“Stop!” Crenshaw ordered as the zombies sprinted without pause up the staircase after Howards.
“Never!” he called back, disappearing through a door.
“Is everyone alright? Can you back us up?” Scott said into his comm, but there was only static. He coughed, no blood this time but he was still grateful for the ride. He slid off the zombie’s back as they approached the door. One of them kicked it down, and they saw Howards alone in his lab, leaning against a table. A quick sweep of the room was all it took to see the entire floor was the lab, one large space, and Metatech needed it. Strange machines and tanks, flasks filled with mysterious chemicals, computers with ominously-glowing screens lined the walls and were scattered on tables. However, the entire half of the room was dedicated to a large vat, a robotic arm mounted to the top and tearing pages from a book to drop them in. The hot liquid bubbled red, and both Crenshaw and Scott realized this was where the Taboo was produced.
“Welcome, intruders.” Dr. Howards said, sweeping his arms out. “This is the singlemost advanced laboratory on the planet. It’s also the most durable. Allow me to-” Crenshaw’s gun fired, red-hot slugs of death careening to the doctor. Unfortunately the bullets were stopped in midair, seemingly encased in orange gelatinous bubbles. “-show you. How rude.” The doctor said, straightening his tie.”
“It’s some kind of automatic defense, but it’s not like any shield spell I’ve ever heard of!” Scott said, taking cover behind a zombie. He stared at the jiggling bubbles, mind racing. “It’s almost like-”
“They’re alive?” Howards cackled. The bubbles sprouted eyes and opened and closed gelatinous mouths, dissolving the slugs in their acidic bodies. “Prepare yourselves, fools!”
“What are these things, Havenbrook!” Crenshaw said, shooting the monsters as they flew towards them, Howards laughing maniacally as he fiddled at the table, drawing on a piece of paper.
“I don’t know-yipe!” He ducked as a monster snapped at his head, his zombie turning and punching it into smithereens. Its’ hand began to smoke. Scott supposed that would be very painful, if it could feel pain. He resolved not to let those things touch him. “I think they’re artificial lifeforms, conjured by magic to protect him!”
“Very astute, young man, very astute! The boss has been very generous, giving me plenty of research subjects and materials!” He took out a knife and sliced his palm open, letting the blood drop into a beaker full of dark-colored liquid. He quickly put a cork in it and shook it, the goop turning a lighter shade of green and frothing. He hurled it at Crenshaw, shattering on the wall when the agent ducked out of the way.
“What is this stuff?” Crenshaw yelled, watching the substance bubble and expand, growing exponentially. He gasped in horror and ducked as an arm made out of the slime rose up and took a swipe at his face. He watched as a dripping head formed, a vague suggestion of eyes and a gaping mouth. “H-Havenbrook!”
“A little busy here!” Scott cried as he drew markings on the floor, huddled behind his zombies and chanting frantically as they fired at the doctor and his minions. Dr. Howards was grinning madly as he chanted as well, returning fire with black bolts of light from his finger. The zombies were durable, but they were getting fried with each hit. “Take this, you bastard! K’lthnoz, engoth veracivitae alumon krofdna efnk quazadta!” He grimaced from the pain shooting through his body and spat blood, but it was worth it as Dr. Howards stopped grinning and fell over. He tried to move his legs, but they buzzed with numbness.
“You paralyzed my legs?” he said, getting one of his minions to help him climb onto the table. The numbness was fading already, but it would be a moment before he would be able to move.
“G-Get him, guys.” Scott ordered, and the zombies advanced, splattering the orange creatures with their limbs as they went. The necromancer shook his head. He wasn’t going to be moving quickly anytime soon. “No choice. Tarantulas, spiderleg mode!”
His backpack hissed and rustled, and Dr. Howards raised an eyebrow as rib bones sliced through the fabric and held fast to the teen. Scott winced as the bone spikes pierced into his back along his spine, the tendrils encased in them connecting to his nervous system. It stung, a lot, but it was nothing compared to connecting his body to the Zombie Titan Mk. 1, he’d learned much from that experience. For example, instead of using himself to try and move an undead monstrosity, he connected the larger form to a smaller monster that wouldn’t require so many connections to his body. In this case, four of Tarantulas’s legs, shoved into specially constructed bone extenders that burst from the pack and lifted him into the air with superior strength, dangling there like a spider.
