mine shaft. Nash didn’t waste time asking questions and sprinted with us up the trail.
The demons boiled after us. I’d fought creatures like this before, down in the dark desert of Nevada, fought for my life. That was the night I’d met Mick, but that night I’d had a good storm to help me out. This morning, the sky above remained stubbornly clear, not even a breath of wind to stir the dust.
Mick shoved me behind him and faced the onslaught. He was exhausted, I saw it in the slump of his shoulders, and he’d just said he was drained of magic. Nash passed me the gun he’d taken from the Nightwalker plus two magazines, but I knew it wouldn’t do much good against a horde of crazed demons.
Nash sighted down his nine-millimeter at the beings with leathery bodies, clawed hands, and bloodred eyes. “What are they?”
“Demons,” Mick answered curtly.
“Not the steal-your-soul, take-you-to-hell kind of demons,” I put in. “Just the garden-variety, kill-and-eat-you demons.”
Nash gave me a resigned look, sighted down his pistol again, and fired. The boom of the pistol echoed into the morning, and a roar from a hundred demon throats answered it.
Nash’s bullet hit the first demon square in the chest, and it tumbled back into its fellows in a shower of blood. The demons came on. Nash fired again.
Flames danced in Mick’s hands, but I could tell his magic was at low ebb, very little restored yet. I aimed the gun Nash had given me, sighting down the barrel. I hated guns. I knew how to use one, because Mick had taught me, but when I finally made myself pull the trigger, the kick sent me reeling. I fell flat on my back, already off balance from my head injury. The acrid smell of the gun, plus the roar of it, made me want to puke, and I couldn’t even tell if I’d hit the demon.
Mick was fighting with fists, Nash shooting, and still the things came on. At this rate, the demons would leave our shredded bits over the mountain, and the rangers would assume we’d been mauled by bears or a puma. I wondered if any bits would be identifiable.
Demons boiled at Nash like a horde of cockroaches, and he was swearing and shooting, falling to his knees. Mick sagged, his body gleaming with sweat, his fire fading. The demons swarmed over him, jumping on his back, dragging him down to feast on the flesh of the man I loved.
I tossed my gun into the pack and stood up, something wild surging inside me. I suddenly felt strong, adept, fearless; the surety that I could kill the demons and save the day rising in an amalgam of white-hot heat and blinding light. I raised my hands, and light poured out of my palms, just as in the visions I’d had tonight.
A terrible glow lit up the mountain and flowed like a deluge toward the demons. The white light engulfed the demons, Mick, Nash, the ridge. Rocks exploded into rubble and rained into the crevice, and the demons screamed as they began to fall with it. Trees on the ridge above us burst into flame, grasses crackling in the gray morning light.
As soon as the demons fell from Mick, he sprang to his feet, grabbed Nash, and dragged him away from the mewling, desperate demons and the white light. I lifted my hands higher, my laughter booming. Words came out of my mouth, and I didn’t understand one of them. I wasn’t speaking Diné or any other Indian language I knew, or English, or Latin, or Spanish.
The demons ran from me, plunging over the precipice, screaming as they dropped. My wall of light followed them down. It killed all of the demons, and then the light incinerated them. The magic in me killed every single demon, all the way down into the vortex, and once they were nothing but ash, my magic snapped the vortex closed.
I turned to face Nash and Mick, who watched from a little way away, both of them covered with bloody bite marks. Mick’s eyes had gone black all the way across, and the way he looked at me should have terrified the hell out of me.
I laughed. “Hi, boys,” I
The demons boiled after us. I’d fought creatures like this before, down in the dark desert of Nevada, fought for my life. That was the night I’d met Mick, but that night I’d had a good storm to help me out. This morning, the sky above remained stubbornly clear, not even a breath of wind to stir the dust.
Mick shoved me behind him and faced the onslaught. He was exhausted, I saw it in the slump of his shoulders, and he’d just said he was drained of magic. Nash passed me the gun he’d taken from the Nightwalker plus two magazines, but I knew it wouldn’t do much good against a horde of crazed demons.
Nash sighted down his nine-millimeter at the beings with leathery bodies, clawed hands, and bloodred eyes. “What are they?”
“Demons,” Mick answered curtly.
“Not the steal-your-soul, take-you-to-hell kind of demons,” I put in. “Just the garden-variety, kill-and-eat-you demons.”
Nash gave me a resigned look, sighted down his pistol again, and fired. The boom of the pistol echoed into the morning, and a roar from a hundred demon throats answered it.
Nash’s bullet hit the first demon square in the chest, and it tumbled back into its fellows in a shower of blood. The demons came on. Nash fired again.
Flames danced in Mick’s hands, but I could tell his magic was at low ebb, very little restored yet. I aimed the gun Nash had given me, sighting down the barrel. I hated guns. I knew how to use one, because Mick had taught me, but when I finally made myself pull the trigger, the kick sent me reeling. I fell flat on my back, already off balance from my head injury. The acrid smell of the gun, plus the roar of it, made me want to puke, and I couldn’t even tell if I’d hit the demon.
Mick was fighting with fists, Nash shooting, and still the things came on. At this rate, the demons would leave our shredded bits over the mountain, and the rangers would assume we’d been mauled by bears or a puma. I wondered if any bits would be identifiable.
Demons boiled at Nash like a horde of cockroaches, and he was swearing and shooting, falling to his knees. Mick sagged, his body gleaming with sweat, his fire fading. The demons swarmed over him, jumping on his back, dragging him down to feast on the flesh of the man I loved.
I tossed my gun into the pack and stood up, something wild surging inside me. I suddenly felt strong, adept, fearless; the surety that I could kill the demons and save the day rising in an amalgam of white-hot heat and blinding light. I raised my hands, and light poured out of my palms, just as in the visions I’d had tonight.
A terrible glow lit up the mountain and flowed like a deluge toward the demons. The white light engulfed the demons, Mick, Nash, the ridge. Rocks exploded into rubble and rained into the crevice, and the demons screamed as they began to fall with it. Trees on the ridge above us burst into flame, grasses crackling in the gray morning light.
As soon as the demons fell from Mick, he sprang to his feet, grabbed Nash, and dragged him away from the mewling, desperate demons and the white light. I lifted my hands higher, my laughter booming. Words came out of my mouth, and I didn’t understand one of them. I wasn’t speaking Diné or any other Indian language I knew, or English, or Latin, or Spanish.
The demons ran from me, plunging over the precipice, screaming as they dropped. My wall of light followed them down. It killed all of the demons, and then the light incinerated them. The magic in me killed every single demon, all the way down into the vortex, and once they were nothing but ash, my magic snapped the vortex closed.
I turned to face Nash and Mick, who watched from a little way away, both of them covered with bloody bite marks. Mick’s eyes had gone black all the way across, and the way he looked at me should have terrified the hell out of me.
I laughed. “Hi, boys,” I
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