A bolt of humming black energy struck him hard, hurling him to the floor atop his child. He tried to continue the spell, but the words would not come and his child’s life slowly ticked away.
He rolled over, gazing up into the sneering face of Algernon Stearns. It was bright red and blistered from the magick that had struck him, but Deacon could see that he was already healing.
The life energies from Hiroshima had made the sorcerer strong…had made them all strong.
“Please,” Deacon begged. “Let me save my son. Then everything I have…everything I know…it’s yours.”
The other members of the cabal came to stand beside their leader, all of them staring at Deacon with utter contempt in their eyes.
“Let me kill the boy,” Heath slurred through swollen lips and broken teeth.
Stearns ignored the fat sorcerer, his gaze fixed on Deacon.
“Please,” Deacon tried again, feeling his child’s life continue to slip away.
“It already belongs to me,” Stearns said, and he smiled as his hand began to pulse with an unearthly glow.
Still looking into Deacon’s eyes, Stearns thrust his hand downward, a flash of light leaving the tips of his fingers to strike the child laboring to breathe-fighting to remain alive.
And the child breathed no more.
Deacon lost all connection to the world with his son’s dying gasp. “Why?” he cried over and over again as he cradled his son tightly in his arms. “Why? Why? Why?”
“Because you gave me the power to do so,” Stearns said, leaning in close to whisper in his ear.
Deacon felt himself start to slip away, Stearns’ malignant words echoing down the lengthening corridor of his approaching unconsciousness.
He knew that he had the power to strike one last time, but also knew that it would be for naught; Stearns and the others would only strike him dead and take everything that he had worked so hard to achieve.
Though the darkness tugged at him, Deacon managed to wrest himself from its grip, forcing his way up through the ocean of oblivion, back to the realm of consciousness. Through bleary eyes he watched as they pillaged his study, as from deep within the recesses of his memory a spell slowly bubbled upward like a bloated, gas-filled corpse rising from the bottom of a murky lake.
And as he uttered the arcane words and the magick began to flow, the mansion started to shake-a slight tremor, barely noticeable at first-but growing in intensity and strength. Stearns stumbled as the floor beneath his feet bucked and heaved.
“You did this,” the sorcerer snarled, trying to keep his footing as he turned back to where Deacon still lay across the body of his son.
“Because I can,” Deacon echoed mockingly, trying with all his might to stay alive and to see the magickal manifestation of his power through.
The mansion began to creak and moan as its structure was challenged, and the shadows within became like a hungry thing, bottomless and black.
Drawing the house into its maw.
The Deacon estate, consumed by darkness.
CHAPTER FOUR
The vessel had to be filled before he could return to his creator.
Zeroing in on the collective pulse of multiple life energies, the vessel strolled down the quiet city street until he came upon the nightclub. He moved toward the door, drawn to the hum of vitality within, but he was blocked by a large, bearded man whose own body vibrated with excess vim and vigor.
“Fifty-dollar cover,” the man announced.
The vessel stepped back to assess the situation. He appeared human, although was far from it, and had the strength to easily snap this man’s neck and simply walk into the bar brimming with life. But his creator had also given him far less destructive means of getting what he required. He reached into the back pocket of his trousers and removed a wallet filled with several types of currency.
“Fifty-dollar cover,” the vessel repeated as he held out a fifty-dollar bill.
The bouncer’s hand closed around the cash, snatching it from the vessel’s grasp. Their fingers touched briefly as the exchange was made, and the vessel sampled some of the large man’s energy. It was relatively healthy, clean of any terminal disease. The selection was accepted, and now the vessel was that much closer to being full.
The big man swayed ever so slightly, then seemed to shake it off as he pulled open the door for the club’s newest guest.
“Enjoy yourself,” he said, as the vessel passed by him on his way inside.
The vibrancy of life emanating from within nearly pulled the vessel down a red-lit corridor, electronic music growing louder, beating like a strong, healthy heart. The hallway ended at the top of a metal staircase and the vessel stopped for a moment to watch the activity on the dance floor below him-bodies overflowing with an abundance of vivacity, their exuberant gyrations beckoning him, calling him to walk among them.
To sample the vitality they radiated.
The vessel descended to the dance floor. With hands outstretched, he waded into the sea of bodies, and everyone he passed, everyone he casually brushed up against, filled him with their life.
The Shadow Lands
Sixty-seven Years Ago
It was dark in the Shadow Lands, but then again, when wasn’t it? That was probably one of the things Squire liked most about the place: It didn’t pretend to be anything other than what it was.
The hobgoblin pulled his tattered cloak about his squat, muscular body as a freezing wind from another time and place found its way into the repository of shadows to caress him.
It was a realm of perpetual darkness, a place connected to all the shadows that ever existed-then, now, and even into the future. Traveling the Shadow Paths could take him just about anywhere, but for right now, the hobgoblin was content where he was.
Squire sat, reveling in the quiet. He couldn’t recall how long he had been here this time but knew that this was where he needed to be…where he belonged.
The long hairs on the back of his thick neck suddenly came to attention, and the hobgoblin was in motion, pulling the concealed machete from inside his cloak to meet the attack from one of the myriad life-forms that called this black realm its home. Shades of darkness writhed about him, and he narrowed his vision to see the beastie that used the shifting colors of black and gray for cover.
It was insectoid in its basic design, and he had run into one or two before. Squire also recalled that its meat was quite tasty, if one enjoyed the flavor of rotting meat soaked in Listerine, which he did.
The creature attacked high, and Squire went low, slicing the blade that he had sharpened that very morning across the exoskeletoned belly of the large bug. Its innards spilled out onto the ground, its life ended before it could even complete its leap.
Squire was used to such things, always waiting, always ready for that next attack. For as long as he could remember, somebody or something was trying to kill him.
The hobgoblin figured that it probably all started with his birth, when his kicking and screaming from his mother’s womb resulted in her death. That didn’t go over well with his father, to say the least. And from that day forward it seemed as though someone had pinned a sign on his back saying KILL ME, and that’s what everybody had been trying to do since.
Of course, it hadn’t helped that he’d gotten himself mixed up with a band of would-be heroes-monsters, ghosts, and magick users trying to save from various supernatural threats a version of the Earth that he had made his home. At first that had seemed like a really good idea, but in the end…
Not so much.
The hobgoblin hated for his thoughts to go there; he’d spent too long remembering what had happened to his friends and the world that they had been trying to save. Emphasis on trying.
But failing miserably.