“Amber’s not the only wall-crawler anymore.” he muttered to himself, his connection to his four new limbs strong. He grinned as Crenshaw shrieked, the ooze monster simply absorbing his fire, and quickly sludged over his boots. With not even a thought, Scott leapt into the air, cutting through the ooze with one swipe of a bone leg. The creature howled and turned, trying to slap him into paste, but the bone legs let the necromancer nimbly leap and dodge out of the way with grace.
“Yaaaaahhhh!” Crenshaw screamed, the ooze rearing up, his legs stuck in its body. Scott grimaced as his bones rattled; all this movement wasn’t good for him. The ooze shrieked and punched down into the floor again and again, its arms reabsorbing every time they separated. Scott had an idea, but he had to get Crenshaw free first.
“Take this!” He reared back and drove two bone legs into the ooze, stunning it long enough to reach a hand to Crenshaw. “Hurry!” The agent grasped his hand and Scott heaved, trying to pull the ooze apart. The process was slow, and he saw the bone began to dissolve in the monster’s body. “No, no, nonononono…yyyyyeeeeeaaaarrrrhhhhh!” With a splortch, Scott freed Crenshaw and tore the ooze in two, splattering everywhere as the two masses of slime smacked into the ground. He jumped into the corner with Crenshaw, watching the creature howling and moving to congeal back together, much more slowly this time.
“What-What the hell is this, Havenbrook!?” Crenshaw said panting, patting himself where the slime touched him. Those parts were smoking.
“D’you mean the Doc Ock arms, the green slime, or the Doc over there?” he answered, glancing at Howards. His zombies hadn’t made it closer, still splattering the minions being used as shields, but evidently Howards couldn’t call up any more orange blobs, so Scott called it a win. That is, if the good doctor wasn’t leaning on the wall, on unsteady legs. “Crap. That curse only lasted thirty seconds.”
“Forget him, how do we beat that monster?” Crenshaw said, staring at his useless gun. Scott shrugged.
“Dunno, blow it up?”
“Can’t you kill it with your magic?” Crenshaw demanded, exasperated. “We’re lacking in dynamite!”
“Death magic would require me to touch it, it would eat me if I tried! Besides, I’m not sure that thing’s alive anyway. However…” he grinned, his eyes flashing. He hadn’t planned to use it here, but they had to press forward, and quickly.
Even though he was dying, even though he had lost everything, even though necromancy had cursed and isolated him, he couldn’t help but enjoy the fringe benefits.
“I did bring us some boom.” He turned to his zombies, which had almost eradicated the shield of blob creatures protecting the good doctor.
“Well, that’s it for me.” Dr. Howards muttered, digging gout another vial from his pocket. He poured it onto his head, the purple slime dripping down his neck and shoulders, forming into a strange bat-winged creature covered in eyes, wrapped around his torso much like Tarantulas around Scott. “Farewell, intruders!” Aided by the creature flapping its wings, Dr. Howards jumped to the window and smashed through, taking flight.
“No! Stop him!” Scott said.
“Forget it, we need to focus on saving our own hides!” Crenshaw countermanded, firing into the green ooze, rejoined and looming up, even angrier.
“Grrr…fine. Guards, open your bags! Groucho, Chico, Harpo, Zippo, Margaret, you’re up!” he commanded, and the zombies obeyed. Out of the bags came five fat rats, curiously lumpy, scuttling over to their master. “It’s time for death and glory! Attack the green ooze!” The rats chittered and ran at the gloppy monster, throwing themselves headlong at it. The creature brought a heavy arm down, but the rats were too fast and burrowed into its body, chewing through mucouslike slime.
“What-” Crenshaw started, but Scott flung out a hand dramatically.
“Now!” The rats hunched over and straightened as one. Scott grabbed Crenshaw and with a mighty leap of the bone legs hurled them away. “Cover us! Get down!” The zombie commandos threw themselves on their master and the agent as a heartbeat went by, the ooze creature roaring a challenge. Another heartbeat, then…KA-BOOM! KA-BOOM! KA-BOOM!
