Jestin Kase and the Masters of Dragon Metal Read online

  The man swung his arm upward and summoned a force field that crackled with energy. The spirit slammed against the field and nearly dispersed, like water splashing against brick. But still, the spirit held its form.

  Gideon lowered his force field and pulled out his guns. He fired bullets that crackled with electricity; they shot through the spirit and dispersed its corporeal form, bit by bit, but not as fast as the spirit could pull itself back together. The spirit floated slowly toward Gideon, arms extending claws of mist and ghostly light.

  “Father!” Gideon shouted. “You need to get up!”

  Near the front of the church, Father Caleb climbed slowly to his feet. He reached behind his pulpit and pulled out a Relic, a bronze statue of the archangel Michael with hands, feet, and wings spread out in the shape of a cross.

  Father Caleb thrust the cross at the spirit. Runes ignited with blue energy along Michael’s wings. The priest whispered an incantation that sparked the runes, firing a thick bolt of lightning that tore through the spirit.

  The ghost shrieked as it tried to pull itself back together. But Father Caleb fired another bolt of power. Then another. And another. Each blast ripped through the spirit like paper, tearing the ghost to pieces.

  “Banish me! Destroy me! It doesn’t matter!” the spirit shrieked. “Don’t you sense it? The Great Dark comes for you!”

  The spirit exploded with a flash of light and vanished into mist that spread throughout the church, evaporating. Father Caleb dropped the Relic just as it crumbled and dissolved into dust, burned past its limit.

  Quiet.

  Stillness.

  Gideon kept his guns in hand. He glanced at Father Caleb. “Did that thing just say the Great Dark is coming?”

  “Were you followed?” Father Caleb asked.

  Gideon shook his head. “I’m never followed.”

  “I can think of at least three or four times this month—”

  “I’m never followed.”

  “—that Rage demon in Indianapolis tracked you back to our hotel. The First Fallen in Cedar Lake followed you all the way to Fort Wayne and then Toledo. The Hedron base in Terre Haute: Not only was that a trap, but they followed us to Louisville. And one other time, I think. Oh, that Trinity squad that almost—”

  “Okay, okay,” Gideon snapped. “But I wasn’t followed this time.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  The church doors blew open in a shower of splinters and broken wood.

  Gideon snapped around and aimed his guns at the entrance. But he hesitated.

  In the doorway stood a boy, no older than twelve. He held his hands behind his back and wore a black hoodie that matched his dark jeans. The boy wore his bleached-blond hair long, bangs down to his eyebrows. His skin looked chalk white and his eyes pale blue. Jestin heard Gideon curse the strange child’s name: Abilsin. The creepy boy tilted his head and smirked.

  “Hi!” he said like a kid excited at Christmas. He lifted his hand. Invisible energy gripped Father Caleb and Gideon and forced them to their knees.

  Father Caleb struggled to break free, but his entire body felt as if it were trapped in a vise. “Never followed, huh, Gideon?”

  “Shut up, Father.”

  Abilsin giggled. “I didn’t understand why my master would take an interest in all of you. Now I know.”

  Suddenly, Jestin sprang to his feet and tackled Abilsin aside. They fell and tumbled. Abilsin laughed and twisted his hand; invisible energy slammed into Jestin and hurled him to the front of the church.

  The orphan crashed over the pulpit. Sharp pain shot through his leg, probably broken. Well . . . that was remarkably stupid.

  Abilsin climbed back to his feet and dusted off his jeans. “You must be the young one who destroyed my master’s thrall. Rotten luck! He doesn’t like it when people break his toys.”

  Growly McHissy-Face pounced and landed between Jestin and the attacker. The cat arched its back and hissed, fur raised, as it faced Abilsin.

  The strange boy laughed. “I love cats!”

  He waved his hand; invisible energy swatted the cat across the church.

  Jestin narrowed his eyes. He did not just hurt the cat! He placed his hands on the floor and started to push himself up. But he stopped when he saw something just within reach: The Dragon Medal. Father Caleb must have dropped it during the fighting.

  That’s the Metal medal that gives you mettle or whatever.

