There were good days, when he could actually get around using crutches, and then there were days, like this one, when the cerebral palsy that ravaged his body was so bad, he was forced to use the wheelchair.
“There’s an older kid coming right now,” Desmond continued. “He’s coming across the street … and there are things with him.” He shuddered, and it had nothing to do with the cold.
“Great, more things,” the cute girl muttered, folding her arms across her chest. “As if I haven’t had enough things tonight.”
“Sounds like our friend Tobias is leading this one,” the guy appropriately called Stitch said.
They all stood up from the sofa.
“Do you believe us now, Desmond?” Abraham asked him. “Do you believe you’re in danger?”
Desmond had to nod. This was the first time he’d ever put a face to the enemies that had lurked in the shadows of his life, watching and waiting to spring at him, to take him away from everything he knew, to force him to use his talents against his will.
“Yeah,” he said. “So what’re we gonna do? They’ll be here any second.”
Abraham was about to speak when he was interrupted.
“Who wants fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies?” Desmond’s dad asked, coming down the hallway from the kitchen, a plate of cookies in hand.
“I just took them out of the oven, so they’re all gooey, just how you like them, Dez,” Douglas St. Laurent said, wearing a big smile.
Desmond rolled his eyes in disgust. “Dad, do you mind?” he scolded. “We’re about to be attacked and we’re trying to figure out what to do.”
“Oh,” Douglas said, looking startled. “Do you think I should get some milk?”
The little guy in the hoodie snatched a cookie from the plate. “Milk would be awesome,” he said, shoving the entire cookie into his large mouth, his ugly face and hands covered in melted chocolate.
“What I think we need to do is have Bogey open a rift so that … ,” Abraham started, only to stop again when he saw the look on Desmond’s face. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Desmond suddenly twitched; his brain filled with the image of the kid—Tobias, they called him—on the front porch ready to knock.
“Too late,” Desmond said in a whisper. “They’re here.”
The front door exploded inward with a roar, torn from the hinges and propelled across the room to shatter into splinters as it struck against the wall.
“Knock, knock,” Tobias called, stepping into the home, a swarm of monsters flowing in through the doorway on either side of him. “I thought I recognized those voices.”
Bolts of blue, crackling energy flowed from Tobias’s fingertips, making everything they touched explode in a flash of fire.
It was chaos. Within seconds the first floor of Desmond’s house was turned into something out of the apocalypse.
And Desmond had a front-row seat, whether he wanted it or not.
Stitch reacted with his own magick, energy streaming from his big hands to counter Tobias’s dark power.
The son of Elijah Stone picked up a fireplace poker and started inflicting some serious damage to the monsters that attacked him. At first, Desmond thought it was a trick of his eyes when he saw Bram float up into the air, then drop down upon the swarming beasts, but he wasn’t so sure. There was something about that kid, something that he couldn’t see just by looking at him.
Bogey was doing this weird thing with his hands, and making these strange kinds of noises, almost like he was singing a song. Holes were opening up in the air, sucking the monsters inside and then closing up with a loud whomph behind them.
And the girl, Emily, Desmond didn’t see her anywhere, but the wolf creature fighting with them seemed awfully familiar.
A thing that looked like a cross between a spider and a cat suddenly dropped into his lap. Its multiple, glassy eyes gazed up at him as it hissed. Desmond saw his frightened reflection in each of the bulbous orbs, and reacted before the beastie could strike.
All he had to do was think of fire.
Over the years he’d learned how to control it. First he’d think of a tiny flame, no bigger than the end of a matchstick, and then he’d imagine it getting bigger, and then bigger than that.
The creature in his lap screeched, but only for a second, before it burst into flames. And using his telekinesis Desmond picked up the burning monster with his mind, looking for something to throw it at.
Tobias sent a wave of magick toward Stitch so powerful that it picked up the tall man, hurling him backward, and through a window behind him. Deciding Tobias would be his target, Desmond flexed his powerful brain muscles, hurling the flaming spider-cat at his foe.
Tobias spun just when it was about to strike him, his hands glowing with unearthly power, deflecting the flaming animal away.
“Now was that nice?” Desmond heard him ask over the clamor of battle.
“I know Crowley wanted you alive, but accidents do happen.”
And his hands flew out, lightning dancing from his fingers.
Desmond reacted, projecting a shield of force, but the magick hit like a sledgehammer, flipping over his wheelchair. Desmond was in shock, eyes searching the room for help, but the chaos continued, Bram and the others locked in life-and-death struggles, nobody even aware of the trouble he was in.
“Let’s try that again,” Tobias said with a sneer. He pulled back his hand, and as if throwing a baseball, let fly a humming sphere of supernatural energy.
Desmond’s brain felt as though it were bleeding, the strain of using his special abilities one after the other having a definite effect on him. The ball of energy hurled through the air, and he hoped he had the strength to stop it.
He could feel it as it came at him, the hair on his arms standing on end as if he were about to get the biggest static shock of his life. And just as it was about to hit, as he flexed the muscle of his brain, his father appeared from out of nowhere, jumping in the path of the energy ball, taking the full brunt of the attack.