The monster shrieked and moaned as it collapsed and dissolved into a thin, bubbling, watery substance, the grenades the rats were carrying having done their job. Crenshaw coughed in the smoke and crumbling plaster, and sat up, staring at the destruction. There was little left of the lab, the debris was mostly on fire, and there was a hole in the wall. Or rather, there was some bricks where the wall used to be. He turned to the necromancer, clearing out his ringing ears.
“Zombie suicide bombers?” he said.
“What? Oh yeah. Williams helped me set up the grenades. I wish I didn’t have to use up all five, though.” He stared at the ooze monster’s head, still groaning and alive. On his bone legs, he walked over and stabbed it, splattering it for good. “Jeez, even that wasn’t enough for a full kill.” he said, watching a crack in the leg split wider. Crenshaw sighed and got on his comm.
“This is Crenshaw. All units report in. Status?”
“Crenshaw! You’re (bzzzt) alive! Are (bzzt) okay? Is the kid okay?” The comm was staticy and faint, and he frowned as Cross sighed in relief.
“Cross, you’re breaking up. Agents, come in. What’s going on?”
“Mission’s borked, sir.” Price came on, sounding exhausted. “Loomis is down, Hewett is incapacitated, zombies are gone, and Williams is incommunicado, but when we passed the door the office was destroyed and the railing Samagan was cuffed to had been ripped outta the cement and embedded in the wall, doesn’t look good. Fausto turned out to be a monster, some kind of Satan-looking guy.”
“A daemon.” Scott muttered, scowling. This wasn’t good.
“We retreated, we’re in the van. It was all we could do to get out alive. We don’t know where Fausto is, could be anywhere. If it weren’t for those zombies Scott gave us we wouldn’t have made it. We’re currently resupplying, but we don’t know how long it’ll be until we get up there again, or how much help we’ll be.” Price added bitterly.
“Did you see a man fly out through a window?” Crenshaw asked. “Do you know which way he went?”
“Huh? No-?”
“Damn. We pursued Howards into his lab, he sicced slime monsters on us. We blew them up-”
“‘We?’” Scott said, but Crenshaw ignored him.
“-but he got away. At least the Taboo refinery machine’s been destroyed.” he finished.
“Hate to break up this little powwow, but we’ve got incoming. Delacroix’s personal chopper’s been radioed, it’s headed your way now. I’m also picking up police signals, they’re on their way too, apparently there are terrorists attacking Metatech Pharmaceuticals.” Cross barked. Crenshaw turned and stared out the hole, where NYPD copters could be seen in the distance. That…they weren’t…he’d cleared it with his superiors, there wasn’t supposed to be any interference! “What’re we gonna do?”
Crenshaw looked at the helicopters, at the necromancer tending to his wounds with a scowl, and glanced at the ceiling. They were only seven flights away. He nodded.
“Roger. You all get yourselves back to the base in the hotel, the retreat to the safehouse in Albany. Special Agent Havenbrook and I will attempt to eliminate the final target, otherwise they could resume operations. That is, if you’re feeling up to it, Havenbrook.” he said to the teen, ripping Tarantulas free from the damaged bone legs. The first two had dissolved form the monster’s body.
“We’re the closest, it’s our only shot to get the guy who made Amber fly off. Yeah, I’m going for him, you there or not.” he grunted.
“What! I don’t believe you two, that is the absolute worst-” Crenshaw tapped his comm, shutting off Cross’s squawking.
“Right. We might not make it out alive.”
“I’m not anyway, no matter what.” Scott said simply. Crenshaw nodded.
“Right. Let’s go.”
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“Your evacuation helicopter will land in t-minus eight minutes, sir.” Delacroix’s phone buzzed.