  He reached out to it, then hesitated. Did he have any idea what he was doing? No. Had that ever stopped him before? Nope.

  Oh, what the hell?

  He grabbed the medal. And the fire of the sun jolted through his veins.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Scorpion Run

  Jestin almost screamed. Maybe he did and just didn’t hear himself? Hard to tell when a supernova explodes in your chest. The medallion felt blazing hot in his hand. Its Metal coating melted off and seeped through his skin, into his arm, and through his body, igniting with power.

  His eyes glowed with a golden hue. Golden light, patterned like scales, formed beneath his skin at the temples, along the sides of his neck, and across his forearms.

  “I . . .” Strength thundered through his body with each beat of his heart. “Am . . .” He felt invigorated and alive. A surge of power. “Freaking Superman!”

  An invisible attack smashed Jestin against the wall and pinned him there; the impact shook the entire church.

  Abilsin lifted his hands, palms up. His smile widened and his eyes glimmered. Invisible energy gripped onto every church pew and lifted them from the floor.

  “You’re using Dragon Metal,” the boy said, his high-pitched voice like a song—a creepy one. “Or at least trying to. What, did you think you’d pick up that medal and just magically know how to use it?”

  He thrust his hand. Pews shot at Jestin like battering rams.

  Jestin tried to dash aside but couldn’t move. Okay, maybe not Superman. Pews battered his chest and gut; each bench exploded into splinters on impact. Several more bashed his ribs, his head. Jestin’s skin flared with scalelike patterns of light, as if trying to block the blows—trying and failing. He felt as though a train had rammed his body. And then another train. And another train. All the trains.

  The last pews smashed his head, dazing him. Dust and specks of splintered wood rained throughout the church.

  Abilsin twisted his hands. Jestin dropped and smashed back-first onto the floor, knocking the air from his lungs. Invisible energy held him there.

  Abilsin walked over to Jestin, bent down, and straddled him at the waist. The strange boy leaned down, inches from Jestin’s face. This close, the boy reeked of blood, the metallic stink of iron. He smiled.

  “You take out a thrall or two and think you can make a difference? How precious,” Abilsin said mockingly.

  Jestin summoned every ounce of strength that he had. He still held the medallion. And he felt the Dragon Metal writhe within his veins. Such power. But he had no idea how to use it.

  Come on! he shouted to himself. Abilsin smirked. His eyes glared mockingly, a stare that reminded Jestin of every bully he’d faced throughout his life. Every bully who’d picked on someone small and weak. He hated bullies. The orphan gritted his teeth. Seriously, you stupid Metal, do something!

  Abilsin ran his fingers through Jestin’s hair, damp with sweat. “I’m sure you’ve heard this before, but . . . you are insignificant. Just . . . die. Die and let those with real power have their fun.”

  Jestin scoffed. “You . . .” He clenched his jaw. It hurt to talk. His throat felt raw, as if dried and scorched. But dammit, he had to say something. “You’re . . . an asshat.”

  Okay, maybe that wasn’t worth the trouble to say. But it felt good.

  Abilsin patted Jestin’s cheek. The strange boy’s hand felt unnaturally smooth; no calluses, maybe not even fingerprints. “I’m sorry you feel that way, little orphan. Are you going to cry now, hmm?”

  Jestin tightened his grip on his medallion. Memories flashed through his mind. He remembered every taunt and insult from every bully throughout his entire life.

  “No one wants you, gutter trash.”

  “Did your mommy toss you into a dumpster?”

  “You’re worthless. Crawl back into your hole.”

  Jestin gripped his medallion so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

  “Shut up!” Golden light flared from his body and tossed Abilsin across the church.

  The light splashed across the walls and ignited with flames, scorching the inside of the church with tidal waves of fire. Flames licked their way up to the ceiling and spread, filling the church with billows of smoke.

  What the what! Jestin climbed to his feet, the medallion gripped tightly in his hand. He couldn’t let it go, as if it had sprouted tendrils that anchored to his body. Wait, is that what actually happened?

  He lost sight of Abilsin and . . . and . . .

