Oct. 28, 2070
Tuesday
A non-descript limousine wound along twisted streets, surrounded by posh homes. As one of the most prestigious areas in the Garden District, this neighborhood was rated AAA. The Spire loomed over the west, eating a quarter of the night sky. Seated within the limo, donned in his formal robes, Bishop Tran was in the midst of a commcall with his assistant. His bodyguards took up the remaining interior, four men in tailored suits, heavy armor hidden in the fabric, each wearing AR shades that hid their eyes. Three of the men carried FN HAR assault rifles, the fourth an ornate, jeweled blade hidden in his jacket.
“Yes,” the bishop preened to his caller, “the ceremony went well tonight. I’d like the singing to be dialed back a bit, however… it sounded a little overwhelming during some of my key points… Yes… yes, that would be acceptable. I’m at home now; I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
The limo pulled up before an opulent mansion, three stories high, set in a gothic style. The four bodyguards exited the limo, scanning the area intently as the bishop followed. The church had not grown so wealthy as to afford such a lavish home for one bishop – this was a communal dwelling, shared by many priests, but the third floor was this man’s alone, given for his station. As one, the party kept pace with the clergy as he walked along the well-tended, cobblestone path, towards the massive doors of authentic wood worked in marble trim. The area was brightly lit, dimming the stars and moon overhead.
As they drew within five meters of the doorway, the air between them and the entrance blackened. Like a nightmare intruding on reality, two shadow spirits materialized: masses of darkness, thrashing tentacles lined with saw-toothed spurs hacking around them. As one the party froze at the frightening sight, the priest recoiling in horror. Clawed tentacles snaked forth, reaching for the man-of-the-cloth. Bishop Tran screamed as a lash opened his flesh, the exposed wound burning.
The front two bodyguards leapt into action, hurling themselves into the shadowy forms. The last two seized the arms of the bishop, pulling him away from the melee as their companions traded their lives for their charge.
“This way,” the one with the knife hissed, pulling the bishop towards the left of the house. His intent was clear: there was a western entrance to the manor, unblocked by these threats. As they began to run, the guard barked on all channels, “priority one alert, falcon in jeopardy, two spooks…”
As they neared the corner of the manor, the screams of their companions filled the air, stuttering with gross sounds akin to a butcher shop. A second later, the two shades were in hot pursuit, masses of darkness thrashing along the ground with their tentacles, many now dripping blood and gore. All three men ran for their lives, the bishop hiking his robes to his waist as all modesty fled from the horrors.
As they turned the corner, the owner of the next home came into view, walking a manicured track that ringed his own property. AR music blaring in his ears, the man smiled pleasantly and called out, “bishop! What a pleasant…”
The fellow made strangling sounds as the first of the horrors flailed around the corner, the other shredding through a dense shrub that got in the way. Instinctively, the man turned and fled, falling in step along with the other three.
The remaining gunner glimpsed over his shoulder briefly. “They’re gaining,” he muttered sub-vocally to his fellow guard. The other had his jeweled knife out, the blade glowing softly. As a physical adept, all of his magical talent lay in wielding this weapon. Of the guards, he was the only one really capable of harming these spirits, but he knew the score – his chances against these two were slim.
“You,” he shouted, gripping the neighbor running alongside them. He shoved the man closer to the bishop. “Get him in the manor NOW!!!”
Bleating like a terrified sheep, the man snagged the bishop’s arm and ran on, glancing back from time to time. The two remaining guards exchanged a dire look and slowed as one. They turned to face the horrors, fear and resolve heavy on their features. The FN HAR leapt thumping as the remaining gunner proceeded to empty his clip into the approaching spirit to the left. Tufts of smoke and bits of tentacles peeled free, tracers of the fire stream drawing back and forth in loops in the physical nightmare. Then, the shade reached the man. He reared back with the butt of his rifle as the tentacles closed in. His screams filled the air but briefly, ending under a cascade of noise as flesh was sliced and bones were cracked.
The adept dove into the other one, his blade cutting through the very air as he flew. As the magical knife found its mark, the scream of the shade was horrifying to hear: deep, alien in a way that chilled the souls of the two men fleeing their deaths. The adept had a will of iron: he did not cry out as the spirit flayed him in return, and his struggles bought another three seconds of flight as both shades focused on peeling him apart.
The west entrance swung open as the bishop and his neighbor approached, the priest who opened it gasping at the blood. In a crash, the men slipped inside the warded safety of the manor. In a pile on the floor, the bishop looked with fear at the doorway: the two shades approached, bits of his bodyguards dripping from their limbs. Thrashing and wailing, they sought to shred the invisible ward that kept them from entering, their assault deflecting off the invisible shield. The three men held one another, backing away as their worst fears played out before them like a terrifying dream.
“Father Podin,” came a calm, steady call from the stairway. The speaker was Father Hugh, a high-grade initiate in hermetic magic, calling to his assistant who followed with alarm in his eyes. “Calm, brother, assist me in banishing these spirits.”
As one the men raised their arms, Father Hugh praying loud and clear in Latin. He spoke the hymns of exorcism rituals that, thanks to the return of magic, were as potent as the scriptures promised. The two shades shuddered, freezing their actions. Screaming in rage and hatred, they began to fold in on themselves, struggling violently to resist the summons back to their metaplane of birth. Though Father Podin faltered twice, Father Hugh was like a rock: steady, certain as he poured his will and slammed the spirits away from existence. With a loud rip, the spirits vanished. The two mages walked to the entrance, past the men huddling on the marble floor, to carefully survey the ward damaged by the horrors.
Another shade materialized suddenly just outside, a tiny replica of the banished ones – a watcher spirit, though not the type any sane mage or shaman could ever summon.
The thing spoke in a voice no mortal could imitate, the words brought forth by rubbing claws and tentacles together to mime speech. “Bishop Tran WILL die on All Hallow’s Eve,” the vile thing rasped, then faded away.
Bleeding heavily, the bishop clutched his robes to the wounds, shock warring with fear on his face.
Oct. 29, 2070
Wednesday
Donnie Baker slipped a tip virtually as the delivery men mumbled their thanks and left. He’d had to pay an extra $150 for them to brave the gang war outside, but it was well worth it. No longer merely a shell of a home, his was now laid out with all the gadgets and furniture of any middle-class lifestyle. The trappings of his Hermetic Lodge still dominated the living room, main bedroom, and much of the kitchen. The invisible barrier of the lodge kept the Devil Rat infestation out of much of his home, but the crafty pests had already chewed through the wall in the spare bedroom, hissing hatred at anyone attempting to enter.
The dwarf, known to his fellow shadow runners as Yoda, shook his head as he turned away and closed the door to that room. So much to do! Killing the rats had only brought more in to take their place, and quite frankly he had more important things on his plate. So, the stunted mage had tried a truce of sorts with the evil rodents, leaving bits of food outside the protection of his lodge in the hopes that they’d leave him in peace. Only time would tell if the bribes worked.
“Chloe,” the dwarf called out as he approached an inert drone in the center of the kitchen.
“Yes, sir,” the AI promptly replied in a respectful tone, appearing in AR at his side.
“Help me to initialize this cleaning drone.”
“Of course, sir. Mitsuhami Server VI is… activated. Diagnostics initialized… Diagnostics complete, all parameters within manufacturers’ recommended values. Would you like to see the introductory trideo?”