“Right. I’ll be along presently.” He hung up and opened his desk drawer. He threw out the contents, then placed his ring into a hidden depression. There was a click, and the false bottom opened to reveal his greatest treasure, and the source of all his power: the Libris Malefactorum Arcana. He picked up the ancient black text and slid it into a specially-designed holster strap in his suit jacket, created for just such an occasion. In fact, all his suits had the same feature. He rifled through his drawers, tossing aside reports and charts in favor of filling his pockets with special rocks and papers with sigils inscribed on them, folded very carefully. He got up and shifted a painting to the side, entering in the combination to a small safe behind it. It swung open, and Delacroix smiled at the hideous gold monkey statue.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“There we are. Come to papa.” He carefully picked it up and put it in his pocket, muttering a small incantation to keep it secure. Once that was done he paused, listening to the sound of gunfire and footsteps, drawing closer. Forgoing anything else from his office, he crossed to the wall and hit the button, sliding the doors to his private elevator open. That wasn’t the only door that opened though; the grand doors leading in were smashed down, five commandos rushing in, guns drawn.
“Good evening gentlemen. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company tonight?” he said, turning to face them and sounding supremely unperturbed.
“It’s over, Delacroix! We know about your Taboo production, and we’ve ended it! Surrender peacefully, or be shot!” Crenshaw said, finger on the trigger.
“I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean.” Delacroix said, grinning like a tiger.
“Yeah, get bent. FIRE!” Scott ordered, his zombies unloading the rest of their clips at the company president.
“Swvah.” he said simply, and the bullets impacted his shielding spell. Scott grunted.
“Knew it. Grab him, you fools!” The zombies threw down their guns and charged, but Delacroix threw a small pebble onto the floor in front of them. The carpet rippled and swirled, becoming as viscous and deadly as quicksand. The zombies sunk to their waists in the floor, helpless despite all their strength. Scott snorted.
“You see my little necromancer, Taboo distillation is a very useful process. We take pages of the Libris Malefactorum Arcana and render them down into a liquid. Dr. Howards is a genius. He can coat all sorts of drugs with whatever spell we desire, or he can refine the concoction even further to create pre-made spells. No ritual circle, no incantations, just poof! Instant magic. For example.” He held up another stone, a dull red. “This will summon my Head of Shipping in a flash, no muss, no fuss. All you need do is break it.” He let go, and Scott and Crenshaw’s eyes were wide as they watched it fall, splintering on the ground. A bloody circle with a pentagram formed instantly, the room darkening as Fausto’s daemonic form rose form the center.
“Hah, another batch of soldier boys for me to wreck? You do know how to treat me, master.” he said, cracking his knuckles and smiling sharply.
“Indeed, Johan. Please enjoy their blood and screams with my compliments. See you, intruders.” With a smile and a two-fingered salute, Delacroix stepped back into the elevator and the doors closed. Crenshaw fired two bullets, but the doors were bulletproof. Suddenly Fausto was there, squeezing the barrel of his gun flat and waving an admonishing finger in his face.
“Ah-ah-ahhhh. That’s not the way we play this game. The rules are, I hurt you and you scream.” he said sinisterly. “In facghhmph!” Crenshaw’s hand shoved into his gaping maw and pulled out, ducking for cover and Scott doing the same, shouting
“Now!” A bird’s head popped out of Fausto’s mouth, and he stared at it for a moment in confusion.
“Ca-caw!” Long enough for the grenade the bird had been carrying to explode in the daemon’s throat. He reeled back, gasping and dripping blood and gore, but still very much alive.
“Yuuugh…llll ghlll yuuuuuu!” he choked. Crenshaw winced as he saw the daemon missing his throat and jaw.
“How is it still alive?”
“Daemons are tougher than you think, they’re not made of ordinary matter. But he’s not Delacroix!” Scott said, grimacing. He tested the floor, and it was still like quicksand. Fausto, of course, could simply flap his wings and remain above it like nothing, but Scott didn’t have any weight-altering or levitation spells, all he had were zombies stuck in the goop. But that gave him an idea. “Can you deal with the daemon?” he asked Crenshaw.
“Not really, no. Were you going after Delacroix?” Crenshaw said, hurriedly pulling out his revolver as Scott nodded. “Then I will make do. Have your men grab the beast and pull him into the floor. I will make sure the daemon will be encased.”
“Got it. Zombies! Throw me to the door!” He jumped into the arms of one, and was passed like a football to the elevator. Fausto flapped his wings and howled, but a hail of gunfire from Crenshaw made him turn.
“You’re dealing with me, not him. Come on, I’ll rip the rest of your head off.” he said.