Desmond screamed. His throat felt like it was filled with broken glass and razorblades, and when he was out of breath, he took another to scream again.
His father had been thrown backward, hitting the living room wall with enough force to crack it. Desmond crawled across the floor, his useless limbs dragging behind him.
Douglas St. Laurent lay amongst the shattered remnants of the front door. He was still holding the metal serving tray that had once held freshly baked chocolate chip cookies—nice and gooey, just how he liked them—and there was a hole melted through the tray, and another hole behind it in his father’s chest.
“No!” Desmond screamed, pushing the tray aside. The hole in his father still smoldered, the stink of burning meat wafting up into his nose, making him choke. “No! No! No! No!” Desmond continued to scream, wrapping his arms around the man. He had almost lost him once before to a bad heart, and had no intention of ever again losing the one person who had been by his side since he was born.
But it didn’t look good, and that made Desmond very, very mad.
The sounds of battle that filled his house had been strangely transformed. It now sounded muffled, as if he were hearing it from underwater. And everything around him had slowed, as though time were somehow flowing differently.
He turned from the body of his father to see that Tobias was standing over him, ready to repeat what had already been done to his father.
Desmond would not stand for it. He would show them all—every single one of those who had come into his home and attacked him—exactly what he was capable of.
“You stupid jerk,” Desmond said, lightning crackling from his eyes.
It felt like his brain had grown four times its normal size, breaking through the top of his skull, the intensity of his anger represented by all his brain could do.
The result had the force of a tornado touching down in the living room. Tobias was the first to feel his wrath, picked up as if by
some gigantic invisible hand and thrown across the room.
Desmond let the power flow from him, and found himself lifted up from the floor, levitating above the living room by sheer electrical force emanating from his brain. He turned his attention to the monsters next, plucking them up from the ground, using his abilities to crush some, while causing others to explode in flames.
Sensing what was about to happen to them, many fled, some leaping through the broken windows to escape. Desmond caught most, making their death exceptionally painful. And the more he destroyed, the greater his power flowed. Floating in the air, he spread his arms wide and tossed back his head, reveling in the sounds of utter destruction around him.
Destruction that he was responsible for.
Desmond searched for more to punish, but saw only those who had come to warn him. They were cowering against the powerful winds that flowed from the power of his mental abilities. He had told them when they’d first arrived that he could take care of himself, and he guessed that he’d proven that.
His gaze then fell upon the body of his father, and he felt his heart begin to break. Desmond pulled back upon his power, lowering himself to the ground beside his father’s body. Things began to calm within the room, the hurricane force winds receding, as he turned his focus to his dad.
“It’s going to be all right,” he told his father, gently stroking his head. “You just rest a bit, and you’ll be up and around in no time.”
Desmond sensed that he was being watched, and twisted around to see Bram and the others standing there. “He’ll be fine,” he told them, feeling the scalding tears running down his face.
He noticed Stitch with an unconscious Tobias slung over his shoulder.
“What are you going to do with him?” Desmond asked.
Bogey had found his wheelchair and steered it over to him.
“We’re going to take him someplace to question,” Bram said. “We need to know what we’re up against.”
Bogey and Emily helped Desmond back into his chair, and he found himself looking at his father again.
“Can we … can we go with you?” he asked. He tore his eyes from his dad’s body.
Emily was nodding yes even before Bram answered.
“It’s why we came in the first place,” the boy said.
“Did you hear that, Dad?” he asked, turning his wheelchair toward his father. “We’re going with them.”
Desmond looked around the house, marveling at the devastation and knowing that he had been partially responsible. It was as though a demolition team had come in with sledgehammers.
He and his father had been waiting for something like this for a very long time, and it had finally arrived. The life they had known was now over.
“We’re ready,” he told them.
And then Bogey did his thing, opening a passage in the center of Desmond’s living room.
A doorway from his old life, into the new.
Crowley hated the desert.
And as the sorcerer emerged from the tunnel of darkness that had been established from his domain to the desert of New Mexico, he was instantly reminded of why.
Stepping out into the hot sun he wrapped his cloak of chilling darkness tighter about him, extending the garment composed of the blackest shadow to cover all of his exposed flesh. The brightness of the orb hanging in the sky—the warmth—it was enough to make him run back into the cool dampness of the magickal passage, back to his subterranean domain.
But Crowley had work to do, and if all went according to plan, darkness to bring.
He’d emerged onto a metal platform, being hastily erected by his most diligent workers. The trolls carried most of the burden, their bodies swathed in heavy layers, their heads covered in hoods and floppy hats to protect them from the sun’s burning rays. These were creatures of shadow that toiled for him in the harsh light of day; that toiled for a new era now that the Brimstone Network was no more.
Crowley felt a twinge of doubt and quickly brushed it away as he crossed to the edge of the platform. From within the protection of his cloak, the sorcerer looked out over the harsh New Mexican desert. If he squinted his eyes just right, he could see the weakness, the thinness in the neigh invisible barrier that separated the world of man from so many others.
