Jestin Kase and the Masters of Dragon Metal Page 2

  “Stalk much?”

  “When I have to,” Gideon said. “I can’t stop what’s happening alone. Those Three Great Schools I mentioned, they’re binding what’s left of magic, perverting it. They have to be stopped and set back on the right path, aimed against the Great Dark. I need people like you to make that happen.”

  “Orphan boys?” Jestin asked. “You need orphan boys?”

  “I need people who refuse to accept the world we live in as normal.”

  Jestin slouched and muttered beneath his breath. He wanted to say, Maybe your generation shouldn’t have royally screwed things up for the rest of us.

  ***

  Lagren loved the fiery smell of smoke. He breathed in deep; burnt air filled his nostrils. He found peace in the chaos of fire. And he loved it.

  The man stood near the remains of Jestin’s foster home, a smoldering pile of burnt wood and ash. Firefighters had just extinguished the last of the flames; smoke clung to the night air, clouding the dense neighborhood of mismatched homes.

  Red and blue light strobed across the landscape, from two fire engines, three police cars, and one ambulance parked in the nearby street. Several firefighters rummaged through the burnt wreckage while police officers secured the scene.

  Lagren stood silently among them. He wore a long black trench coat and carried a black cane with a silver grip that resembled a double-headed lion. His black hat cast a shadow across his chalk-white face.

  A young officer noticed him.

  “Uh, excuse me, sir?” The officer kept his distance, afraid. As he should be. “I’m going to have to ask you to step back.”

  “No, I think not.” Lagren gave a pleasant smile that contrasted with the cold fury in his pale blue eyes. “Tell me, what happened to the children who lived here?”

  The officer’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes opened wide. Fear tightened his body. He swallowed, tried to compose himself. He felt compelled to answer. “They . . . they all made it out alive. Looks like whoever started the fire let the kids out first. There’s a man, though . . . burned to a crisp. Probably the foster dad.”

  “Wise deduction,” Lagren said, holding his smile, eyes swirling with insanity. “You may leave.”

  The officer turned and walked away, quickly, almost tripping over his own feet.

  Lagren stared into the burnt husk of the home. He rarely gave notice to dead thralls, but this individual had been a member of Lagren’s network—a lowly individual, but still, an extension of Lagren’s eyes and ears throughout the city. And whoever had killed this thrall had been thorough. Scraps of blackened wood. Splintered frames. A foundation reduced to rubble. Smoke, so much smoke, and within that smoke, the faintest traces of a mist that did not belong: artificial holy water.

  “Someone here was quite determined,” he whispered, as if to himself.

  A voice answered from the shadows. “Why concern yourself over the death of one thrall?” The voice sounded small and childlike, a whisper on the breeze.

  “Not concern,” Lagren said. “Interest. This thrall belonged to me and I want to know who destroyed him.”

  “Someone young,” said the voice, in possession of mental powers that sensed the aftermath of the crime scene. “A child, really. But trained. And if he’s trained, you know what that means, my master. Gideon will find him.”

  “Yes,” Lagren said, amused at the thought. “Gideon. That fool cannot accept that mankind has lost its war with evil. This world is ours.”

  “If he continues to gather forces . . .”

  Lagren barked a laugh. “Forces? Hardly. They may think they can fight back against the chaos that has enveloped this world, but it is too far gone. Yes, too far gone. Let them try to fight, though. Let them lash out like angry children. It will make the chaos of this world taste all the more bitter.”

  Lagren looked toward the rooftops, where he knew the source of the voice waited in darkness: Abilsin, his servant and right hand. “Find the one who did this,” he said. “The best part of dealing with angry children is the punishment.”

  ***

  Gideon took Jestin to a church in a run-down subdivision crammed with Victorian-style homes. Each house looked worn and weathered, with chipped paint, cracked windows, and missing shingles.

  Jestin wanted to run at the first chance he had, away from the leather-clad man and his force fields and fire bullets. But the boy’s curiosity outweighed his impulse. He wanted to know more about Gideon. And he wanted to better understand these thralls that seemed to pop up all too frequently.