“Naw, just…” Donny’s words faded from his lips as he noted an incoming call on his PAN. It was the catholic mage who’d helped him obtain his Physical Mask spell.
“Father Mulkahey,” the dwarf breathed with pleasure as he connected the call, “so good to hear from you.”
“I wish these were more pleasant circumstances,” the father’s sculpted icon betrayed agitation and concern.
Grimly, Yoda listened to what the man had to say.
Fifteen minutes later, the runners met virtually, in a private, protected node that Pretty Boy crafted specifically for this meet. The meet was sculpted to look like Degobah, the jungle world featured in the classic, The Empire Strikes Back. As each runner logged into the meeting, they found themselves ‘in character’ with the theme, within a cramped home, apparently carved within the bowels of a giant tree, many nooks infested with snakes.
The dwarf frowned as he examined his own hands: green, with two fingers and a thumb. Clearing his throat, he was startled to hear a very different voice emerge from his icon. Obi Wan Kenobi materialized beside him, semi-transparent, outlined in a blue glow, silver hair and beard trimmed short. The AR tag identified him as Pretty Boy. Jugular stooped and entered, wearing the young, clean-shaven icon of Han Solo, dressed in black with a blaster low-slung on his hip. Beside him, Piman entered as a giant creature covered in long, shaggy brown fur, the spitting image of Chewbacca, save that his mullet remained as an extra-long mane down his back.
Recognizing the theme, Piman tried to speak, but the words emitting from his icon were nothing more than a long, garbled wookie-call. Below him, AR subtitles read, “really? We’re having the meeting like this?”
Grand Moff Tarkin entered as well, judgment in his eyes as he surveyed the other icons. Then, he looked with distaste at the uniform he wore. Speaking in Tarkin’s voice, Raven said, “blimey, but what’s with this ridiculous outfit?” His British accent differed slightly, a perfect match to the character he wore.
“You are Grand Moff Tarkin,” Obi Wan (Pretty Boy) said wisely, stroking his beard.
Blank stare on his face, Raven quipped, “what’s a tarkin?”
The question shook the glowing icon with shock, but before Obi Wan could sputter about the absurdity of a Brit unfamiliar with the classic, Yoda stepped forward waving a walking stick to get everyone’s attention.
“Now now,” the green fellow said in a sqeaking voice, “called you here, I have…” he paused, stunned at how his sentence twisted around. Finally, he said, “Pretty Boy… talk this way must your program make me?”
The see-through Jedi crossed his limbs, unwilling to break the motif of his creation.
Sighing heavily, the dwarf struggled to make do and continued, wincing within at the absurd grammar structure the translator emitted from his icon.
“Contacted, I was, by Father Mulkahey. Much danger, he’s warned of; need our help, he does. Shadow spirits returned: killed the bishop, they tried. Some of his bodyguards: killed, they were, the bishop wounded. Message, the spirits left, threatening to kill the bishop on Halloween, hmmmmmm?”
Han Solo (Jugular) pondered this, searching the icons with his roguish gaze. Tarkin seemed most upset at the news, frowning as he stroked his chin.
“Raven,” Yoda continued, “work your Catholic contacts, you must, see what find you. Pretty Boy, the Matrix you search for any relevant data. If shadow spirits we must fight, big guns you all will need. Jugular, Piman… biggest guns, you bring, that you own, hmmmmm? Now, travel we all to Saint Paul’s Cathedral.”
Yoda terminated the connection, shaking his head. He advised Chloe to get the kinks worked out of the cleaning drone and put it to work. Then, he summoned Sean, cloaked himself from sight, and left to wing his way back to the French Quarter.
Damned hacker… he promised himself they’d find the time to discuss some rules for future meets.
As Raven climbed onto his Harley Davidson Scorpion and subscribed to the driving assist, he placed a call to Bishop Tran. An automated message told him the Bishop was unavailable. He connected instead to a virtual secretary.
“Put me through,” the Brit growled, “this is Raven.”
“Oh yes,” the AI recognized the name, “but the bishop is recovering at the moment. Aren’t you supposed to work through Father Mulkahey?”
Grumbling, Raven consented and disconnected the call. Yes, Yoda had told him that Father Mulkahey was their contact for this run. He selected the man in his list of contacts and put the call through. It was answered immediately.
“Ah, Raven,” the icon smiled in greeting.
“I need to talk to the bishop about this job,” Raven said boldly.
The grin of the icon wilted. “He’s recovering from the attack.”
Raven snapped back, “We need to negotiate our price.”
“Well…” the father replied, “there will be a substantial increase compared to the previous fees you earned. Do you want to augment his new cadre of bodyguards, or track down the threat?”
Raven conferenced the other runners into a second channel and asked, “we tracking the threat or serving guard duty?” He pulled onto the highway, letting the Pilot program do most of the driving as he focused on the calls.
Uneasy, Yoda said, “we’ll try and track it. If we don’t succeed by Halloween, we’ll protect the Bishop. Is that acceptable?”
The father sighed after the Brit relayed the message. “If you choose to hunt down the threat, you only have two days,” the priest advised. “Service is at 8pm Friday night, and that is when they threatened to kill the bishop. The cardinal himself is offering a forty thousand dollar reward IF you find and eliminate the threat.”
Eavesdropping on both lines, Pretty Boy’s harsh voice whispered in Raven’s ear, “ask him if he knows who the frag is attacking them.”
Civilly, Raven said, “can you tell us who’s behind all this?”
Firmly, the father replied, “I won’t tell you any more until after you take the job, and even then I’ll only talk further in person.”
Raven was not a negotiator, he was an intimidator. Given the paltry sum they’d earned last time, he decided to bully the man into a higher fee. It was a rash decision, one he pondered even as he threatened. Midway through his speel, the Brit remembered that he had promised himself he’d never try such a tactic with the church, and the resulting waffle was jaw-dropping.
“Well,” he began ominously, “we could always just walk away… and… um… the Bishop might die if we don’t help.” That last part was uttered lamely, and as one the runners winced at the sad display.
Father Mulkahey was not impressed.
Carefully, he said, “the cardinal is hiring other help besides you. I brought you in because you have some prior experience with this situation, and you ARE a loyal member of the church. Can you really see it in your heart to turn your back on a man of the cloth in his hour of need, my son?”
“No, not really,” the Brit muttered, thoroughly ashamed. “It’s just, well, this is very, very dangerous work you’re asking of us. But, we’ll do it, father… we’re on our way to the cathedral now.”
“Thank you, my son,” the priest replied, and he cut the connection.
“Epic,” Pretty Boy muttered smugly and, grumbling, the Brit cut the smirking hacker off before he could comment further. Everyone terminated the call. Pretty Boy then connected to Piman’s commlink.
“So,” the virtual ork grinned, “up for a race to the church?”
Piman, already en route with his Pathfinder, scoffed as he wove through traffic, “ha! You wan’ race aw ex-go-ganger? On aw anteek, no less?”
“Link up with me here,” the ork shot back, tagging Piman’s GridGuide with a location, just south of the Algiers District, “and I’ll race you to the meet.”
Piman pulled up the specs on Pretty Boy’s bike: Yamaha Rapier, over twenty years old, and nowhere near the legs of his Pathfinder. Grinning widely, his mullet flapping out from under his helmet, the merc raced to the rendezvous.
