Then the smoke from the fire changed.
A stranger watching this would yell ‘Witchcraft!’ Or perhaps they’d blame Satan.
Malakai knew it was neither. It was worse.
It was the Widow.
“Malakai,” the Widow had said in his vision. Her voice was syrupy, almost drunk. A forked tongue poked through long, yellowed incisors.
“Yes, Master. I am here.”
“You are close.” The image of the Widow tilted her head back. The long black braids attached to her skull hung down, framing her haggard face. “I can smell it.”
Worlds away.
“I sense it, too.”
“You will need to disguise yourself. Reconnaissance will have to extend. No longer can you slink in the woods by day and seek out the box by night.”
Malakai bowed his head to the apparition.
“You will need to use a concealment spell, but you will need a wand.”
“Master, isn’t that risky?”
“Yes, it is, but it’s a risk we will have to take.” A bigger risk, the Widow let on. She didn’t care if Malakai died in pursuit of the box. If he died, then the location would be known, and she could send another one after it—and another, and another. It was the Order of the Silver Griffins she was worried about. They were legion. And they were detectors of unauthorized magic.
“If they show up, you will kill them. It’s simple,” the Widow stated.
And if you die — well, Malakai, you’ve proven to be quite good at that, she thought to herself.
Though she had some faith in him; enough to resurrect him from the grave. But once double-dead, there was no coming back. One could not have a third chance.
“As you wish, Master,” Malakai answered.
“Good. Good. I will contact you soon. Head northeast. The box is there. I can feel it.”
Malakai nodded as the smoke disappeared, leaving a heavy darkness in the clearing. Black trees stretched to the skies.
And so is Ignatius, the Widow thought as she closed communication with Malakai, her undead soldier. Perhaps he shall kill you again and save me the trouble.
About half a mile from where Malakai stayed, a father and his son were camping. The father’s name was Sean Stocker, and that weekend was his weekend with his eight-year-old, Tyler.
Tyler was sleeping in his tent. The kid had been out since nine, and Sean didn’t know what the hell to do with himself. He loved the kid, but it was an adjustment, that was for sure. He’d brought a book—a scary one, despite it being summer time—‘Salem’s Lot, by Stephen King. It was one he’d read a few times before, but not for a while. Turned out the vampires of Jerusalem’s Lot were too much for Sean, and he didn’t want to be scared, in case Tyler woke up. How would that look? My God, terrible. The kid was young, but he’d never forget his old man practically pissing his Jockeys over words on a page.
So what Sean decided to do instead of read was crack open the six-pack of Bud Light he’d brought along. He was trying to quit the booze, but he still had it as a last resort. He’d knock back a couple, and sleep would hit him; he’d wake up with a little hangover, but that was okay because he was with his son. Tyler would want to go fishing down at the lake a couple miles south, and Sean would teach him how to do it just like his old man taught him decades ago. It would be perfect. So perfect, in fact, Tyler would tell his mom that he wanted to start seeing his pops more than every other weekend. And by golly, Nancy would have to honor her little pumpkin’s wishes, lest she lose brownie points.
It was the perfect plan.
Sean just had to get through the night.
So he drank one beer, then another; the next thing he knew, he was on his way to drunkenness, downing the last one and wishing he’d brought more. He watched the fire sway and move, the deadwood crackle, the logs split.
Soon nature called.
Sean got up. He wouldn’t wander far, not with Tyler asleep in the tent. He walked about twenty paces from the campsite and unzipped. As he relieved himself, one arm leaning up against a tree, he saw a figure move in the blackness.
It wasn’t humanoid.
“You’re just drunk, Sean. Pay it no mind,” he mumbled.
He’d been drunk many times before; hallucinations were not part of the deal, not like when he’d done shrooms in college.
Except, this wasn’t a hallucination. It couldn’t be. He could hear sticks break beneath the thing’s feet and its unsteady breathing like a dying engine; he could see its breath fog the cool night air, and he could…he could smell it.
The first thought that blared in his drunken mind wasn’t ‘I gotta get outta here,’ or ‘Where the fuck are my car keys?’ No. It was actually, Tyler. I’ve got to get Tyler the hell out of here, somewhere safe.
Suddenly, the sound of sticks breaking underfoot stopped.
The idea left Sean that this beast would just go on its way. The buzzing in his head from the beer was gone, too. Talk about a quick way to sober up. He wanted nothing more than to run for his dear life, but he couldn’t.
The beast’s head turned. Under the moonlight, its eyes glittered red—there were eight of them. Run, you idiot, run!
Sean turned. That was a start; better than nothing, right?
Wrong.
The sticks and bramble crunched under the beast’s feet.
It was running now.
Sean glanced over his shoulder. He was power walking—it was the best he could do. Six beers and hardly any cardio over the last two decades were not in his favor.
His foot thumped against a tree root, and his hands splayed out in front of him. He fell for what seemed like hours and hit the ground with bone-shattering force.
He felt phantom