“Lll ghhhlllll oooh allllll!” Fausto shrieked, flexing and flaring his wings. He pointed a finger at the agent, rearranging his insides to expel the bullets inside him back. Crenshaw dropped his gun to Fausto’s surprise and leapt forward, grabbing his finger and shoving it into the floor as he fell. Fausto snarled and brought his other hand up, but Crenshaw grabbed that too and plunged it into the viscous ground before he could react.
“Ooool!” Faust started working his wings, trying to fly free. Crenshaw hooked his heel around the daemon’s thigh and slammed it back into the muck, making it more difficult to break out. “Aaahh are ooh ooiee!?”
“Havenbrook! Your guards! Grab him now!” Crenshaw shouted to the wide-eyed necromancer.
“B-But then you’ll-”
“Now!” Crenshaw ordered. Shocked and hesitant, Scott saw the daemon beginning to pull free. This was their only chance.
“G-Guards! Grab the daemon!” he commanded, eyes closed. The undead soldiers moaned and reached out entangling hands, the farthest one not even coming close but the other two snaring him and holding him down as they sank. “C-Crenshaw!”
“This is fine! I’ve spent the last twenty years wrestling with the unnatural, it’s fitting this is my last operation!” he shouted, squeezing Fausto tightly as he thrashed and flailed.
“Eeeeh ooohhhh eee!” Fausto howled, flapping his wings, trying to wiggle, turn, or break free. His great strength, enough to rip a truck in half, would have easily freed him-had he been able to use it. Laying at the angle he was at, being grabbed and pulled, he couldn’t brace on anything, couldn’t actually push off of anything. The more he tried to futily gain leverage, the more he sank with Crenshaw.
“You don’t have time for this. Forget me. Go!” Crenshaw said. Scott, eyes flickering green, nodded and turned, entering the elevator. Crenshaw smiled as the doors closed on the necromancer.
“Ooh oool! Ooh ill aie ooo!” Fausto said, his body swallowed by the ground.
“So be it. Death comes for us all. Including your kind!” Both of their heads sank through the floor, and the office was quiet.
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Scott was panting heavily as the elevator rose. His bones ached, his muscles felt shredded, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and not get up again. His eyes flickered with necrotic energy, the unnatural toxic emerald glow winking on and off erratically. He hacked up a glob of blood and spat into the corner. This wasn’t good. All this fighting and spellcasting had drained him more than he’d thought; his estimate of a month seemed generous, with how strained he was. At this rate, he wouldn’t last a week. He clenched his fist, breathing deeply. If that was what happened, so be it. The bastard who was responsible for the Taboo, responsible for Amber, was on the roof. He choked the blood down and unzipped his bulging pack to get out Tarantulas. The multiple rat heads hissed and squeaked eagerly.
“That’s right, boy. He won’t be getting away.”
The bell dinged, and the doors slid open to see Delacroix standing under the moon, flanked by two bodyguards, the helicopter growing in the distance.
“Where…d’you think you’re going?” Scott wheezed. The company president turned, regarding the necromancer with a disdainful eye.
“Hmm, you got past Fausto. The Lower Race was supposed to be competent. Oh well. Shoot him.” he ordered, and the guards raised their assault rifles and opened fire. Scott dove behind the AC unit, the only cover there was.
“Ugh.” he moaned, coughing. His insides felt runny and hot, but he would not allow himself to fall before his vengeance was through. He shook his head. “Yeah, this ain’t happening.” He stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. From the darkening sky encircling the building came his three birds, each zombified and carrying a grenade. He grinned. “All of them!” he commanded, and the birds dutifully pulled the pins and dropped their payloads. “Death form above!”
The guards screamed as the explosions erupted around them, blowing one away and knocking the other off the building. Scott sent a quick mental apology and a promise to resurrect them later, if possible. Delacroix of course, was unhurt with his shield spell. He took his hands out of his pockets and started to clap sarcastically slow.
“Bravo, just bravo. You’ve managed to eliminate what, two of my mundane guards? And I think you might’ve been able to wrinkle my jacket with all this wind. Top of the grade. Good job, good job.”
“Shut up.” Scott growled.