On arrival, the merc slowed to a stop on the shoulder of the freeway, pulling right beside Pretty Boy. Nodding to one another, they both began gunning their engines as traffic whizzed by at high speeds. As one, the two bikes screamed, burning the ferrocrete in black stripes as they rocketing into traffic. Not surprisingly, the Pathfinder barked ahead of the Rapier, Piman’s mullet flapping like a victory flag. Chuckling to himself, the merc choked as something screamed by him like a near-miss meteorite.
The Pathfinder slowed as Piman stared slack-jawed at the diminishing Rapier, an AR twin of Pretty Boy sitting on back blowing him kisses and waving goodbye. His Pilot program examined the receding bike. “Analyzing,” the caption under the Rapier said, “vehicle operating beyond listed specs… after-market modifications possible.”
“No shit,” the merc breathed, cutting the pilot off from further analysis.
Within the hour, each of the runners arrived in Jackson Square, meeting on the steps to Saint Paul’s Cathedral. The day was gray, overcast, several clouds threatening more than just shade. Pretty Boy strutted like a prince, Piman grumbling under his breath as he followed, clearly annoyed at the ork.
Father Mulkahey stepped outside, waving them in. “Come,” he urged, “we’ll retire to my private quarters where we can talk.”
As Father Mulkahey closed the door to his private dwelling, Yoda pressed, “how certain are you that they were the same type of shadow spirit as the one we dealt with?”
“One of the priests who assisted with the banishing had also assensed the one you took care of. Same type, no doubt. Look, we have some eye-witness footage.”
Father Mulkahey pulled up video captured by the neighbor’s cybereyes, playing the footage in AR for everyone. The image was grainy, bouncing around, the owner of the eye obviously running hard. Well-tended shrubs flew by the left, a manor to the right. He glanced back, over his shoulder, and in the image two masses of darkness teeming tentacles appeared in pursuit, two bodyguards in suits standing their ground. Raven, Piman, and Yoda exchanged a quick glance – they were indeed the same kind.
In the video, one guard was firing an assault rifle as the image cut back to front. A second later, the runner looked back again, just as the gunner disappeared in a cloud of blood. The other guard leapt at the second with a glowing knife, cleaving two tentacles and opening a wound that gushed darkness. The camera panned back front, and in another second the runner seemed to push even harder, doubtless in response to what he’d heard behind him.
The footage done, Yoda rasped, “did you assense their trail?”
The priest nodded.
“Show me,” the dwarf urged, opening his astral perception.
Father Mulkahey did the same, tingeing astral space with a pale reflection of what he’d assensed. Yoda examined the aura carefully. No doubt now, the spirits were of the same type as the one they encountered at the graves. The dwarf frowned, looking closer. They were Shades, shadow spirits of distress and misery, addicted to loss and broken hearts. Such spirits had the power of suggestion, forcing their victims to commit debasing acts, even suicide. As such acts played out, these spirits fed on the energies, needed for their continued existence on this plane. This he knew, but what caught his interest was something new.
There… he caught traces of an astral ‘scent’ he’d missed before, possibly the mark of whatever summoned these spirits.
“I need to see more,” the stunted mage muttered, “Father, take me to this place.”
They both settled down, the dwarf sitting cross-legged on the floor, the priest in a straight-backed chair, and they abandoned their bodies to fly to the church manor at the speed of thought. The stench of the attack bled about the area like a festering wound. Ignoring his own distaste, the dwarf drank deeply of the stench, focusing on the ‘fingerprint’ of the summoner. There was no doubt now – this was indeed the astral mark of the one they were looking for, but he could not get a clear indication of what it was. All he could determine for certain was that the summoner was more powerful than he. Still, Yoda had a clear enough mark to attempt a tracking.
Both astral forms returned to their bodies.
“I think I can find the one responsible,” the dwarf said gravely, “I’ll wait until dusk before starting. Father Mulkahey, I may be injured in the attempt. Will you watch over me and heal my body if I come under attack?”
The priest consented. So, everyone settled down to wait.
Dusk came soon enough, and with a deep breath, Yoda prepared to summon a spirit more powerful than any he’d ever attempted before. The mana in the astral thrummed like a plucked string, resonating with potent energy. Then, a rumbling, miniature storm cloud took shape within the room, coalescing into the form of a man made of smoke, anger in his eyes glittering like microscopic flashes of lightning. Looking at its inferior master, the spirit stared threateningly, but then begrudgingly nodded once in consent.
Assensing, Father Mulkahey caught his breath, fearful for the brash dwarf. Rated at a force of seven, the air elemental was at the limits of Yoda’s capabilities. Such an attempt could have killed him, for his blood vessels could easily burst from the raw power that coursed through his small, dense frame. The priest muttered a quick prayer of thanks, for the dwarf stood with little more than a nosebleed. Speaking astrally, the obedient elemental consented to perform two services for the mage.
Two more summons brought watchers: tiny, sapphire, snake-like spirits with wings behind their heads. With the three spirits in tow, Yoda gave the priest a meaningful glance then slipped into astral space.
The air elemental was the backbone of this search, but the watchers could help, so the three set about sniffing out the faint, elusive signature of their target. Yoda tagged along, ready to redirect or assist as needed. The astral group flew to the site of the attack. Then, their search began in earnest.
Back at the cathedral, Father Mulkahey stood over the prone dwarf, watching intently. A bit bored with all this waiting, Jugular joined the priest. The dwarf looked as if asleep, no emotion visible on his features. He’d dropped the illusion, and his orange skin and bloody, yellow-streaked hair was as the rigger remembered, yet still the sight was startling to see.
“What did he mean,” the rigger muttered, “when he said you might need to heal him?”
Eyes glued to his charge, Father Mulkahey replied, “his soul travels astral space, but his life-force remains here. Should he be injured, we’ll see the wounds appear. If I can heal them, the wounds won’t slow him down where ever he is.”
Impressed, Jugular watched the dwarf closely, guilty at secretly wishing the dwarf would suffer a minor mishap – to see wounds just magically appear!
Sweeping the city, the astral trackers sniffed for traces of their prey. For more than two hours, the spirits honed in on their target in ever-shrinking circles. The trail eventually ended within the Mausoleum, near the graveyard where the first shadow spirit had been disrupted. Much of the ruins of the original New Orleans still lay broken and scattered beneath the understructure of the Spire. In what was once a rich neighborhood, their prey was hidden within a ruined mansion, one wing fully collapsed. Yoda and his spirits pulled short of entering. A powerful barrier shone brightly in the upper area of the once opulent house, bearing traces of their quarry.
The mage studied the aura carefully. This was no fading remnant, but an active effect, the maker’s signature clean and bright. Much did he learn of their enemy, not just where he lived, but what he was. Certain, the dwarf raced back to his body and stood.
“Got him,” Yoda rasped, “your problem, father, stems from a fragging vampire. Jugular, get the van, we’ll need your drones on this one.”
“What kills a vampire?” Raven quipped, trusting the expertise of the mage.
“Sunlight,” the dwarf shot back, “though he’s centered in the Mausoleum, so THAT’s not an option, unless you’d be so kind as to lift the Spire and toss it aside. He’s also vulnerable to wood, real wood. Aside from that, massive damage to the brain or spinal cord will drop him for good. Anything else he can regenerate.”
The mage turned to the priest, saying, “if you hadn’t been the one to ask this of us, I’d say let the bishop die, cheap bastard might learn a lesson for his next life. Father… we need your help on this one. Your church needs you. I need you.”
