Zatanna #15 - Espilce, III

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Author: ScarecrowSid

Book: Zatanna

Arc: Gem City

Set: 17

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    Zatanna walked the hillside, unease, and the specter named Boston, creeping just behind her. She was unsure of just what she had expected to find on this hill, or around this park, but it was suspiciously lacking in life. That is not to say that it was empty. There were at least a hundred ghosts marching beside her, and hundreds, perhaps thousands, lumbering toward the city center. Whatever they were converging on, it was here.

    Boston, at irregular intervals, attempted to speak to the specters at his side. None spoke back, as was their nature, but he insisted on continuing. The man was an oddity, as far as shades went. Most phantoms were locked into a specific set of actions and dialogue, forever forced to relive the moment of their death and dictate their final hours, minutes, or days. Yet Boston was essentially alive, save for the lack of a proper body. He had his personality, he had his memories, and he was unbound.

    “That’s the problem with people today, nobody wants to talk to strangers,” Boston remarked. He flashed a grin in Zatanna’s direction, the expression unintentionally sinister upon his gaunt, death features. He was, arguably, one of the most grotesque creatures in this procession. “Bunch of ugly mooks.”

    “You’re one to talk,” Zatanna replied, walking ahead slightly. “You look more dead the rest of them.”

    “Makeup.” He touched his cheek, the fingers passed through and into his own head. He wasn’t able to touch things then, not like the others. “You can’t call yourself ‘Deadman’ without putting on a little show.”

    “And now you’re an undead zombie ghost thing,” Zatanna said, stopping as they approached a bend.

    “That was eloquent.” Boston hovered in place, then stepped on the ground and began to march in a mocking fashion. “Shouldn’t you be running or something?”

    Zatanna scowled. Of course, she had considered that, but the air was so thin here. For such a small hill, it felt like climbing the side of some grand mountain. That, coupled with the thick haze of magical energy smothering her as she neared, left her near dazed.

    “No. I need to conserve my energy.”

    Boston barked a laugh. “This can’t be more than a mile, kid. You really need to work out more. Back in my day, I could pull off high-flying stunts in rapid succession and still have enough to take a pretty lady back to my tent for-”

    A sharp, hissing sound out from just ahead. Zatanna glanced at the ghosts beside her, they all raised their heads seeking out some common point. She followed their gaze, resting on the eclipse overhead. The shadow of the moon shrouded nearly all of the sun, and wisps of violet light danced along the edges.

    A single crack ran along the black surface of the moon, bleeding violet light. Another came soon after, shorter but more severe. The specters opened their mouths wide and raised their arms, reverential howls escaping their phantom lips. Zatanna felt a sharp pain in her eyes, realizing too late she had been staring straight at the eclipse.

    Zatanna cursed inwardly, turning away and blinking frantically against the spotty haze settling over her eyes. Behind her, a crash boomed across the sky as the moon shattered.

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    Philomela felt the familiar thrill with every strike. The Blue Devil’s trident darted toward her, striking at her side. She twisted away, the prongs striking at her belt and tearing it away. It, along with the scabbard it held, fell to the wooden floor with a hollow clatter.

    The Devil’s second strike was short. She swatted it away with the flat of her sword and smirked in his direction. Beside her, the Demon Etrigan burned. She could not see the flame, of course, but she could smell the cinder beneath him. A moment before, Etrigan had fallen to one knee and gasped, like a fish fresh from the sea. His breathing had yet to normalize, and she felt the warmth of a massive fire spring up around him. Whatever ward he had cast dispelled the Blue Devil’s attempts to strike him down, but he was no use in this fight.

    It appeared that he truly was fading, and his powers with him. From the brief accounting Jason had provided, Philomela had learned he was the victim of a botched exorcism, one that had left him depleted. A pity, as his assistance would have ended this melee in mere moments.

    The Blue Devil chose this moment to lunge. Philomela heard him of course, the gentle creaking of the boards beneath his toes served as more than sufficient warning of the strike to come. She allowed the trident to breeze past her, sidestepping it with the casual grace of warrior, born and bred, and caught the shaft of the weapon. She pulled it, hard.

    Her opponent stumbled forward, the momentum carrying him off his feet and into a nearby table. The table, and the chairs married to it, splintered beneath the Devil’s crash, forcing Philomela to stifle the need to laugh.