  His vision swirled. Vertigo. The boy collapsed onto his knees and dropped to his side, falling into unconsciousness.

  ***

  Smoke stung Gideon’s eyes. For a second, he thought he was back in . . .

  No . . . not there.

  He stood and quickly surveyed his surroundings. Parts of the ceiling had collapsed into piles of fiery debris. Flames coated the walls. Smoke clouded the air. Near the front of the church, Father Caleb climbed back to his feet, rubbing his head. Close by, Jestin was sprawled across the floor, unconscious.

  Gideon couldn’t see Abilsin, but he sensed the strange boy’s power. Something about him was off. His aura didn’t feel like that of a demon, thrall, god, or fallen angel, and it defin
itely didn’t feel mortal.

  Abilsin laughed from within the smoke.

  No time.

  Gideon snapped his hand to his side. His force fields drove a wedge through the flames and carved a tunnel toward the door. Fire surged against the barriers, which flickered with traces of blue lightning. He strained to keep the force fields raised against the power of the blaze, like holding back a wildfire through sheer force of mental will.

  “Father, grab Jestin!” he shouted.

  The priest barely had time to regain his balance.

  “I’ve got him.” Father Caleb used both arms to lift and carry Jestin’s limp body. The priest shuffled around piles of splintered wood and wisps of flame.

  “Faster!” Gideon shouted.

  “Shouting ‘faster’ doesn’t help,” the priest said.

  Father Caleb hurried through the tunnel of force fields and made it through the exit. Gideon followed; he ran outside just as his barriers collapsed, creating an explosion of flames that rattled the burning church.

  Abilsin laughed from somewhere within the church. His voice echoed through the darkness.

  Father Caleb raised his eyebrows. “Run?”

  “Yeah.”

  Gideon and Father Caleb ran to a side alley where the priest had parked his car: a sleek black 1999 Nissan Skyline GT-R R34.

  “You’re driving Mothra today?” Gideon asked. Father Caleb, a car enthusiast, had spent his teens and early twenties as a street racer. The priest had amassed quite the car collection over the years, from classics to more modern muscle cars. The GT-R series had earned the nickname Godzilla, so Father Caleb named his R34 Mothra to stay consistent with the franchise.

  “My Impala was in the shop,” Father Caleb said. “Open the door. I’ll set the kid in the back.”

  Gideon opened the door, and Father Caleb laid Jestin in the backseat. Even unconscious, the boy still gripped the Dragon Medal, almost as if it had fused to his palm—which, Gideon knew, it probably had.

  Gideon hopped into the passenger seat, and Father Caleb took the wheel. The priest started the engine and throttled off just as Abilsin stepped foot outside the burning church.

  ***

  Smoke had dirtied Abilsin’s clothes, but other than that, he seemed untouched by the fire, hair and skin still pale against the backdrop of night. The strange boy watched as the Skyline sped away with Gideon, Father Caleb, and Jestin inside. Hands in his pockets, he walked into the middle of the street and looked toward where the car had fled.

  He could have chased them himself, but . . . he’d already done so much today.

  Abilsin sighed, still smiling. He leaned down and placed his smooth hand against the rough pavement. He whispered an incantation, barely audible.

  Puddles of black ink opened in the street, and from the pools rose creatures of myth: Girtablullû, one of the Eleven Beasts of Tiamat, created by the goddess as part of her army, the Forces of Chaos. This particular monster was an army in itself, an army of scorpion men.

  They had the upper bodies of men, toned with bronze skin and bulky muscles. Their faces looked mostly human, with black hair tousled across their heads and rows of fangs for teeth beneath bright yellow eyes. Their lower bodies were all scorpion: eight legs and a stinger armored in exoskeletons that looked like dull metal.

  Abilsin breathed a sigh of fatigue as he sat on the pavement, cross-legged. “Chase them, please.” He waved them on, then leaned back on his hands. “I’ll just wait here. Not in the mood for running, really.”

  The scorpions, dozens of them, obeyed; they dashed down the street with unnatural speed and closed in on their prey.