Wincing, Father Mulkahey replied, “you make a compelling argument, my son, but I’m a non-combatant.”
“You can heal,” Yoda pointed out, “and a little extra healing may very well make the difference. Look, he’s tougher than me. I’ll need every ounce of my strength focused on protecting us from his magic. You may make the difference between success and death.”
Weighing his choices carefully, the priest sighed and said, “very well, I’ll come along and help. The bishop’s a personal friend of mine, and it would grieve me for the rest of my life if he suffered a terrible fate because I did nothing to help.”
“Father,” Raven said, “I’m a loyal member of the church, but I’d rather not die. It means a lot, you coming with us. But… perhaps you have a staff of real wood in this church, one I could borrow?”
After procuring the wooden staff, they left the cathedral and piled into the Bulldog van, the nervous priest climbing in last.
En route to the marina, Pretty Boy began searching virtual archives for a manor that matched Yoda’s description. He was still gathering potential files when they arrived at the marina. Once on the access pier, Jugular remotely signed into his boat and piloted it over to where the van awaited. As they loaded the drones onto the van, Yoda surveyed the virtual maps and pictures of old New Orleans that the hacker found. Though badly worn compared to the images in the archives, he had little difficulty spotting the curled street with the building in question.
“This is it, I think,” rasped the dwarf.
Pretty Boy nodded, saying, “good, let’s go in and see what we’ve got.” The hacker punctuated this with a virtual invite to cold sim. Nodding, the dwarf pulled out his ‘trode-net and slipped the netting over his head. The device used signals pulsed into and read from the brain, a bit of tech almost as good as a direct cybernetic link.
The dwarf and ork slipped into VR together, touring an old program of the fabulous Garden District made a mere year before hurricane Willa hit (the last one to ruin the city). At the time, this was the wealthiest neighborhood in all of New Orleans. The mansion was impressive, a three-story affair with broad, sweeping wings. As the dwarf remembered, parts of the top two floors had collapsed, but much of the structure was brick and parts in the tour looked much as they do today. Still, most importantly they now had a basic layout of the grounds around the manor. Unfortunately, they did not have a concise layout of the interior – that file was missing.
“Let’s go,” Jugular called out. His steel lynx drone rolled into the back of the van and stood tall to take up less space. The rotor drone was already loaded on top, a tarp hiding its illegal purpose. Yoda and Pretty Boy finished their tour, conversing softly in the back of the vehicle. As everyone else piled back into the van, Piman checked his swamp pack to make certain all his ammo was there. A foreign glint caught his eye, and the merc pulled forth a set of shears he did not recognize, a hand-written note attached, reading, “don’t go to sleep.”
The merc pondered this as they headed to the underbelly of the Spire.
“A’ight,” Piman grumbled, “who be de joker dat put dese cutters in my bag?”
The runners looked at him blankly. The merc pulled the shears out, waving the evidence. Paranoid, the dwarf frowned and said, “where did you keep that bag?”
“On de boat.”
The possibility that an enemy had found their boat disturbed the mage. “If I assense this note and discover one of you did it, you’ll be haunted for a month,” Yoda threatened.
Unseen by Piman, Jugular glanced at the dwarf, an evil, scheming grin plastered on his face. Relaxing visibly, the mage grew silent and settled in for the drive, all fears of an intruder forgotten. Poor Piman was left in the back to glower at the hated shears.
Into the underbelly of the Spire they went, the night sky blackened out by the super structure. The entire ground level, where the ruins of old New Orleans lay, was commonly referred to, simply, as the Mausoleum. Ironically, much of the maintained spots that still received visitors were themselves mausoleums. Maintained roads along their route ended at the Garden District Mausoleum, where Yoda, Raven, and Piman had disrupted the first shadow spirit.
Any further progress would be ‘off-road.’ As the van rolled over a median and onto the ruins of an old alley, GridGuide flashed warnings to turn back. Jugular cut the feed and pushed on. Outside the van was pitch-black now, Jugular relying on the thermal imaging of his sensors. The other runners used their thermal cybereyes to survey the ruins of the city, Yoda using astral perception as Father Mulkahey sat simply in the darkness, muttering prayers with his eyes closed.
Within half a kilometer of their destination, the Bulldog slowed to a halt. The road ended here, blocked by collapsed buildings, strewn dumpsters and overturned telephone poles. A tiny spy drone lifted off the rack on the van, surveying the area. Jugular frowned as he examined the intel.
“Well,” the rigger said softly, “looks like we’re walking from here.”
Every door popped open on the van, the steel lynx rolling out the back immediately. After the other runners exited, Jugular freed his rotor-drone from its tarp and sent it flying over watch. Shedding his dwarf form, the drake slithered along, watching both planes closely. He could see Father Mulkahey also kept his astral sight open as they moved.
The lynx led the way, LMG sweeping the path for any potential targets. Threading through the rafters 30 meters overhead, the sniper drone shadowed the group, weaving with the spy drone through the support struts, as close to the ceiling as possible. Yoda also stayed hidden, shadowing the others as they trudged along, worming their way through the ruins.
Three hundred meters closer to their destination, they passed a sagging building along a broken brick wall roughly two meters high. With no warning two ghouls leapt from the wall, clawing and biting at Raven as he fell back in surprise. He cursed as he rolled with the feral creatures, only his tailored armor saving him from the initial strikes.
Jugular started to order the drones to attack, but paused. That LMG would make quite a racket, possibly alerting their prey of their presence. Opting for a quieter response, the rigger whipped out his Ares Crusader pistol, set it to burst-mode, and pumped 3 rounds into one of the ghouls.
The silencer of the weapon made little more than puffing pops as he stitched the madman in his shoulder, spoiling his attempt to gnaw on the Brit’s leg. Raven threw off the second ghoul with a twist, slamming it into the wall. The ghoul stared hatred at the Brit, mouth opened wide as nasty teeth gushed hissing threats. A long, blue tail swung down from the wall with violent force. The dark green barbs plunged into the ghoul’s chest, turning the hiss into a wheeze. Everyone looked up at the drake, now visible atop the wall, watching coldly. With an upward slash, the serpent withdrew his deadly tail, the saw-like teeth at the end nearly slicing the torso in half. Dead, the remains tumbled to the earth.
“God have mercy,” Father Mulkahey whispered, signing the cross before him.
The smell was putrid.
Jugular pumped another two bursts into the prone one, which now began to bleed profusely as it twitched. Piman pulled his machete and finished the poor thing.
“Well,” Raven sniffed civilly, brushing his jacket stiffly, “if there are no more distractions…”
The ugly task done, they continued on.
When they drew near the manor, Yoda urged everyone to wait while he flew a quick recon in drake form, using his astral and enhanced physical senses to get a better look. Keeping at least 100 meters clear of the building and using the surrounding ruins for cover, he slowly worked a full circle, returning to shed his skin and whisper what he’d seen to his companions.
“There are a few ghouls about,” the dwarf muttered sub-vocally, “and it appears the main entrance is blocked. At the back door, there’s a shadow spirit guarding the entrance in astral space. My bet is: that’s the working entrance.”
Piman had spotted a cluster of a half dozen ghouls through a bay window on the third floor, one casually lifting something to chew on. Though disgusted at the thought of what the food might have been (for ghouls need necrotic, metahuman flesh to sustain themselves), he captured the footage with his cybereyes and shared the images.