  Inside, the church looked like what a church should look like (he guessed, never having been in one, really). Wooden pews? Check. Pulpit? Check. Stained-glass windows? Those too. Low lighting gave the church an odd vibe, though. The reds and golds from the stained-glass windows cast the faintest of crimson hues.

  At the front of the church stood a man in black jeans and a black button-down shirt with a priest’s collar. He looked middle-aged, with short, wavy brown hair, hazel eyes, and black-framed glasses. His face had the dark stubble of a five-o’clock shadow.

  “Gideon,” the priest said with a smile. He seemed way too normal to be interacting with Jestin’s ’90s techno-action hero. “Didn’t know you’d be bringing over another initiate.”

  The priest talked about Jestin as if he weren’t there, so naturally, Jestin hated him. It didn’t take much to get on the boy’s bad side.

  “It wasn’t expected,” Gideon said in that same even tone he used when talking to Jestin. Like Batman—the Michael Keaton version, not the growly Christian Bale one. “Jestin, this is Father Caleb. Father, this is Jestin. He’s killed about half a dozen thralls that I know of.”

  “Well, isn’t that impressive?” The holy man didn’t bother to hide his sarcasm. He extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Jestin.”

  Jestin took the priest’s hand. “Thanks. Your sincerity is overwhelming.”

  The priest smirked. “A smart-ass, huh? I like it.”

  If he tries to convert me, I am so out of here. “Are you going to tell me what you want? And no, I won’t be your altar boy, so don’t ask.”

  The priest breathed a quick laugh. “No, you don’t strike me as the altar-boy type. Are you even a believer?”

  “In . . .?”

  “You seriously have to ask?” Father Caleb pointed at the nearest cross, large and bronze at the very front of the church. “God.”

  To Jestin’s credit, he didn’t bust out laughing. “I believe in what I can see. Monsters and demons . . . and apparently force fields and magic fire bullets . . . sure, seen those. But not God. Quite the opposite, actually.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” Jestin glanced back at Gideon. “Did you seriously bring me here for Bible school?”

  “No,” Gideon said. “Father, if you’d please . . .”

  “Right, right,” the priest said, adjusting his glasses. “It’s quite the complicated situation you’ve stumbled into, Jestin. There’s a lot to explain, so we’ll start with the basics. Magic.”

  Father Caleb reached into his pocket and pulled out a medallion, dull gold, that fit in the palm of his hand. He traced his thumb across its surface, which was etched with carvings that resembled a serpentine dragon.

  “No one on earth can channel magic directly anymore,” Father Caleb explained. “The Three Great Schools are binding the remnants of magic, and our world is completely cut off from the Magical Source: the heavens.”

  Jestin arched an eyebrow. “Heaven? As in angels playing harps in floofy clouds? That heaven?”

  “Yes and no,” Father Caleb said, moving on. “Sorcerers and magicians used to be able to channel magic at will. Now they need Relics, items like these medals. But Relics are scarce. And no one can make more.”

  Jestin glanced at Gideon. “Is that how you made all those fancy force fields? A Relic?”

  Gideon said
nothing.

  Cryptic. Got it. Not at all suspicious.

  Father Caleb continued as if Jestin had not asked the question. “This medallion is one of the most powerful Relics on earth. It’s part of a set of twelve, the last force for good on the planet. Each is made out of Dragon Metal.”

  Jestin tilted his head. Dragon Metal? Of course. “A Dragon Metal medal? Do I need mettle to use the Metal medal?”

  “That’s . . . not funny.”

  “It is a little, yeah. Everyone loves wordplay.”

  “Please stop.”

  “Right after you tell me why I’m here.”

  “To use this.” Father Caleb held up the medallion. “If you prove you can handle it. And even if you can’t, to fight with us.”

  “If you want fighters to save the world, you should call Bruce Willis or Jet Li or something.”

  “Don’t discount yourself.” Gideon spoke up at Jestin’s side, having moved without making a sound, nearly scaring the crap out of the orphan. “I’ve seen what you can do. And that’s without training. I can help make you better. And you wouldn’t be alone.”