    It’s not over yet, fool girl. Her habits had not faded with age, as her mentors had insisted. Instead, they were only emboldened by the assurance in her own abilities. That boldness had served her well in her youth, and through her middle years, culminating in her appointment to the Queen’s own guard.

    Her arrogance had cost her that, and her eyes. She heard the Devil wrestle free of the remains, muttering profanities she might not have heard without her condition. He was learning a rather valuable lesson in this fight, don’t underestimate your opponent. This world beyond her shores, this man’s world, was filled with this sort of foolish approach to battle. She was doubly insulted in every fight, they never expected to die until her arrows riddled them or her sword slit them.

    This poor Devil had seen both of her “impairments” and assumed she was helpless. Being blind was her curse, but a single notch in a sword doesn’t remove its cutting edge. Philomela was as sharp as ever, and she would provide the Devil with a thorough lesson on that point. As for being a woman, well, the men of this world had proved their weakness a thousand times over. The few she had met with any manner of discipline were dead, and the strength of others was mere bravado. They were not warriors, they were children. Few assumed a woman could fight, and fewer still believed one could be deadly. It was a fact that Brother Night had exploited for decades...

    Lost in thought, she allowed the Blue Devil to advance. His breathing was ragged, heavy from exertion and anger. His feet fell harder on the floor, marking every step so easily the Philomela required no further warning of his intent. She smiled down at her hand, though she could not see it, and rolled the grip of her sword in her palm a couple of times. Her tutors had insisted it was an anxious gesture, but she had never quite agreed. It was the thrill of a good fight.

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    “The woman is doing well,” Etrigan growled. His eyes followed the battle, counting off the Amazon’s parries and retaliatory strikes. “You were wise to bring her.”

    Jason’s voice came as an echo, somewhere in the back of his mind. If only we could help her.

    “I need time, Blood,” Etrigan replied. “Our bond is weak.”

    I don’t think we have time, Jason said with a sigh. I know that you have felt what is happening.

    “Inconsequential.”

    *I thought so too, but something has changed. It’s…” Jason trailed off, a shattering sound rang out, shaking the very Earth beneath them. Etrigan placed a hand flat on the ground, steadying himself.

    A whisper sauntered its way past Etrigan’s ear, barely heard and barely spoken. It wasn’t a tongue Jason would know, it was older than man or myth, it was older than time. Etrigan felt his fire chill, and his wards fell away. He gasped, fear taking hold of his senses. He knew that voice, the way a child knows they will walk.

    What is it? What’s happening to you? Jason asked.

    Etrigan looked toward the sky, veiled by the beams and roof of the building overhead. Instinctual, primal fear flared within him, and a word escaped his lips, “Galid.”

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    Philomela stopped. She heard Etrigan whisper a frantic word, then bow his head and begin mumbling in a language she didn’t know. That startled her, as she was supposedly taught them all. The Blue Devil, in turn, took a step back and began mumbling as well. He still spoke English, but it was frantic and frightened.

    “I hear you,” he said to no one. “I do. I promise, I hear you. Please stop now, please!”

    His pleading fell on deaf ears, it seemed, as he doubled over from a fresh lance of pain and his hands clamped firmly to either side of his head. The trident fell away, forgotten, and Philomela raised her own sword. She was not so honorable that she would give up an opening or an unguarded opponent. She would strike the Blue Devil now, and question him later. The latter would be made significantly easier once the beast was disarmed, captured, and, if need be, crippled.

    She stepped forward, adopting an old stance, and prepared to charge. Philomela drew in three long breaths, giving her time to consider whether this was a ruse of some sort. It appeared it was not, as the Devil began to stumble away from his weapon. He was too far now to reach it in counterattack. Philomela pressed her weight into her lead foot, raised her sword, and stopped short.

    The ceiling overhead thundered, and a shard of something sharp and solid crashed into the space before her. The Devil, on the other side, shouted some half-hearted threat and retreated, still whimpering and pleading with whatever voice haunted him. Philomela sighed, retrieved her sword belt, and sheathed her weapon before approaching the obstruction. She rapped her knuckles against it, feeling the solid weight behind the shell. Was it stone? The echoes of her tapping pulsed along the edge of it, and she noticed the size of it for the first time. It was as wide as the room and taller than the building it sheared, so tall that it rivaled the monoliths of Themyscira.

    Jason, in the place of Etrigan, walked toward the structure and ran a hand along its surface. His breathing had steadied, but his gait was slugged.

