she told him. “You’re going to do exactly what I tell you, then I’m going to come find you, and you’re going to drive me to the motel. After what I’m planning to do, I’m going to need some sleep. Oh, and don’t stray too far,” she cautioned. “It’s going to take a lot out of me and I’ll be lucky if I can make it past the parking spaces.”

Begrudgingly, Cyrus obliged. It took him at least ten minutes to clear the warehouse of anything that seemed remotely important. Through the time he worked, Sunday stood affixed to the spot at the center of the space. She stayed silent, preparing to raid Constance’s warehouse with her abilities. Cyrus could see Sunday standing stiffly even after she turned his phone off and shoved it into the back pocket of her shorts. She unzipped her jacket and undid her scarf so that it hung around her neck, long tassels barely scraping the floor as they swayed.

About to make his final exit, Cyrus approached Sunday and placed a warm hand on her cheek. She was drenched in sweat and focused so intently on her process that she didn’t react. Backing away slowly, he moved out of the warehouse.

Sunday gave him a few seconds to leave and counted another thirty, slowly and deliberately before attempting to drop her guards. She shoved the amulet she’d held in her hand into her jacket pocket. A residual dark energy filled her lungs as she took a full, deep breath. When she exhaled it, she lowered the walls she’d built in her mind. Before any energy had the chance to come back at her in full force, she opened her eyes and willed the command that she was in charge. The dark energy challenged her, but she pushed back, and with her mind, she strangled it until it relented.

Little by little, Sunday allowed her awareness to seep out of her body. It trickled from her slowly and driven by her will. She reached out beyond the physical reality of the building, licking her way through a spiritual diagnostic of the space. Everything she tasted was putrid. She composed herself as she became sick to the stomach with the bitterness of black magic. The dark energy that she had challenged was anxious for her. It grew restless and began to swarm around her, seeking a way in. Its desperation was unnatural, feral, and unhinged. She challenged it again, this time addressing it directly with a negotiation.

You can have me if you want me, but I want something from you in return.

It writhed in awe of her power. It didn’t trust her, but it was starving for her so terribly that it would do anything to gain her permissions.

You will tell me everything of this place, and of the witch that has conjured you. You will give me what I need, or I will vanish from this place and leave you wanting.

When she felt the aura agree to her terms in spite of its desire to consume her, she allowed herself another long, deep breath and created a pathway into her chest. The energy seized its opportunity and smashed into her, nearly knocking her off her feet. It swirled within her, twisting itself around her heart, her lungs, and her stomach. She scolded it for its greed and willed it to be compliant. Then, the knowledge started pouring in, filling her mind with memories of despair.

Death. She felt it again, this time surrounding her. There was blood on these walls. There were unanswered cries for help screaming their ghostly echoes at her. Sunday grabbed her head, screaming for all the souls that had been ripped from their bodies in this place. Brutal slayings with silver blades. Torturous incantations spoken over them as the witch with large doe-eyes glowered at them with hatred and the awful glory of conquering them.

A sudden gust of wind blew through her with violent, agonizing desire. Sunday screamed again, her head breaking open to the vision of Constance’s naked body writhing in ecstasy as a dark invisible force bathed her with all its eroticism. A fire rose in Sunday’s belly and burned through every cell in her body. The tips of her fingers were alive with it, tongues of flames licking out from within her. She blew into the flames of her fingertips and gave birth to a man made of fire. Orange and yellow flames became solid a foot beyond Sunday’s reach, forming into the image of Constance’s fantastical lover.

You’ve come for me
, he spoke into her mind.

Yes
, Sunday hissed.
I’ve come for you and your whore
.

The engulfed man threw his head back and laughed, the vibrations of it rolled over her body. As it did, it filled her with the knowledge of what Constance had been doing all this time. She was attempting to pull a damned soul out of Hell.

Upon her realization, the fiery demon laughed again.

Sunday, with all her glory and strength, had unwittingly drawn out a demon, and the demon had known she was the Incarnate. Even not yet fully actualized, he was real. Furious at being locked out of the world, stuck in his cage, and communicating with Sunday, he used her as a conduit for this video conference from Hell. Constance had been and was still trying to raise him, and by the looks of it, Constance was getting close. With Sunday’s help, she had probably leapt bounds ahead of where she’d last been. Sunday had infused Constance’s sorcery with her own much more potent ability. Whether she liked it or not, Sunday gave Constance a boost that she hadn’t expected and would probably eventually be
thrilled
to realize.

The body of flames stood in front of her, daring her to identify him, knowing full well that she couldn’t. He was baiting her. He knew she wanted to find out more about him and more about what Constance had been doing in her attempts to raise him. Furiously, he spat, and it turned to embers just as it reached Sunday’s grimacing face. By now, the effort it was taking to keep him around was draining her. A deep-seated fear of what would happen to her friends gave rise to a newfound burst of energy. It was violent and vengeful, and it burst from Sunday’s body.

In spite of all her gifts and all of her training, Sunday hadn’t known Constance was warlock until she’d crossed the demon itself. The shock and anger Sunday felt overrode any wish she’d previously had of getting into the specifics of Constance’s day-to-day planning. She could have disconnected from the demon and collected her aura. She could have centered herself and returned to the investigation of the warehouse to discover Constance’s her spells and incantations. She could have combed through for evidence of the vampires or to figure out why the witch at Bearers had been killed. She could have traced the identities of Constance’s victims and tried to give their families some relief. Instead, Sunday absorbed all the dark energy of black magic and angry ghosts around her and used it to destroy the warehouse just as she’d leveled Bernadette’s manor. All the power she was harnessing pulsed through her body. The ground beneath her feet shook.

The demon laughed once more before dissolving into a cloud of smoke and dissipating into nothing.

You have nothing
, the demon’s voice echoed in her mind.
You have nothing, and I will live again.

Sunday knew she could have probed further, but she didn’t. Instead, Sunday called upon all energies around her and drew them into her chest until she couldn’t contain them anymore. Like a psychic atomic bomb, she triggered an explosion.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Tremors from the warehouse rocked Cyrus’ truck even though it was parked yards away. Crazed with concern for Sunday’s safety, Cyrus dashed from the car and ran to the warehouse door when an explosion threw him back and he tumbled to the ground. From the door, flames burst. He was pulling himself up again ready to run right into them and evacuate Sunday to safety when she walked through the flames confidently and easily as if they hadn’t been there.