desperately
trying to avoid his wound, and he gave me an appreciative smile. We were now
chained to each other with no hope of escape. Sip also had a chain around her neck
that I was sure kept her from transforming into a werewolf and running.
“You are evil,” Sip spat.
“Through and through. Just when I think you might have a redeeming shred of
decency hiding in there somewhere, you stab my friend. It’s disgusting. You are
darkness. The Nocturns call and you go like a dog.”
Lisabelle gave Sip an impressed
look. Trafton tucked his head to keep his weak smile hidden while Zervos
remained unreadable.
“March,” Zervos barked, twirling
around. We had been standing a good distance from the pens, on a little hill.
As Zervos took us on the most direct path to a group of three Fire Whips
standing together, I held my head high and refused to look around. But once we
came into view, the entire camp fell silent. The only noises were the
occasional crackle of fire and an ominous snapping sound that came from the one
Fire Whip who was idly crackling his weapon.
Suddenly, the air was split with
a scream from a student who had dashed to the walls of the pen that held her.
She was Airlee, but I didn’t know her. “No,” she yelled, her mousy brown hair
tousled and her nose streaked with dirt. I was close enough now that I could
see she wasn’t wearing any shoes. “Leave them alone. Leave CHARLOTTE alone.”
It was small comfort under the
circumstances, but I was heartened that I still had defenders among the
paranormals. After what happened at Locke I had not been sure.
The girl continued to scream and
a few others took up her cry, until at least half the camp was chanting, “Set
Charlotte free. Set Charlotte free.”
“ENOUGH,” one of the Fire Whips
cried. I couldn’t see the face because it was covered with a hood, but I heard
the crackle of the whip. I flinched reflexively, my body already preparing
itself for the sound of searing flesh. When it came I wanted to cry. The Fire
Whip had gone over to the pen that held the brown-haired girl. To her credit,
she had seen him coming and refused to move. The whip had snaked out, as fast
as lightning, and struck the girl on her outstretched hand. She screamed and
fell to her knees, letting out one more chant before the whip struck again,
this time on her shoulder. The girl cried and fell sideways, gasping for air as
her wounds started to ooze.
“Leave her alone,” Trafton
yelled. “She didn’t do anything to you!” The Fire Whip turned, and for a second
I thought he didn’t have a face, although I had never heard Lisabelle talk
about any darkness mages who were as different from her as that. The place in
the hood where a face should have been was all black, keeping his features
shrouded. He raised his Whip again, but this time he simply struck the ground.
Then he did it again, and again. At first I wondered what on earth he was
doing, but then the air was filled with snarls, and I realized with dread that
he had been sending a signal.
Hellhounds poured in from every
direction, with five or six racing to surround each pen, their black fur tipped
with burning red sparks and their red eyes snapping from side to side. The
penned-in paranormals whimpered. Many were crying. The hellhounds snarled. I
had never noticed their tails before, but I could see now that they were like
large black clubs, another weapon.
For a few moments my attention
was so focused on the arrival of the hellhounds that I forgot about the Fire
Whip. But then, when I turned, I saw that he was now standing before Trafton
with the whip held lightly in his hand.
He cracked it, but without quite
hitting Trafton. The dream giver tried not to flinch, but he was obviously
jumpy. Silence had again fallen over the camp. The other Fire Whips stood
around watching, and I found myself wishing that they had faces, as if that
could have given me some information that we could put to use in fighting
Glenn Bullion
Lavyrle Spencer
Carrie Turansky
Sara Gottfried
Aelius Blythe
Odo Hirsch
Bernard Gallate
C.T. Brown
Melody Anne
Scott Turow