    “Has your fit passed then?” Philomela asked, not looking in his direction. Her fingers traced the stone, dancing between the facets.

    “No,” Jason replied. “Etrigan is still… doing whatever he’s doing in my head. I don’t know what he’s saying, but he sounds frightened.”

    Philomela nodded, and Jason spoke again. “What is this, some sort of crystal?”

    “I don’t know,” Philomela said, a smile playing at her lips. “I can’t see it.” A minor lie, she couldn’t see it, but she could feel it. The crystal warmed at her touch, and pulsed faintly. It was alive.

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    Boston had always considered himself a people person. He had a great talent for making conversation and building trust with complete strangers, especially in tense situations. He had been told, repeatedly, that he just had one of those faces. The kind you can trust.

    He was then, understandably, upset by his current state of affairs. Being dead made it incredibly difficult to make new friends, as the average ghost was rather self-obsessed and lacking in any of the conversational nuances of a living person. The few people at Hill’s Circus who could see him had been frightened off the by the gaunt, haunting figure that spoke to them. It was disheartening, to say the least.

    “Well, you did it to yourself, Boston,” he said for the thousandth time. The makeup, the costume, and the name had all been his idea. He was the Deadman, and his act was all about death-defying acrobatics from heights guaranteed to kill. Looking like a pale corpse had helped sell tickets and put asses in seats, but it wasn’t doing wonders for his afterlife. Or rather, his limbo-life.

    That’s what it was, after all. Before his troupe had wandered into this city, he had only seen a few dozen ghosts in small towns and large cities. The implication was obvious, he was stuck in this world for a reason. Death was supposed to be final, and wandering the world alone didn’t seem a pleasant way to spend eternity. He wondered what he could do to change that.

    The girl, the sorceress, was hiding amid a small clearing in the trees, trying desperately to will and blink her sight back to normal. The effort, Boston guessed, was in vain, but she had insisted on moving up the path to the top of this hill. After a short argument and several small profanities, she had agreed to wait until her sight returned and allow Boston to see what was happening on top of the hill. After all, he was just another ghost here. He seemed, however, to be immune to whatever commanded his brethren.

    Zatanna was a pain in the ass, as far as Boston was concerned, but she seemed to be a decent kid. And she hadn’t run away like all the others, she wasn’t afraid of him. If nothing else, it was nice to have someone to talk to that actually talked back.

    He marched in tow with the other specters and tried to match their gait as best he could. He spoke, on occasion, to one or two as they passed him.

    “So, do you come here often?” he asked a blonde woman in a red dress. He did love the color red, and the figure she cut didn’t hurt his interest at all. She was just the sort he liked, with curves in all right places. “I’m new in town, maybe you could show me around?”

    She didn’t reply. Boston looked her over again, smiling as she stared at the hilltop. She was quite beautiful, and the two gashes running the length of her forearms didn’t do much to deter his interest. A phantom blood dripped from her arms, trailing behind her in translucent red pools. Boston had wondered, on occasion, what being dead meant for his romantic endeavors. Surely ghosts could become intimate with other ghosts, it made sense, didn’t it? Sadly, he had yet to find any such ghosts that behaved as he did. It was putting a hamper on his love life, and spying on living people had grown old after a mere month.

    Boston’s thoughts were interrupted as they approached the last few feet before the hilltop. The scene gently sloped into view, and Boston took a quick count of those present. There were three figures here, standing before some sort of cairn made with white stones drizzled with some sort of dark liquid that stained their surface.

    Boston absently thought of ice cream topped with caramel, and his mouth watered. Not truly, of course, but he had phantom cravings. Like a lost limb offered remembered pain, lost senses offered insatiable longing, and he really wanted ice cream. Boston shook his head, grinning to himself, and inspected the three figures. The first was a girl, somewhere in her twenties with short red hair, the sort that achieved through dye, that hung loose and in line with her chin. She was quite pretty and wore a dark coat buttoned up against what Boston guessed was a chill.

    Beside her, Boston saw for the first time that the second figure wasn’t as tall as the others. Though their heights matched, this was achieved by the said figure floating in the air beside its comrades. It was impossible to tell much about it, as it wore a heavy cloak and its hood was up. The third figure, a man, stepped ahead of the others and spread his arms wide. He twirled, grinning with silver teeth that caught glints of the unnatural pink sunlight. The man wore a black suit with a grey shirt with a purple tie, and, for the first time, Boston noticed his eyes. They glowed red, like hot coals in a fire, as he stared at the cairn and back at the sky, gesturing to his comrades.

