Witch's Bell Book One (15 page)

It came at them suddenly, and from
behind a broken, aged headstone. It ran low along the ground, like
a cat at full-speed. It was dark, quick, fat, and had a touch of
red.

Before anyone else reacted, Ebony spun
to the side, gun at the ready. She deliberately waited until the
creature, whatever it was, was almost on top of her. The creature
leaped into the air, aiming directly at her throat. But with a
quick duck, Ebony rolled to the side, coming up right beside the
creature. Rather than shoot it on the spot, she flicked her gun
around in a circle right above its head. Immediately a blue light
followed her move, emblazoning a circle of powerful magical symbols
both at the foot and above the head of the creature, trapping it in
place.

Ebony, her breath still stuck
in her throat, let it out in a gasp.
“What have we got here?” she said through
clenched teeth, gun held tightly in her grip. “Come for a magical
feast?”

The little thing, whatever it was, was
obviously not fond of talking, and replied with a violent, primal
hiss. Its fat, wide jaw snapped open. Its lips stretching back to
reveal row after row of dented yellow fangs.

“
Well, if you're going to be
like that, you can just stay there,” she turned back to the group,
barely registering the shock on their faces, before she motioned
them on.

Her heart was now rattling
around, shaking in her chest like a prisoner at the bars. That was
the thing about operations like this
– you never got used to them. Yes, Ebony
had worked for the police department now for a couple of years, and
yes, her mother was a witch and her father had always been sure to
teach her what she needed to know. But no, that was never enough to
make it easy. There were so many risks, so many unknowns, and the
only thing it seemed possible for her to do, was to keep on her
toes, and keep moving.

Up ahead the path twisted to
the side, more gnarled oaks standing sentinel at its edges. This
would lead to the flattened top of the hill, Ebony reminded
herself, where all the crypts stood. It was perhaps another strange
accident of Valian architecture, but it had never escaped Ebony's
attention that the cemetery was built as a circle within a circle.
The wall that surrounded it was almost perfectly rounded, and
within
–
separating the ordinary headstones from the crypts of the
once-wealthy – was another small, circular wall. While the wall was
hardly an impediment, and not actually intended to keep people out,
it was still a low circle. Which made the whole blasted place a
circle within a circle. Ebony ran her teeth over her lip hard
enough that it brought prickles of pain to her skin.

Ebony simply hoped with all her
might that whatever loon had chosen to break in to the cemetery, on
this terrible stormy evening, hadn't been dumb enough to draw
another circle around the crypt. Because that would make a circle
within a circle, within a circle
– which just so happened to combine two
little things magic thrives on – circles and threes.

Could this day get worse?

She could now make out the
sound of cracking stone filtering in from somewhere between the
crypts. The ghost, no doubt, of whatever poor victim the maniac was
using to summon Death. Deranged, frustrated, and pulled from its
final dreams of life
– the ghost would likely be seeking to destroy
everything it could. Not because it was evil, Ebony assured
herself, but because it was confused. It had died, and now was
being called back to protect everything it had ever lived
for.

Playing jokes on the sleeping was one
thing, but what was happening here was playing jokes on life
itself. Ebony was suddenly reminded of those frustrating movies or
books that would end with the character either waking up and
realizing everything had been a dream, or dying a pointless, and
soulless death. Literally endings that rewrote a once meaningful
story into standing for nothing. You thought it all meant
something, but in the end, you were wrong.

An oak that stood just off the
path gave a peculiar shudder. As if it was a cold security guard
who'd just stood too close to a gutter and received an icy shower
down the back of his collar.
“Duck!” Ebony screamed at once, not waiting to
find out what lurked amongst the branches.

But as she floored herself, flattening
her stomach onto the uneven stone path, a hoard of birds erupted
from the tree. These were no ordinary birds, Ebony realized with a
wince as she caught a glimpse of their glowing hollow
eyes.

With a shudder that threatened
to turn her limbs to jelly, Ebony gasped, rolling to the side as
the birds dipped low over the group.
“Oh no,” she said to no one in
particular.

There was something off about this
whole situation, something rank, something rotten. And Ebony was
finally starting to realize what it was. Those birds, whatever they
were, weren't normal. It wasn't the soulless eyes that did it; it
was the way they moved, the way they felt. In fact, now Ebony took
the time to really feel into this whole situation, she realized
that none of this was normal. None of it. There seemed to be such a
strange magical fog sitting over the cemetery, like a smothering
blanket.

It felt as if something was
here. It felt as if something was watching them. It felt as
if
–

Suddenly a hand descended onto
Ebony's shoulder, and she realized she was still lying on the
ground. Long after the strange birds had swooped off into some
other part of the graveyard, Ebony had simply kept motionless on
the ground. But she pushed herself to her feet now, trying to
ignore the pressed, confused, and worried look in the eyes of
Detective Nate as she rose.
“You okay?” he asked.

Ebony dearly wished she had
some gum, or a candy, or a darn leather bit to bite down on.
“Yeah,” she said
through clenched teeth, “just birds.” Then she faked a dose of
confidence, and stared forward. “Good to go,” she said as she
started off again.

As they entered further into
the area of the crypts, the storm above began to grow more intense.
While it had previously only offered the occasional thunderous
rattle to accompany the drenching rain
– loud, frequent lightening now
flashed in the distance, with deep claps of thunder punctuating the
air with ear-splitting booms.

Finally Ebony caught the scent of
ghosts. Though scent wasn't entirely the right word, it was close
enough. Ghosts left a trail that tickled the inside of your nose.
It was as if your nose knew that it should be picking up some
smell, but simply couldn't. It was the smell, she reasoned, of
something that just didn't smell at all.