  “Gideon has a small team,” Father Caleb said. “If you joined them, you’d be going up against . . . well, the whole world, frankly. The Three Great Schools of Magic. The Great Dark itself and its agents.”

  “Agents?”

  “Think of every nightmare you’ve ever had,” Father Caleb said. “That’s the Great Dark. Its most powerful ally is Tiamat. She rules the world, basically, for all intents and purposes.”

  “Should I recognize that name?”

  “She’s a figure from Babylonian myth,” Father Caleb said. “A dragon, the embodiment of primordial chaos.”

  Oh great, another dragon. Cute. “What’s with all the dragon stuff? I thought you were a priest. How can you believe in Babylonian myth?”

  Father Caleb smiled and adjusted his glasses. “The truth is always more complicated than the stories we read. According to some legends, Tiamat was born before the beginning of time, out of swirling chaos. She was an old god and gave birth to the young gods. But when the young gods killed her mate, she turned against them, starting a full-out war, using eleven beasts of her own creation to lead the fight.

  “The young gods, though, had a champion who stood up to the eleven beasts: Marduk. He defeated Tiamat and trapped her remains in what became known as the sky, sea, and land. When the Great Dark subdued this world, years ago, maybe decades, Tiamat was freed.”

  Jestin shifted back and forth on his feet. “Yeah, I don’t believe any of that. And I’m actually getting kind of bored.”

  Growly McHissy-Face yawned within the boy’s hoodie, as if on cue. We are truly bonded, Growly McHissy-Face.

  Father Caleb tucked the medallion back into his pocket. “All right, let’s cut to the chase.” He pulled a small knife from his other pocket. “Hold out your hand.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Church Brawl

  “Whoa!” Jestin jerked back; Growly McHissy-Face breathed a quick hiss and bolted from the boy’s hoodie. Seriously, so helpful, what a brave guardian. “What kind of whacked-out priest are you?”

  “It’s all right,” Father Caleb said. He tried to sound soothing, but that made him sound creepy, like saying, It’s okay, little girl, come into my van and have some candy. “If you’re going to join Gideon and really fight, we need to purify your soul.”

  “My soul is fine, thank you.”

  “Except it’s not,” the priest said. “In today’s world, we’re all tied to evil spirits, quite literally, in one form or another. I need to cut that cord.”

  “You . . . That doesn’t even . . . What?”

  “I thought you were getting bored. Do you want another story, or do you want to do this? I need a cut across the palm of your hand to start the cleansing. You can do it yourself if that would make you more comfortable.”

  Jestin muttered a string of curses beneath his breath. He shook his head, reached out, and took the knife. “Comfortable . . . right.”

  Am I really going along with this? He didn’t believe in magic or rituals. He believed in what he could see and touch. The world had monsters and demons, yes, but not magic, and certainly not hope.

  Jestin glanced to his side; he saw Gideon reloading his twin handguns.

  “Uh, why does it look like you’re getting ready for a fight?”

  “I am,” Gideon said. “The unquiet spirits sometimes fight back when they’re cut off from their hosts. They’re dangerous. That’s why they need to be severed if you’re going to come with me. I can’t afford to have them inside my Hovel.”

  He lives in a freaking hovel? “I don’t remember actually agreeing to go with you, but whatever. Also . . . not sure how good your bullets will do against ghosts.”

  Gideon tucked the loaded guns back into his jacket. “They’re enchanted bullets, made by the Verum before the Great Dark subdued the world.”

  Jestin sighed. “Yeah, I don’t know what that means.”

  Father Caleb grabbed a sack of supplies from behind his pulpit and kneeled on the floor. He reached into the sack, pulled out a plate, and slid it in front of him. The plate looked dull silver, with dents and scratches—unremarkable.

  Then he lifted a silver cup about as large as a bowl. It looked dull and worn, with faded runes along the sides, chipped and scratched. The priest explained that the cup, a Kos Tehora used in purification rituals, came from the Sefirot, one of the Three Great Schools.

  “Hold out your hand and make the cut,” Father Caleb said.

  Jestin grumbled with annoyance, masking his fear. He kneeled, reached out his left hand, and traced the knife along his palm. The blade pricked his skin and drew blood. Ow, ow, ow! Son of a mother, that freaking hurts! Do not cry!