  ***

  Gideon kept looking at the backseat. Jestin was still breathing. Good. But his body looked damp with sweat, bangs wet and shirt clinging to his slender chest. The black cat was resting on top of him, waiting for him to wake up. How did that cat get in here?

  Father Caleb floored it. “Do you know who that was?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That was Abilsin.”

  “Yes.”

  “Abilsin! That’s one of the big guns. Lagren’s right hand.”

  “I know, Father, calm down,” Gideon said, voice even. “We’ve fought worse.”

  “We haven’t, actually.”

  Gideon glanced out the back window. And froze. He saw a swarm of scorpion men running after them, moving unnaturally fast, fast enough to close in on the speeding car.

  “Father,” Gideon said calmly. “We have company.”

  Father Caleb glanced at the rearview mirror. “Well . . . shit.”

  Gideon made sure his guns were freshly loaded with magazines of enchanted bullets—fiery rounds.

  “Keep driving,” he said. “Try to shake them.”

  “How many rounds do you have left?”

  “Just drive.”

  “Gideon, how many rounds?”

  “One mag each.”

  “That won’t be enough.”

  “No. But we’ll make it work. We always do.”

  “We don’t, actually.”

  Gideon leaned out the passenger-side window and sat on the door. He used one hand to grab hold of the door for balance, and with his other hand, he pulled out one of his guns.

  Gideon opened fire. His first three bullets blasted through a scorpion creature that lost its footing and tumbled over its own legs, skidding across the pavement. Gideon fired again, keeping track of his bullet count.

  Four bullets—thirty-one, thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight—blasted through a scorpion’s chest. Each blast splattered green ichor across the street like acid.

  Gideon shifted his aim. But before he could fire, a scorpion landed on the car’s roof. The impact startled Father Caleb, and he swerved, nearly out of control. Gideon grabbed hold of the door to keep from falling and swung his gun toward the scorpion.

  The monster slashed the gun from Gideon’s hand. The blow whipped him backward, and he almost fell from the car window. The scorpion lunged at him. He pulled out his second gun and shot the monster point-blank through the head. The creature sagged and fell to the street.

  Four other scorpions gained on the car. A monster swung its stinger and stabbed through the rear window, shattering it. The others slashed their claws toward the car’s rear tires. But Father Caleb swerved back and forth, trying to keep the car away from the creatures’ clawed hands.

  Each swerve nearly knocked Gideon from the passenger-side window, jerking him back and forth.

  “Can’t you keep this thing still?” he shouted over the roar of the car engine.

  “No, actually!” Father Caleb shouted back. “That would defeat the purpose of fleeing!”

  Gideon aimed over the car roof and shot a scorpion away from the driver-side door—seventeen, sixteen. He swung his gun and fired again—fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve—blasting a scorpion away from the bumper.

  Father Caleb turned right hard, tires screeching, as he cut a corner and sped onto a side street.

  Two scorpions lunged with impossible leaps. Gideon fired—eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five—and bullets tore through the scorpions’ limbs and torsos, knocking them from the air. A trio of the creatures leaped over their fallen brethren. Gideon aimed toward their exposed undersides and fired—four, three, two. Bullets punctured through the creatures with bursts of fiery power.

  The car turned again, hard, and throttled through an alley. The vehicle barreled through garbage cans and piles of boxes and shot back onto the streets, nearly smashing a brown pickup truck from the side.

  Gideon cursed beneath his breath. One round left. Getting sloppy . . .

  Five scorpions scrambled after the vehicle. And Gideon saw at least four others take shortcuts across the rooftops, shadowed figures leaping from building to building.

  Gideon closed his eyes. He could summon another barrier, maybe two, but he’d burn out after that. He didn’t have many options.

  “Father?”

  “Yeah?”

  Gideon watched the monsters close in from above and below. “Drive faster.”

  ***

  Jestin’s vision blurred into focus. He felt his pulse thunder in his head, each beat a burst of pain. And he felt fur tickle his nose. Fur. . .?

  Growly McHissy-Face stood on his chest, staring down at him. Jestin reached up and rubbed the cat behind the ears. “Aw man, what the hell just—”