“I’d love to stay and play with you some more, but my ride’s here. How does it feel, accomplishing nothing?” Delacroix continued, the biggest smile on his face below hard, glinting eyes.
“I said shut up! Tarantulas!” At his shout Tarantulas leapt onto Delacroix from behind, having snuck up on him in the confusion. Delacroix turned and managed to catch it with his elbow, but the spidery legs clamped down on his arm, extending its’ rat heads on bone protrusions, biting and snapping at his face.
“Aaugh! What is this!?” Delacroix cried, weaving and shaking his arm. “Get off me!” With a heave, he flung the creature off his arm, but then noticed Scott right in front of him, his palm glowing green, pulsing with necrotic energy. With a furious howl, the necromancer slammed his palm into Delacroix’s chest.
“Sekh!”
“Heizvahkh!” Delacroix incanted, and Scott watched in horror as the necrotic power left his palm…and did absolutely nothing.
“W-What? That spell-”
“Goddamn brat!” Delacroix threw a right hook that smashed into Scott’s jaw, rattling his brain. The teen fell to the ground, but didn’t even get time to register that before Delacroix started kicking and stomping him, each hit a burst of fresh pain in his organs. “That was, of course, the opposite spell of yours. Think about it.” The point of his shoe ripped into Scott’s gut, making him double over. “All that little incantation does is channel the energy of death! To counter it all you need is a burst of life energy to cancel it out! Positive and negative! Moron.” He finished with a stomp to Scott’s hand, making him cry out. The company president stood up and straightened his suit out, smoothing the lines form his exertion.
Back inside, Fausto and Crenshaw were sucked all the way through the floor, falling through a burst of plaster and rubble. The daemon bellowed and clawed the zombies clinging to him into shreds while Crenshaw saw his chance and snuck away behind a desk, clutching his aching ribs.
“No, no, no.” he muttered under his breath, limping low behind cover as the daemon rampaged, trying to find him. The comm in his ear had been flicked on, so he could hear what had transpired. “Keep it together, Havenbrook. I’m coming.” He hadn’t prepared to give his life just so Havenbrook could fail now. He peered over the desk he was crouched behind, Fausto letting out a roar and stream of flame from his mouth in rage. “Hopefully.”
Back on the roof, Delacroix turned and began to walk away, but he heard a cough behind him. He looked to see Scott rise to his unsteady feet, battered and bloody, but not broken yet. “You serious? You look like a zombie.”
“How…appropriate.” Scott said, panting heavily. Suddenly, a huge spotlight was shone down on the roof, blinding him.
“This is the police! Throw down your weapons and surrender!”
“Are you freaking kidding me!?” he yelled, stomping his foot in frustration. “Larry, Moe, Curly, go!” The undead avians cawed and flew at the police copter, covering the windows and harrying the doors. “Rrrraaaaaahhhhh!” Having no other options left, Scott charged forward, snatching up an assault rifle on of Delacroix’s guards had dropped and letting loose, trying to angle around his shield spell. Delacroix merely turned, laughing.
“You won’t get away with this, Mr. Havenbrook!” he said, ducking to the side as bullets whizzed past him. Scott paused, still aimed at him.
“How do you know my name?” Scott snarled.
“I know more than that, little necromancer.” he grinned. “I know what happened to your little girlfriend, it’s very amusing, I know all about that outfit you and Cross work for, and I know you won’t survive tonight. Wanna know how I know all this?” Delacroix smirked, hand on his chin.
“Because I told him.” One voice cut through the chaos and noise of the shouting, helicopters, and gunfire. It was cold, but not harsh; instead, it possessed an oily, slimy quality that chilled him to the bone and hung in his ears for far too long. It was the voice of a nightmare in the early waking hours. Something had grabbed his ankle, and he saw a black shadow, human-shaped, latching a clawlike hand onto his leg. A horrible, terrifyingly familiar toothy white grin split the head in half, but now it turned a single burning pink eye onto him. His heart stopped. His blood was ice. His mind was blank. “Hello again, Scott.
Terrifying memories of the thing in Brian’s shadow flashed through his head. But now it was here, in this world and itwasgrabbinghim!