  Blood dripped from his palm and splattered into the dish.

  Father Caleb closed his eyes. He whispered a quiet incantation, barely audible. The cup’s runes started to glow with a pale silver light. The priest tilted the cup and poured its water over Jestin’s hand, across the wound, and into the water dish.

  Jestin nearly snapped his hand away. The water felt hot where it touched his wound. A cold heat. The frigid warmth seeped into his hand and up his arm, swirled into his chest, giving him chills. His body felt as if it had turned into one big goose bump, prickling with fear.

  “It’s okay,” Father Caleb whispered. “Let the feeling wash through you. With the earth cut off from the heavens, the spirits of the dead can’t cross over into the afterlife. Some, the unquiet, latch on to humans. They feed off the feelings and experiences of the living. Tearing them away, it hurts, down to the soul.”

  Jestin gritted his teeth. Understatement! “Heavens? What about . . . hell?”

  “This world is hell,” Father Caleb said.

  Jestin’s inner voice shouted, Why am I doing this, why am I doing this, why am I doing this!

  Suddenly, he felt a tug in his heart; tightness gripped his throat. He narrowed his eyes, and sweat dripped down his forehead. His pulse pounded in his neck and wrists.

  Father Caleb knitted his brow with concern. “Well . . . shit.”

  The light dimmed to shadow throughout the church, then pure black. Within the shadows, a pale flame took shape. The flame grew, illuminating the church with flickers of white light. Slowly, the flame took on a vaguely humanoid shape, a spirit with unnaturally long arms and clawed hands.

  “Jestin, move!” Gideon leaped in front of the spirit.

  The man snapped his hand, creating barriers that crackled with electricity and wrapped around the spirit like a box. The spirit flared with ghostly light that shattered the force fields. A shock wave bashed Gideon through the air; he smashed through several pews, toppling them over.

  Father Caleb stood, but the spirit whacked the priest off his feet, and he crashed near his pulpit.

  Jestin froze in place. He knew how to fight thralls, flesh and blo
od. Possessions? He could handle those too, also flesh and blood (for the most part). But this? There’s a Casper joke here somewhere, but I can’t—crap!

  Jestin dove aside as the spirit lashed out with its hands, elongated wisps of light and mist. The boy somersaulted across the floor and rolled into a crouched stance. Before he could move, or even think, the spirit lunged and plunged its hands into the boy’s back.

  Jestin screamed. The pain felt like ice-hot arrows stabbing through his back and out his front, puncturing his soul.

  “Delicious child,” the spirit hissed, a voice that came from everywhere and nowhere. “Do you think I would give you up so easily? You are a banquet!”

  Images flashed through Jestin’s mind.

  Jestin, no older than six, watched friend after friend taken away from his foster home, adopted, while he stayed behind. He tried to laugh and joke to impress every father and mother that visited; he tried to win their favor to get adopted. But they rejected him every time.

  Jestin, now nine, had moved from foster home to foster home. Now he joked to keep others at a distance. Everyone left him, always. Why get close to anyone? He didn’t need friends. He didn’t need parents. Families weren’t real. Loneliness was safety.

  His jokes led to trouble. Trouble led to juvenile detention.

  Jestin, now twelve, had met Nat. Nat . . .

  No! He didn’t want to remember. Loss swelled in his chest. Sorrow choked him. Then anger.

  Nat . . .

  Abandonment. Rejection. Loss.

  The orphan collapsed to all fours.

  “Get . . .” He struggled to speak, jaw clenched. “Out . . . of . . . my . . . head!”

  The spirit hissed with laughter.

  Nearby, Gideon climbed back to his feet and faced the spirit from behind. Blue light flickered in the whites of his eyes.

  He thrust his hand. A barrier of force fields wrapped around the spirit and pulled it away, yanking its arms from Jestin’s body. The boy fell onto his side, worn and exhausted.

  Gideon spread his palm open wide, then tightened his hand. His barrier collapsed with a pulse of blue light that tore into the spirit. But it held its form and dashed at Gideon.