This was where they’d first tested their ultimate weapon of war, their atomic bomb. It was the summer of 1945, and the Trinity test was the first of its kind. They had no idea what they were about to do, the damage they would cause to the magickal barriers set in place before recorded history.
Crowley imagined what it must’ve been like on that early morning, when the bomb was detonated, the science of man acting as a kind of anti-magick, weakening the boundaries that had been established for their own protection.
Imbeciles, he thought, having long since abandoned his desire to be considered one of them—to be thought of as human. He flexed his insect limbs beneath his robes of shadow. They got what they deserved.
If it were not for the Brimstone Network, humanity would not likely have retained its position as dominant species on earth. Instead, they would have become the playthings, or food, for races far superior to the pale-skinned weaklings that had evolved here.
Crowley wanted that in the worst way.
Soon what remained of the great barriers would be torn down, and the countless other races that had admired this world—coveted its life and hungered to make it their own—would again be able to cross over unhindered.
He thought of how he would achieve this goal and smiled: a human child, no older than ten, her body infected with a witch’s curse, to be the greatest threat to humanity ever known. She would be his instrument of success, the means by which the barriers would be torn asunder.
He watched the trolls work, some finishing the platform, while others installed the detonation shell. Things seemed to be moving along quite nicely.
Crowley approached the shell, admiring his handiwork. He’d certainly outdone himself with its sleek design, modeling it after an Egyptian sarcophagus. Risking the effects of the sun, he reached out to touch the empty shell that would soon hold the child’s crystal encasement, holding it in place until it was time for it to be breached, unleashing the full fury of the power it contained.
An explosion of magical force greater than the blast released during the Trinity test. It will be a glorious thing, the sorcerer thought to himself.
The shadow passage back to his domain started to fluctuate, someone traveling from his lair to the platform.
Cracklebones bounded from the opening, eyes wild.
Crowley did not have a good feeling about this.
The troll shrieked, his leathery flesh starting to smolder under the intensity of the desert sun’s rays.
The sorcerer moved to stand before him.
“Master,” Cracklebones said, shielding his sensitive eyes from the sun, his exposed flesh blistering.
“What news do you bring me?” Crowley asked, suspecting that he would not care for the answer one little bit.
Cracklebones had curled into a tight ball beneath the sun’s onslaught. Not feeling the least bit merciful, but wanting to know what news he brought, Crowley extended his magickal cloak, letting it envelop the burning troll like a cool shadow.
“Bless you, merciful Master,” Cracklebones said. “Bless you for your kindness and …”
“My patience wears,” Crowley warned, tempted to withdraw his cloak. “Where is the human … where is Tobias?”
Cracklebones looked up. “Dead, I think,” he stated. “We were attacked … we found the one you were looking for … the one on the list … but they were already there.”
“Who were already there?” Crowley barked, his spidery limbs reaching from beneath his robes to grab hold of the troll and lift him from his shadowy protection.
“The son of Stone,” Cracklebones shrieked, squirming in the rays of the sun, the blisters that covered his body popping, their juices sizzling in the heat.
“The son of Stone was waiting to attack us.”
Crowley let the troll drop, and he scrambled across the platform, running toward the safety of the shadow passage.
The sorcerer let him go, pulling his cloak of darkness tighter about his form, no longer feeling the effects of the blazing sun above.
What a dump,” Emily said, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
“Don’t look at me,” Bogey said. “This is where Stitch said to rift to, so I rifted.”
Stitch emerged from the magickal portal, two heavy loads on each shoulder, one still living, the other, wrapped in a couch cover, not so lucky.
Bram helped take Desmond’s father from him, setting the still form onto the floor. He hadn’t even wanted to bring the man’s body along, but Dez had insisted.
“Careful with him,” Desmond said, wheeling his chair quickly from the rift to stop beside his dad’s body.
“What is this place?” Emily asked as she flicked a switch on the wall to illuminate the cavernous chamber. “Ewww, it looks worse with the lights on.”
“We’re in a secret chamber beneath the ruins of an ancient monastery on the tidal island of Lindesfarne,” Stitch explained as he set the unconscious Tobias down against the wall. “It’s also the place of my birth.”
“You were born here?” Bogey asked, strolling around the room, fiddling with the knobs and switches on the various machines around the chamber. “I came out of a stupid egg.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me,” Emily said with a roll of her eyes, trying to find someplace that wasn’t covered in dust to sit down.
Stitch crossed his powerful arms, looking around the room. “It isn’t much, but it should provide for us until we can pull something better together.”
“It’s fine,” Bram said.
Stitch smiled. “Exactly my feelings. Now,” he said, rubbing his big hands together eagerly. “Who would fancy a cup’a tea?”
They all decided that they would, something to remind them that normal things still existed, and that werewolves, death magick, and swarms of evil monsters weren’t the norm.
They could only find two cups, but some glass beakers served the purpose just as well.