“Rie…Rie…” he said breathlessly, the shock stealing his voice.
“Riepaimva, thank you much.” it giggled, clamping down tighter. He tried to scream, but the sound wouldn’t come. He tried to aim the gun in his hands at his own leg to shoot it off, but his hands would not move, no matter how hard he tried. “It’s no use. I’ve got you now.” He grabbed Scott’s other leg. “Ke’valsh agtona fhtyunghj eslpgyrndn ouibbu-hxdhnvf anghtyewyv! Ke’valsh agtona fhtyunghj eslpgyrndn ouibbu-hxdhnvf anghtyewyv! Ke’valsh agtona fhtyunghj eslpgyrndn ouibbu-hxdhnvf anghtyewyv!” he chanted impossibly quickly, the words seeming to arrive at the same time. Scott’s birds fell away, severed form the animating power. “Time to do as the policeman said, Scott.” His hands threw down the gun as Delacroix’s private helicopter arrived, the businessman cklimbing aboard. The police’s spotlight shone down on Scott’s face, a mask of calmness and neutrality belieing the panic within. “Good. Now walk, puppet.” The shadowy black arms began to walk his legs manually, his body moving helplessly as the accursed abomination wished. “You know, I must thank you, Scott. If I had been bound to that friend of yours, I’d never be able to put this plan into motion. And he was sooo boring and stupid. Really, it’s for the best he died. Of course, he was still mine, so I have to kill you for that.”
“L-Liar.” Scott choked out, tears running down his face. The edge was coming closer and closer, and no matter how he struggled, no matter what spell he could think of, there was nothing he could do to stop it.
“Ah, you got me there. I could care less about that fool. His death was part of my plan, in fact. And you’ve been a big help to me, doing my will in killing him and staging this little assault. But now, your usefulness has come to an end, and I don’t want you attempting to stop me, no matter how much you couldn’t. Like swatting an annoying fly.” Riepaimva said, grinning maliciously.
“No…nng, rrgh!” Scott strained his muscles as hard as he could, but there was nothing that could be done.
Cross watched white-faced with the other agents in the van as a news chopper recorded what was happening, broadcasting live. She could see him walk to the edge, but could hear what was really going on.
“Dear God…kid, no…” she said breathlessly.
The dark god had walked him to the edge, the city lights below, the spotlights all shining down on him. Delacroix had bundled himself into his personal helicopter, while three others circled the building. The whipping wind chilled the beads of sweat on his skin, his heart thudding in his chest. There wasn’t any of his usual trying to calm himself down to think; this had to be the moment he somehow miraculously broke free, now. The thudding of the helicopter blades and sounds of traffic below were dull in his ears as his feet climbed up onto the ledge. He stood there, paralyzed, forced to see the incredible height the roof was from the ground.
“P-Please no…” he whimpered.
“As a token of my thanks, any last words?” Riepaimva said as it reached a third clawed arm to his back, tracing a sigil into his skin. Scott wanted to scream in agony as his skin lit on fire, but he stood silent and stock-still. He could feel every line like a razorblade dipped in salt. It was a sigil he knew very well. It would speed his soul to the afterlife, no chance to come back as a ghost or other type of undead. No chance at all.
“Y-Yeah.” Scott choked out. Whatever else, Riepaimva was quick. The spell had been cast nearly instantly. “I-”
“Too bad.” With a shadowy, six-fingered hand, Scott was pushed.
He didn’t scream as he fell. The wind and shock sucked the air from his lungs. Light, darkness, light; that was all he could make out as he tumbled head over heels, the city lights below and the bright full moon, bringer of magic and calamity above, the building wedged between. He flapped his arms, instinctively trying to right himself, to slow himself, anything to stop what was coming next. He spun himself to face the sky, the sky that Amber had disappeared into, the sky that Desmond Delacroix now looked down smiling at from above, a dark mass with one hissing bright pink eye gathered on the bottom of the helicopter.
‘This-this is it.’ he realized. ‘I’m, I’m sorry Amber. I never meant for any of this to happen.’ As the building grew taller and taller, a strange sense of calm descended upon him, accepting the inevitability of death. Not, in fact, from the necrotic poisoning. It was kind of funny; so this was how his life-