Ignatius’s magic had so entranced Harry that he hadn’t noticed the Arachnid crawling out of the grave just a few feet away. The Arachnid, no longer in possession of a weapon, went for Ignatius with his bare hands—all six. Those hands grappled Ignatius around the neck before the wizard could finish off Jinxton, and the two entangled bodies fell backward, landing hard in the high grass.
There was a struggle, and then a big blast of magic, and a spider head with dimming red eyes rolled across the clearing toward Harry’s location. Harry could hardly breathe as he watched what was left of the Arachnid fall over.
His eyes shifted to Ignatius. The old wizard was finally beginning to look his age. He was slumped over and scorch marks raked across his face, as if the fire he had conjured possessed claws. Half of his beard was drenched in a mixture of red and black blood, and he struggled to get up.
Laughter filled the air, so cold and sinister that Harry was reminded of the Widow. It was not coming from Ignatius; he didn’t think the old wizard could breathe, let alone laugh.
The sound came from Jinxton. He was up now, his own face beaten and his body slumped. He held his sword. In his eyes—all eight of them—a fire raged. It was one that screamed for death, the death of Ignatius Mangood.
“You had a good run—” Jinxton began to say, but Harry couldn’t wait around any more.
He didn’t trust his magic as much as he trusted his wits, but now was the time to use it. He sent a simple bolt in Jinxton’s direction, and it was all he needed to knock the poor Arachnid bastard out. Jinxton didn’t even know what hit him. The magic blasted him in the side of the skull with as much force as a sledgehammer.
Lucky the Arachnids had such hard heads; anything else would’ve been dead. Harry was not a killer. He lied, cheated, and stole, but never killed.
Jinxton toppled over, his sword skittering across the grass the same way the other wizard’s wand had done. Ignatius snapped his head toward the direction of the trees as Harry stepped out. Hesitantly, Harry raised a hand.
“Hi there!” he said, trying not to notice how his voice squeaked as if he were going through puberty again. The truth was simple: Harry was nervous. It wasn’t every day he got to meet a legend. It certainly wasn’t every day that he got to steal from a legend.
“Thank you, friend,” Ignatius called back weakly. He tried to stand up, but did so woozily, like he was a few glasses of Firejuice in. That was another legend—that Ignatius Mangood could stomach Firejuice, as if the blood of Anwyn coursed through his veins.
Harry shook his head. He didn’t particularly like himself for this, but he had people to save. Maybe I can redeem myself for this. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.
He raised his hand again. “I’m a huge fan, Ig—can I call you Ig? Ah, never mind, I’m gonna call you Ig. Anyway, you’re very welcome. It was actually quite an honor to help you out; it’s not every day I get to help out one of my heroes.” Then Harry turned his head and whispered to himself, “It’s also not every day I get to knock out one of my heroes.”
“What was that?” Ignatius asked. “You’ll have to excuse me. This battle has thrown me for quite a loop. Moons! The last week has thrown me for quite a loop.”
The wizard spoke as if the corpse of his daughter wasn’t a few feet away from him. He stood straighter, looking like the force he was said to be. He turned his back on Harry and shook his head at the headless Arachnid currently settled on top of his companion, Salem.
“Friend, do you think you could help me with one last thing?”
Harry had crept over to the wrapped bundle that was Ignatius’s daughter. He pulled a knife out and cut through two of the ropes tied around the sheet. The smell of decay hit him full-force. He brought up his other hand to cover his nose, but it didn’t do much good.
“What are you doing?” Ignatius’s voice boomed.
Harry stood up straight. “To answer your question, I’m just doing my job. It’s nothing personal.”
With that, he conjured up the same spell he had used on the Arachnid, and the magic pummeled Ignatius’s stomach. It was the magical equivalent to a sucker punch and no, Harry didn’t feel good about it.
The old wizard doubled over and gasped for breath, falling to his knees. To be thorough, Harry sent another bolt of magic, to the top of Ignatius’s head. As soon as it connected, Ignatius collapsed.
Harry had knocked out one of the world’s most powerful wizards.
If only my mother were still alive. She’d be so proud—well, maybe a bit disappointed, but mostly proud. She’d never hung his macaroni pictures up on the refrigerator, but she might, after he proved his worth by knocking Ignatius Mangood unconscious. Or…probably not. It wasn’t like he still made macaroni pictures. At least, not often.
Back to business.
He cut the last rope and almost instantly regretted it. The corpse beneath the canvas sheet was long rotted away. It wore a silken dress of a deep red that reminded Harry of blood. The corpse also wore many jewels: rings with diamonds as big as Harry’s eyes, gold bracelets that were welded into the bone, earrings that lay next to the skull and brittle hair, where the ears would’ve been before they rotted away. He thought of taking these, too; they’d be worth a good amount of coin.
No, you’re better than that, Harry.
Am I?
And then there was the necklace.
Yes, the necklace. It sat in the hollow of her dress, sunken in toward her spine. He reached out for it and paused, his fingers inches away from the ruby. Images of zombies from Earth stories flashed in his mind—people who died