    The young woman smiled and said something. Boston wondered if he should walk closer, but quashed the idea when he saw the wide berth the other ghosts were giving the three people. There did not appear to be any others upon the hill, so Boston nodded once, then eased back through the other ghosts. He would return to the bottom of the hill, tell the sorceress what he saw and she would be able to come up with some sort of plan.

    Just before he turned, he saw one of the ghosts wander toward the man in the center. It was the young woman in the red dress. The man in the suit, the apparent leader of the group, pointed to a spot just before the cairn and the spectral woman walked toward it and turned to face him. He took her face in his hands, somehow able to grasp her ethereal form and turned her head, and examined her face. His silver teeth caught the dull the began to emanate from the woman in the red dress, she became… solid. She stood before him, looking as solid as any living thing and wounds in her arm closed, leaving only two black scars.

    The man held her there, as she began to weep, and turned to the red-haired woman, who reached into her coat pocket, retrieved something, and handed it to the man in the suit. Boston edged closer, passing through the other ghosts, his caution abandoned.

    He was close enough to hear them, and the gentle sobbing of the woman in his grasp. He had not been imagining it, she was solid now. The man spoke to her, making cooing noises as he held up the object in his spare hand. It was a gem of some sort, nearly black with many facets, that began to pulse softly, a shade of glowing violet in his hand that followed the beat of a heart. Boston felt that too, his heartbeat, and it paired perfectly with the gem.

    “... You’re being very brave, my dear,” the man said. His voice was haunting, and Boston felt a chill for the first time since his death. “You’re doing important work, and your sacrifice will bring…” He sighed as her weeping intensified, then smiled and drove the gem into her chest with his other hand. The man in the suit held her there, his arm in her chest cavity before he drew it away. Surprisingly, it was not blood that dripped from his sleeve when he removed it, it was instead a sort of sinewy, spectral substance that eroded in the air.

    The woman, too, was seemingly unharmed and stepped away as his hand released her face. She remained solid, then looked down at her chest. The gem was lodged there, beneath her skin and pulsed where her heart would have been. She looked up the man in the suit, confused.

    He snapped his fingers, and the woman’s arms and legs were suddenly rigid, as if pulled in four directions by rope. She floated into the air and hovered over the cairn, face down.

    The man spoke again. “Sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice,” he said, sighing. “Nimue, dear, would you like to do the honors?”

    The red-haired woman, Nimue, stepped forward with a long dagger in her hands. She rounded the woman in the red dress, approaching her head and took a tuft of her blond hair in her hands. She raised the woman’s head and looked her in the eye, then smiled wickedly.

    Boston stepped back as Nimue ran the dagger’s edge across the woman’s throat, making his way through the crowd with unease. He didn’t dare turn until he reached the back, he didn’t want that man’s attention. Boston watched violet blood drip onto the stones, wide-eyed. The man had just killed a specter, what sort of magic was that?

    Confident he was far enough away, Boston turned and felt his heart sink. He looked into icy blue eyes, wide with anger. Zatanna stepped through him without a word, a blue fire dancing across her arms.

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    Zatanna did not speak, not to anything but her spells. She sang one after another, mixing and melding in ways she hadn’t considered before. Anger did the work here, and anger made the magic. There was little else a sorcerer could do in the face of such… horror. Brother Night had done something unnatural, even in the magical world. He wasn’t playing with the inherent forces of the Earth, the fuel that drove magic, he was toying with souls. He was toying with the spark of life itself. It wasn’t sorcery, it was obscenity.

    Magic so black it didn’t deserve to wear the name. Magic so cruel it was beyond decency to employ. Magic that was supposed to have been destroyed millennia ago. She wasn’t the best or the most honorable sorcerer, but she had a duty. One her family had held for centuries, to keep spells like this out of the hands of people like Brother Night.

    Fire flowed from her, scalding the Earth and scattering the specters in attendance. Brother Night flashed his silver grin, narrowly avoiding a pillar of flame. The red-haired woman beside him threw up her arms and warded the cairn. She was a sorcerer then, that was a complication. Zatanna saw the third, Romalthi, twitch as his eyes found her. Three javelins materialized in front of him, and Zatanna cursed softly.