Quickly forming a plan, the runners left the spy drone to watch the front as they circled with the lynx drone to the back. Unseen, the rotor-drone settled high over the mansion, hidden among the rafters of the Spire.
As the runners began to get in position, one ghoul on the third floor spotted them. The critter leaned out, mouth opening to sound an alarm. With a crack, the edge gave way: the ghoul howled as it fell 10 meters into a pile of broken bricks, the noisy impact silencing the scream. In agony, the broken thing began to moan. The other ghouls took note but did nothing, leaving that one to its misery – they were not a compassionate lot.
As the runners settled into their positions, the steel lynx found a short wall along the road with a clear view of the back of the manor. Edging up to this cover, the drone pulled in its wheeled legs, causing the drone to grow in height, the turret with the LMG now clear of the obstruction. This vantage commanded a clear view of the street, the backyard and the door.
A sinister glint in his eye, Jugular muttered, “Knock knock.”
The moans of the fallen ghoul drowned under the booming thumps of the machinegun. The lynx proceeded to stitch the manor with a hail of bullets, rotted wood and elderly bricks no match for the large-caliber rounds. Nonstop, the lynx panned its turret left and right, shredding anything that may have remained hidden on the first floor.
The reaction was nearly instantaneous. Nearly a dozen ghouls poured out of the collapsed wing to the right, howling and charging the machinegun. Six of the ghouls never made it to the street, killed outright under the high-caliber barrage, while two merely had their lower halves removed, left to scratch at the earth weakly, their entrails pulling out with each feeble crawl forward. With no pity or remorse, the AI of the lynx merely flagged the legless ones as minimal threats, focusing on the remaining hostiles closing in with impressive speed.
The shadow spirit entered the fray. Materializing as a sickly-glowing green cloud at the doorway, it had a knot of serrated tentacles thrashing about. This was a wraith, made of rage and fury, the most hostile of shadow spirits. Yet, it was weaker the one they faced a few weeks back. Yoda realized it stood no chance against what he had brought to bear. Silently, the drake turned to the force-seven air elemental still awaiting its final order.
“Kill every shadow spirit in this area,” the drake commanded astrally. Nodding once, the bulky cloud-form of an angry man materialized, sizzling the air with a lightning bolt. The blue surge of light tore through the wraith with a jarring clap, nearly killing it in one shot.
The LMG continued the non-stop barrage of suppressive fire, chewing apart another ghoul in the middle of the road. Still, the last three ghouls finally made it to the wall, leaping as they howled. The first one, however, didn’t make the jump, for while in mid-flight Raven rose into view and batted it back with a crack of his staff. The other two landed on the drone, clawing and scratching at its armored hull. The hail of bullets paused as the drone backed up, attempting to re-acquire its targets.
Jugular rose behind the drone, and one of the ghouls paused to turn, mouth gaping wide in a gurgle. Calmly, the rigger raised his Ares Crusader and fed a burst into the maw, dropping the creature instantly. The rigger turned and put a second burst into the other, knocking it free of the drone. Spinning, Raven knocked that one prone, and with a fresh target lock, the drone brought the LMG down and stilled it with a dozen rounds of overkill.
Undaunted by its own wounds, the wrath stabbed at the Brit’s soul with rage. Yoda’s protection rendered the attempt inert, and howling with impotent fury the wrath flew apart as a second bolt from the elemental finished it off.
Silence descended on a yard filled with gory corpses, many wisping smoke from their bullet wounds to pool in the air. Out of the hundred-round ammo-drum, the lynx had 20 rounds left, the glowing barrel tracing back and forth in the hopes of another target. Intent on satisfying its final service, the air element began advancing slowly, purposefully towards the manor, not free of its service until every corner was searched, every shadow spirit destroyed.
Still hidden, Piman caught a glimpse of the feathered serpent looking at him, flashing a brightly-colored wing to get his attention. The drake jerked his head towards the manor twice, then turned and began slithering closer to the building, hiding among the debris as it moved.
“Yoda’s heading in,” the merc breathed sub-vocally to the others.
Everyone began to advance. Pretty Boy and Father Mulkahey rose as one from their positions, the hacker within reach of the priest, guarding him as they advanced. Deciding that the heavy gun would be of little further use here, Jugular ordered the lynx to withdraw and return to guard the van. Though half a kilometer away, the signal of his drone had twice that range, so he could remain subscribed to it. The rigger watched the drone withdraw, then turned to join his companions.
As most of the runners crossed the open road, two gunshots rang out from the manor – a rifle shot from the second floor, echoed by a shotgun from the first. Raven caught the rifle’s bullet, the impact spinning him around as the projectile tore through his armor and penetrated his shoulder. Agonizing pain dulled to a light throb as his damage compensator kicked in, shutting off the feeling to his shoulder. Father Mulkahey was also thrown prone from the shotgun blast, through luckily the slug didn’t penetrate very far through his armored vest. Still, Pretty Boy cursed himself for not shielding the priest.
“Someone find those fragging snipers,” the Brit hissed with rage as he pulled a pistol and stood tall in the middle of the street.
The elemental had just entered the building. As the gunners were not shadow spirits, it had no interest in getting involved – the spirit would follow its last order to the letter.
Raven scanned the second floor where the muzzle flash came from, spotting a humanoid form partially hidden behind a broken wall. Zooming in with his cybereyes, the Brit let his smartlink lock on to the figure, took careful aim, and squeezed off a round. A grunt echoed out as the form fell back into the room, out of sight. Pistol in one hand and staff in the other, the Brit began running for cover in the yard.
Still undetected, the feathered serpent continued to slither closer. He could see the astral shape of the second gunner, a ghoul with cybereyes (as ghouls lose their normal sight upon transformation, cybereyes would be needed to be decent marksmen). Not willing to reveal himself yet, Yoda pressed on, trusting his companions to handle this last gunman.
Such trust was well-deserved.
High above, another unseen ‘member’ of the team had also spotted the ghoul. Jugular got the confirmation virtually as the rotor-drone zeroed in with the sniper rifle and fired twice. With the silencer on, the desert-fox rifle whispered, the impacts loud and sickening as the first round punched through the ghoul’s stomach, the second his teeth. In a heap, the dead man collapsed.
As the others scanned in vain for any more foes, a voice called out from within, “come, COME and play in the home of Occultus!!”
“I’ll dance on your grave,” Raven snarled back as he ran through the yard. Both he and the drake pinpointed the voice originating somewhere on the second floor. In AR, the Brit relayed this info to the others.
“Medic,” the hacker gurgled sub-vocally, pulling the priest to the remains of a fountain that provided cover from the house. Jugular ran to his aid, applying first aid with a strip of cloth to stop the bleeding of the light wound. The rigger was cursing the whole time – he’d forgotten to bring a medikit.
The rotor-drone swept the building with its sensors, unable to find any other targets. Somewhere within the building, the crack of lightning signaled the death of another shadow spirit. Arriving at the manor, the drake slithered on top of the collapsed wing, eager to enter but unwilling to leave his companions out of sight – if unable to see them, he could not protect them from hostile magic. With his keen hearing, the serpent detected a number of creatures moving inside the second floor.
Piman hopped a low fence and ran to the entrance. As he took a position left of the door, Raven mirrored him on the right. Once the father was well enough to stand, the rigger, hacker, and priest approached the entrance as well. Weapons at the ready, they charged in to answer the taunter’s challenge.