She motioned to the side at a
darkened path that led between close, low crypts.
“Ghost,” she turned
and mouthed, “that way.”

Now she was aware of it, her
eyes were starting to pick out the ubiquitous ectoplasm
– a common residue
of otherworldly creatures – covering the grass in clumps, or
sliding off the sides of standing-stones. She even leaned down at
one point, running her drenched fingers through the yucky, sticky
stuff. Though her mother had essentially taught her everything she
knew about ghosts, her father had taught her the patience and
timing of a tracker.

“
It's got friends,” she said to
the rest of the group, voice low but still strong enough to carry
over the calamitous sound of the storm, “maybe three or four. They
aren't powerful though,” she righted herself and continued slowly
towards the narrow space between the crypts. “They'll be very ready
to cross over.”

Not that this would mean anything to
the brash Detective Nate, but the rest of the group should
understand. In ordinary circumstances, a ghost only ever hung
around its body for a week. When the dreaming was done, and the
memories of a life collated, the ghost would depart to the Other
Side. The further into the process a ghost was the less power it
had. It was the memories of the life-once-lived, and the emotions
associated with them, after all, that still anchored the ghost to
the body. The more memories it had been able to process, the less
of a ghostly punch it could still pack.

Ebony carefully, silently made her way
between the crypts. The space was barely wide enough for her to fit
through, so she wasn't surprised when several of her cohort had to
peel off to circumnavigate. But somehow, the broad-shouldered
Detective Nate managed to squeeze in behind her. Perhaps he was a
cat, she thought in an inappropriate moment of levity, or an
octopus, or maybe he was made of putty under all those chiseled
features.

With a whoosh, which she felt before
she could hear, a ghost emanated from the wall of the crypt to her
left. Barely centimeters from her face, the thing just seeped out
of the wall, as if the once-solid stone was merely a hologram or an
optical illusion. Nate had a hand on her shoulder and was yanking
her back, almost before Ebony had really registered it. But with
nowhere to really go in such a tight space, she simply fell against
his chest, like a maiden swooning at her knight.

“
Get back,” he hissed, somehow
managing to position an arm around Ebony, gun pointed directly at
the ghost.

“
Not yet,” she clamped a hand
over his arm, “not until—”

The ghost was a mixture of
colors, shapes, patterns
– all whirling around in a disembodied swirl of
wafting smoke. It was like someone was projecting broken scenes
from a movie right onto the steam wafting off boiling water, or the
smoke from a raging fire. Somehow the thing managed to form a face,
and then a jaw that it opened to screech out a howl. The face
wasn't made of flesh of any color or kind relating to a human or
animal, in fact. It was made of the coalesced smaller images of
before. Each tiny memory as it played out on the wafting smoke,
moved together at once to form the outline, but not the spirit, of
a human head.

It was recognizable, in that way that
sent powerful, but hideously unpleasant jolts punching through your
stomach.

But the ghost didn't attack. It
screamed its unearthly, deeply frustrated scream, and then
disappeared into the wall of the adjoining crypt. Ebony, heart
pounding and arms still shaking, took a moment to steady herself.
She was still pressed up against Nate's chest, but she was hardly
in the mood to recognize the feel of his arms, the cut of his
torso, or the cling of his wet shirt. All she was thankful for, and
all she had the ability to concentrate on, was that she was somehow
okay, for the time being.

But in a second she heard a
blustered shout from just beyond the crypts. She propelled herself
forward, pushing her way from the narrow passage with the speed of
a hawk on the hunt.
“Ben!” she shouted, rounding the corner with her gun
pressed into both hands.

In a second, she saw the rock hurtling
towards the other four members of her team. A giant headstone
thrown from who knows where, but on a direct collision course with
her team-mates. Time slowed down, thankfully, allowing her just the
moments she needed to plunge herself into the object's path, firing
off three rounds into the heart of the stone, until it shattered
into pieces. As time righted itself seamlessly, the shattered
chunks of rock erupted in her face.

Though the rocks were too small to do
any real damage, she still reeled back on her feet, her balance
stolen for a second as her eyes filled with dust, her cheeks and
arms stinging from the impact.

But after a blurry moment she managed
to shake her head and run a quick hand over her eyes, trying to rub
out just enough dust so she could see again.

“
You alright?” Ben asked by her
ear, clasping a hand over her shoulder. “Eb, that was
close.”

She shook her head once more,
blinking rapidly, and just nodded at him. Luckily time had
stretched for her; otherwise she'd wouldn't have gotten there in
time
....

That was the funny thing about
witches and time. Maybe it was due to all their magic, but time
didn't always behave around a witch. For an ordinary, everyday,
non-magical person, time was as steady and reliable as a Volvo. It
didn't waver, only sped up sometimes, and only really slowed down
when you were really, really bored. But for a witch, time would
sometimes hiccup, slowing the world down to moment after moment, as
if it had shifted from a movie, to a picture book
– and some child
was patiently flipping each moment over to the next, wondering at
the marvelously still, colorful pictures.

At other times, time would shoot ahead
like an arrow on its way to a target somewhere off in the distance.
A witch might be carried with it too, living a life that hasn't yet
happened, in a present that only had time for now.

But it was at those moments when time
slowed down, allowing the witch precious seconds to bring about
some change in reality, that made time just as sacred as it was
meant to be. Though it didn't always happen, and you really
couldn't count on it at all, all witches would experience it on
occasion. For some reason, they would be granted just enough time,
and then a little more, to do whatever they had to do.