Shoving the door open with his staff, Raven slipped inside, Predator IV at the ready. Piman shadowed him, FN HAR sweeping with his gaze. The state of this hallway was alarming: holes in the walls, ceiling sagging in places, doors and cross-hallways evident, a foyer seen at the end with a staircase leading up. Pretty Boy, Jugular, and Father Mulkahey followed closely. Once they were all inside, the feathered dragon slipped in behind them, shedding his skin with a puff of smoke.
“Movement upstairs, likely more ghouls,” the dwarf whispered harshly. Then, he added softly, “you’re hurt, father. Should you not heal yourself?”
The priest winced. “It’s… difficult to concentrate on the spell while I’m wounded,” he whispered, a bit too loudly. “Can you help?”
Nodding, the dwarf laid hands on the man and focused. Within seconds, the wound beneath his armor sealed, the damage nearly erased completely. The father laid a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder in gratitude, then stood tall, unassisted.
The group’s muscle began to clear side rooms as they walked down the hall. At the first door, Raven glanced in, his heavy pistol tracing his gaze. The room was impassible: junk and debris from the ceiling filled it. At the next, Piman saw what was once a rec-room, trashed and soiled, the remains of a grand piano sagging in the back with a broken leg. At an intersecting hallway, both glanced down each end briefly before staring at the foyer further in.
“Aw bon bet dose stairs be watched,” Piman muttered sub-vocally.
“Aye, ambush no doubt,” Raven sniffed. “Perhaps we find another way up?”
They agreed, splitting into two groups to look. For twenty minutes, the runners searched the first floor, trying to find an alternate route. Unfortunately, too much of the structure was beyond hope, holes in the ceiling unstable enough to cause serious harm, should they try to ascend, likely to cave in atop them. The group found themselves back at the foyer’s entrance, staring at the stairs with trepidation. Pretty Boy, Jugular, and Father Mulkahey awaited in the hallway, watching the staircase as Raven headed in, followed by Piman. Yoda trailed them, giving the muscle a good lead. Looking up the stairs, they saw the stairwell consisted of two switch backs, each pausing at a narrow landing, each time reversing direction before finally ending at the second floor, only barely glimpsed through the gap running up the center of the stairway. Whatever stairs to the third floor this house had, they weren’t here.
Straining to see or hear anything, the Brit ascended the stairway and cleared the first landing, reversing direction to work his way slowly towards the second. Piman followed close behind him, with the serpent a few paces behind them.
Once Raven reached the second landing, the top of the stairs loomed into view. As he took another step, his skin prickled as one foot caught on something stretched taunt across the landing. The loud, metallic twang of a wire rang throughout the stairwell. Somewhere above them, there was a clatter of sequential clunks, small objects rolling down the stairs, echoing sharply. Raven’s eyes widened as a handful of grenades popped into view, bouncing down the steps with their spools missing.
The Brit dove over the railing towards the steps below. With a gasp, the merc tried to follow suit, but caught his hip on the rail. Seeing all of this, Yoda flinched away as one grenade bounded right behind the merc and exploded, the others blowing somewhere above them. In mid jump, Raven rolled with the explosion, his armored trench coat catching some shrapnel. Piman was flung over the railing to land next to Yoda, screaming out in pain. The dwarf leapt into action, snagging the merc’s collar and dragging him down the stairs at a dead run, the rough action eliciting sharp, bitter yelps of objection from the bleeding, cursing merc.
As Raven stood, the dwarf swept past him with the merc, Piman’s face twisted in pain as he left a bloody smear across the steps. Howling madly, the cries of ghouls echoed above them, punctuated with the sounds of approaching steps scrabbling on clawed feet. Raven shadowed Yoda as the dwarf drug his companion quickly off the stairs. At the base, the Brit stopped and turned to hold the steps.
Just as Yoda reached Jugular at the entrance to the foyer, the first of the ghouls came into view on the bottom switchback, eager to charge the man who barred their path.
“Take him,” the dwarf growled as he let Piman go, then the dwarf spun and popped out of his flesh, the feathered dragon rearing with a threatening hiss. He slithered back to help his friend.
The Predator IV barked in Raven’s hand, two shots dropping the first ghoul, dead as it skittered down the steps to lodge halfway down. The other ghoul stumbled and fell as Jugular peppered his legs with the Crusader.
“Who comes unbidden to Occultus’s house?” that same voice taunted from somewhere upstairs.
The wounded ghoul finished its roll down the stairs, trying to snag the Brit’s leg with a clawing arm. With little effort, Raven avoided its clumsy attempts. Two more ghouls arrived at the switchback, leaping down to maul the air where the Brit stood, unable to touch him as he wove among them effortlessly.
For the others, their blood chilled at the growing mash of hisses, growls and clamor from the stairwell – more were descending from the second floor.
Pretty Boy pulled his Colt Manhunter out, killing the prone ghoul with a loud bang. Bringing the heavy pistol to bear on the other two fighting the Brit, the ork winced as he missed, nearly plugging Raven in the back with his bad aim. As no one else saw the poor shot, the ork pushed it from his mind.
Still prone, Piman mentally rotated his selector lever to full auto and yelled, “DROP!”
Raven fell flat as the FN HAR filled the air with thunder, fire emitting from the barrel like a blooming roses; both ghouls flung back into the stairs, dancing horridly to the impacts. The madmen howled in pain as the assault rifle grew silent, Raven on his feet almost instantly, back to guarding the stairway.
“Too easy,” the Brit laughed, eager for more.
The feathered serpent did not share his optimism. The drake watched the stairs with growing alarm. Able to see both planes of existence, he could sense the bottom of a sphere of mana descending: a spell that would soon hit them both. As the spell touched the Brit, Yoda tried to counter-spell its effects.
He failed.
Raven’s cocky stance melted, shaking with fear and foreboding, doubt heavy on his features as he looked up the stairs, now frightened. The drake could not even protect himself, his plumage trembling as the spell gripped him as well.
More ghouls were coming down the stairs, visible now on the landing above, so the feathered dragon steeled himself, unwilling to let the magical fear get the better of him. Still, he and the Brit were distracted by the effect, fighting with pause and doubt trying to spoil their attempts. The drake also saw the source of the spell – a man walking calmly down the steps, centered in the spherical effect, moving with him.
Raven aimed carefully with his Predator, trying to overcome the shakes. He managed to pump a round into an approaching ghoul’s hip. The creature’s advance tumbled into an uncontrolled fall, pulling his neighbor to flop with him. Even as they grew near in a tangle of arms and legs, the Brit popped another slug into the mess.
The two ghouls riddled with the merc’s gunshots struggled to rise, insanity willing them to fight till the end. Jugular downed one for good with his Crusader, but as he targeted the other, his weapon jammed. The rigger frowned, mentally ordering the weapon to clear the blockage, but the breach was locked open, a round wedging the slide immobile.
As the ghouls reached Raven (some running, some still tumbling), Yoda flashed into the fray with his tail whistling through the air. One trying to bypass the Brit froze still, skewered on the serrated appendage with shock frozen on her rotted face. With a growl, the feathered dragon flicked the body aside. Raven rolled and parried, the other three ghouls howling in frustration as they clawed at the expert like children trying to catch the wind.
Still bleeding from the blast, Piman stood slowly, mentally rotating his selector lever to burst. The FN HAR barked, knocking one of the ghouls away from the Brit. As that one spun, the drake flayed its back open with a whip of his tail, the barbs sawing apart muscle and bone. The ghoul went limp and collapsed, paralyzed except for the blind eyes darting about in a panic.
Assisting Raven, Yoda harried the remaining ghouls. The Brit launched into a leaping round-house kick, catching both ghouls in the face. It was a stunning move – cracking open the skull of the first, slamming the second into the railing with such force the stone masonry cracked. Landing lightly on his feet, Raven grinned at the last ghoul despite the fear trembling inside.
The vampire named Occultus reached the landing, surveying the drake and the Brit with a smug leer. Pointing casually, he hissed, “burrrrrnnnnn…” and a stream of fiery liquid sprang from his hand, flying to splatter on the Brit. Yoda tried to counter the spell, but again, he failed. Raven screamed as his damage compensator overloaded, the pain bypassing the limitations of his cyberware.
Jugular seized the breach and forcefully pulled the slide back, ejecting the bent shell. Functioning once again, the Crusader leveled at the vampire and puffed three silenced shots. The burst caught the vampire in the throat, chin, and cheek, exposing bone as his head rocked from the impact, the smug leer literally wiped from his face. Raging with hatred, the vampire glared at the rigger, even as flesh began to mend, tendrils of muscle writhing to stitch itself closed. Jugular watched with dismay as what should have been a crippling wound regenerated into a scratch.
Raven patted the fires out on his stomach as the last ghoul clawed at him, but even wounded the Brit found the attempt to be little more than annoying. Bringing his Predator to bear, the Brit put a round in the ghoul’s lung, dropping it, and then put a second in the vampire. Occultus was wearing an armored jacket, however, and the reinforced plates caught the bullet with little effect.
“Remember, massive brain or spinal trauma will drop him!” Pretty Boy shouted.
All the ghouls lay dead or dying, only the vampire remained.
Nodding, Piman brought the FN HAR to his shoulder. Taking careful aim, he tried to decapitate their target with a single burst.
He nearly succeeded.
Occultus rocked from the shots, his head sagging obscenely to the right as blood gushed in a fountain from the gaping wound in his neck. The cheers of his fellow runners froze in their throats as the vampire casually reached up and straightened his head, tendons snaking from the stump and jaw to reconnect, gushing blood stopping as if a faucet had been turned off. Still, no trace of arrogance remained in the vampire’s expression as he reexamined his foes.
The feathered drake roared as lightning danced across his wings, arching to connect with the vampire. Occultus seemed unimpressed, however, as the spell effect died on impact. But, the vampire realized he was outmatched, all of his allies strewn dead across the stairs or in the foyer. With a dramatic wave of his hands, he summoned up a wall of flames blocking the stairs. Seen faintly through the curtain of fire, he fled up the steps.
Piman began to give chase, apparently willing to dive through the wall of fire, but he froze as the drake roared loudly. Unable to speak in this form, Yoda wanted the runners to wait while he dispelled the fire wall. The merc, not knowing what the mage intended, turned instead to run outside, hoping to catch their foe as he tried to flee the building. Jugular began to follow, yet both froze again as the feathered serpent roared once more, staring at them in frustration. Then, the drake turned to stare at the fire wall. Concentrating, Yoda began to unravel the spell effect. Needing all his concentration, the mage called upon the service of one of his minor, bound spirits of man named Charlotte. The petite, gutted spirit complied, maintaining the spell of Increased Reflexes as he focused on the task at hand.
Without pause, Raven ran up the stairs and dove through the fire, emerging on the other side with only minor burns. Anxious not to let their quarry escape, he bounded up the stairs, swinging on the railing around each switchback. Jugular followed suit, also emerging with a minor burn, bounding after the Brit. Piman followed last, though as he dove through, he tripped to land midway in the wall of flames. Yoda could say nothing but shake his head, frustrated, as he completed the dispel, the fire vanishing (though a ring of flame where it touched the stairs and walls remained) to reveal Piman rolling around the floor, howling as his mullet began to surge like a torch.
Pretty Boy and Father Mulkahey rushed to the merc and put him out.
“Hold, my son, hold,” the priest soothed, laying hands to heal the whimpering man.
Rage simmering in his eyes, the feathered serpent looked up the cavity running the center of the stairwell. With lightning quickness, he slithered up the gap, flying past the other runners to the top where he paused but an instant to sniff for traces of the vampire. The scent was unmistakable, and the drake’s feathers whispered loudly as he raced after their quarry, pausing briefly at a new staircase at the end of a long hall. Once certain the Brit had caught sight of him, the drake turned to continue pursuit. He bypassed this stairway by again slithering through the gap running up the middle.
As the father finished healing the merc, he sagged heavily against the hacker, wheezing with exertion. Now only lightly wounded, the merc nodded once in thanks, then began running up the stairs to catch up with the others, his singed mullet flapping; the hairstyle was in sad shape. Pretty Boy helped the father down to the foyer, unwilling to leave the vulnerable man. Who knew what other dangers still lurked nearby?
As Yoda arrived on the third floor, he caught sight of their prey running towards a doorway, the border of his lodge glowing astrally in the entrance. If the vampire were to enter it, he’d have additional protection from the drake’s magic, not to mention Yoda’s defensive spells would likely terminate at the border should he cross over. Neck swelling, the feathered serpent coiled into himself, then exhaled with a violent thrust of his head. The flames caught Occultus in the back, blackening his clothing as his head and ears drooped melting skin, the vampire howling in agony as he rolled into the protection of his lodge.
One other thing the vampire could not regenerate –the magical fire-breath of a drake.
Raven rose into view beside the feathered serpent, raising his heavy pistol and firing in one smooth motion. The bullet caught the vampire in the lower back. Jugular pulled up beside the Brit as his Crusader echoed the motion, spraying the struggling target with silenced-bursts.
Looking back with fear and loathing, the vampire pointed as another stream of magical fire-water flew from his hand. With a defiant roar, the drake willed the magic to fail, glittering out of existence as it reached them. The serpent then shed its skin, Yoda emerging to walk with a purpose towards their prey.
Raven kept pace with his stunted chummer. Dropping his pistol, the Brit wrapped his rosaries around one fist as Occultus watched, eyes widening in recognition of the deadly weapon: the rosaries were a family heirloom, carved from real wood, many of the beads worn and cracked with age. As dwarf and Brit reached the spherical spell of fear, the dwarf tried to counter it.
In an ugly twist of luck, his protective magic went horribly wrong.
Instead of shielding them, Yoda amplified the effect well beyond what the spell would normally be capable of, and both dwarf and man collapsed and gibbered in terror as all of their worst fears threatened to rob them of their sanity. In their minds, the house itself laughed mockingly as the air filled with sharp objects, shredding them to pieces.
The vampire seized this opportunity to rise and flee, but as he raised himself on one arm, Jugular cut the limb out from under him with another burst. The rigger approached carefully. Most of the gory wounds on the vampire continued to close, regenerating, though the burns showed no sign of improving. Piman came puffing up the stairs, running to stand beside Jugular and take stock of the situation.
Returning to sanity but still trembling, Raven began to roll towards the prone vampire. With a shaky strike, he punched his foe, the rosaries drawing a fresh cry of agony from Occultus. Encouraged, the Brit began to pummel the vampire, impacts singing a duet with howls of pain. The last punch cracked the fiend’s neck, and the foreboding spell vanished as the vampire stiffened and died. Freed, both man and dwarf rose to their feet, shaking from what they’d just endured.
The runners gathered around the body, many of them wounded and exhausted.
“Bloody fragger,” Raven hissed, “is it over?”
The mage opened his astral perception, making certain the vampire was truly dead.
“It’s over,” the mage breathed.
No life remained on the body, but he did sense the faint glow of magic emanating from an object pinned to the vampire’s coat. Kneeling, the dwarf ripped a hand-carved, metal broach from the collar. Shaped like a face twisted in a horrified scream, the magical amulet caused the mage’s heart to skip a beat. A sustaining focus! He couldn’t believe his luck. With this, he would be able to sustain a spell without having to concentrate on it.
Raven retrieved his Predator from the floor. Then, he gave the vampire last rites, speaking the Latin prayer somberly as he made the sign of the cross with the large pistol.
“Uh, guys?” Pretty Boy’s voice cut in over the commlink, “we need some fire control down here. The stairway’s going up like a match.”
“Everyone who can’t fly,” Yoda rasped, “get out now. I’ll stay as long as I can and see what I can grab of value.”
Piman snagged the blackened coat off the vampire, then he, Jugular and Raven ran away, searching for an exit.
The dwarven mage searched the lodge, astral eyes open to anything magical. On a short shelf, he found four books: actual, physical books. In this day and age, even mages typically kept their works digitally, so the find was curious. One of the books glimmered faintly with the tell-tale aura of spell formulas. In another corner, a box of ritual materials for binding spirits lay open. Nothing else had any special auras, so Yoda switched to his physical senses and began rummaging through the dusty but well-furnished room. Selecting a small, posh rug of exquisite craftsmanship, he tossed the books and box of ritual materials in the center. He could see the vampire had rolls of $100 bills in the box.
Yoda grinned. For plex-dwellers, he and his team would be carrying an unprecedented amount of cash.
The room was, of course, heavily draped in the trappings of lodge materials. A variety of statues and busts lay arranged throughout, of some value, no doubt, but the bronze and marble art the dwarf dismissed out of hand. He had little knowledge of authentic art, and, ignorantly, he left the priceless works behind. As he made a final pass through the area, smoke began to billow out from a side door, the temperature getting uncomfortably warm. The dwarf shed his skin. With nimble claws, he drew the rug and its contents up like a sack and pulled the bundle to his underbelly – time to go.
Father Mulkahey stood across the street, Pretty Boy, Raven, and Jugular at his side. The four watched as flames licked out much of the second story: there was no doubt on the fate of this manor. Piman emerged from the entrance amid a plume of black smoke, coughing hoarsely, the balled-up, burned jacket in one hand, bloody machete in the other. Ignoring the growing inferno behind him, the merc turned to the task of harvesting ears from the dead in the yard, using the ruined jacket as a bag.
“Should we not,” Father Mulkahey began, but with a burst of glass the feathered serpent flew out a third-story window. With supernatural grace, the drake slithered through the air, his plumage and beating wings magnificent to behold. Settling beside them, Yoda stepped out of the puff of feathers and smoke and hoisted the makeshift bag to his shoulder.
Finished, Piman joined them, and as one they left, tailed overhead by the flying drones. At the van, they could see an orange glow in the distance marking where they’d been. Many of the runners wondered if the fire would spread, or would city officials come down into the Mausoleum to put it out. As it was, they heard nothing of it in the news. To the Spire above and the metroplex sprawled around, the ugly business of that manor never happened.
Two days later, Bishop Tran delivered the service without a hitch. Hidden from the sight of the congregation, the runners watched mutely. They were there just in case. The vampire might of had an accomplice. Discretely, they trailed the bishop afterwards, a white GMC Bulldog van trailing two lengths behind the limo, loitering at the church manor until the bishop entered, and then leaving without a word.
Including the ghoul bounties they collected, the runners walked away from the job with $9,200 each, plus another $1,400 in cash. With a powerful sustaining focus, supplies to summon more bound spirits, and three spell formulae, Yoda counted the run a brilliant success. He doubted, however, that he would ever take the effort to learn the spells; Firewater was potent, but the drain was horrendous; Eyes of the Pack allowed the caster to see through sight of many, but, of course, so could modern technology; Foreboding… well, the dwarf had dealt enough with terror, and he would never wish it on another, even his enemies.
The other three books: they were a different story. Two focused on the secrets to summoning shadow spirits, and the mage was careful not to read too much – such secrets typically destroyed sanity. The last was a diary of Occultus, illustrating the dangers of dabbling with black arts. The man, clearly, was utterly mad, and the focus of his obsession was the Catholic Church. Preaching a twisted sort of anti-Catholicism, his ramblings made little sense, save that he believed he himself would become a shadow spirit, ruling a dark, utopian world that was only in the sorry shape that it was now because of the church. How could anyone blame everything on one organization? The smallest mega-corporation had ten times as much power, and, as any shadow runner could tell you, caused plenty of trouble without the need for any devil or god.
Bat-shit crazy as the vampire was, he clearly had the means to summon shadow spirits, a feat that should not have been possible. Yoda wondered how the man came to learn such secrets, for all three books were clearly written by him. Some say with insanity comes understanding. Perhaps, that was the answer to these questions.
Father Mulkahey answered the knock on his door, surprised only an instant when he opened it to an empty hallway. Moving aside expectantly, he smiled as the dwarf dropped his concealment, closing the door lest anyone else should see.
“Always a pleasure,” the priest said softly.
The dwarf’s eyes were hard. “Father,” he began, “when we found these, we were hoping to earn a bonus from the church for their procurement. I’ve looked them over as well as I could without putting my mind in danger, and, quite frankly, threatening to sell them to another would be blackmail, and a hollow threat at that.”
Intrigued, the priest watched as the dwarf pulled three hand-made leather books from a satchel, gripping them tightly. “These two,” the dwarf waved them, “detail the secrets of summoning spirits of shadow.” Father Mulkahey froze in shock, even as the dwarf continued, saying, “this one is the vampire’s journal… it’s also a testament to how mad he was.”
“My son,” the priest said gravely, “we will of course buy these books off of you. It is imperative that we handle them.”
“No,” the dwarf hissed, “when men call themselves holy, they do great evils. I don’t trust your church – your people are all the more dangerous for believing they do ‘God’s’ work.”
The priest was hurt deeply, but the stunted mage raised one hand before he could object.
“You, however, I DO trust. I’ll give these to you, if you promise me they will never fall into the hands of another.”
Father Mulkahey was humbled and honored by the offer. With a nod, he accepted the books.
“I know the dangers well, as you already know,” he said, referring to their talks on magical threats. Often the stunted mage snuck in to chat with the father, and he’d been impressed at the depth of the dwarf’s knowledge on what threatened their world from the metaplanes. “I will study the journal, just to make certain that no others from this madman’s cult threaten us, and I will try to determine where he learned his secrets.”
Fear in his eyes, the dwarf suddenly lashed out and gripped the man in a fierce hug. Speechless, the priest laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“You’ve been a good friend,” the mage rasped, pain in his voice, “if you let that madness corrupt you, I… I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”
The priest was touched at the sentiment as the dwarf pulled away gruffly, threatening, “and I’ll summon your shade and curse your stupid ass until the ends of days, you hear me?”
Father Mulkahey laughed at the absurd threat, his smile spreading to his dwarven chummer. “I swear I won’t,” he said.