    The first she caught with a jet of fire, melting it in mid-air. The second she redirected with a lucky gust of wind she cast running perpendicular to its path, but the third stayed true. Only by the grace of Diana and Jason’s training did she have the flexibility and agility required to evade it and return another volley of fire. There were more clever, or less destructive ways, to fight them, but the fire she wielded now was pure, raw, and powerful. It bound and protect her, and it reacted with a thought. She was the fire, and she would burn them all.

    Brother Night scowled, a plate of black glass appeared before him and took the brunt of her fireball. It warped the glass, and molten globs fell to the ground before him. The smile was gone, and he barked a command to Romalthi and the girl that Zatanna couldn’t hear. She drew all of her fire inward, coalescing into one solid mass. Zatanna held out her hand, imagining the javelins Romalthi had employed a moment ago. The fire froze and bound itself to the shape in her hand, and soared toward them.

    Brother Night, wide-eyed, took a half step back and pulled up his arms defensively. A new figure stepped in her javelin’s path, some sort of sword in its hand. Her fire died as the figure ducked down, then swung up and split the javelin. His sword swallowed the flame, wreathing it in shadow. The swordsman, in a single motion, rose and dashed toward her, weapon’s point seeking her heart.

    Zatanna didn’t feel the impact she expected. It came not from her front, but her side. She felt arms around her, a tight grip on her waist her own arms gripped the figure instinctively as the air around her thinned. They were flying.

    She caught a flash of her savior’s eyes, then glimpsed the amber crystal she wore like armor.

    Her savior spoke, and her voice was sagely. “Foolish girl, you won’t die today.”

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    Brother Night breathed a sigh of relief, sitting on the scorched earth beside the cairn. He saw a hand drift into view and took hold of it. He was hoisted to his feet and looked his old friend in the eyes. Red eyes, like his own, that looked more like blood than fire.

    Several men armored in dark crystal stood at the perimeter, scanning the hillside. Nimue the younger and Romalthi kept well away from them, sensing some trap. It wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility for his old friend.

    “It’s been a long time,” Brother Night said, nodding.

    “You’ve grown old,” his friend replied, smirking. “Nearly bested by a child.”

    Brother Night scowled. “And you’re late.”

    “I can hardly be blamed for that, you were slow to open the door. Is everything ready?”

    “So long as you brought your portion, we can proceed.” Brother Night held out his hand, palm up and waited.

    “Carnelian!” his friend barked. “Bring him the stone.”

    A young man in a hooded blue cloak approached, holding a box with an ornate lid decorated in runic patterns. He opened it and handed Brother Night a shard of black crystal, irregular and pulsing faintly.

    “Thank you, son. That will be all.”

    “I didn’t know you had a son, Opal.” Brother Night turned the stone over in his hands and glanced back at the retreating young man.

    “It’s been many years, my friend. Much has changed,” Opal said, waving his hand behind him. The air behind him warped and congealed into a high-backed chair, a translucent dark purple thing with magnificent lines fit for a king. That fit, as he was one. “Can you do it this time? Are you prepared?”

    “I’ve done nothing but prepare for the past seventy years.” Brother Night looked him in the eye. “This time, I will mend his broken heart, and we will tame him.”

    “Good,” Opal replied, smirking again. “I must thank you for the doorway, my army is passing through unmolested. Will the humans give us trouble?”

    It was Brother Night’s turn to smirk. He gestured to the sky and the horizon, then laughed. “There’s a reason I chose this spot. And we’ve already begun.”

    Opal followed his gaze, spotting the crystalline structure that towered over the city, cutting it off from the rest of the world. He nodded, then sat back as Nimue prepared another sacrifice.

    It was tedious work.

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    A young girl stood before the great dome that shrouded San Francisco. She wore black, from the boots on her feet to the parasol twirling over her head. A coat, buttoned tight, obscured most of her figure and the necklace beneath. She smiled at the city, still twirling her parasol and ignoring the soldiers that shouted orders on either side of her.

    Unnoticed, unwelcome, and unworried, the girl pressed her hand to the crystal and smiled as it gave way. It carved a path for her, and she stepped through while it immediately closed behind her. She walked in this bubble for a time, pressing forward and into the city. At last, she emerged, her eyes drifting along the skyline and marking several new structures of gemstone dotting the landscape. A castle of translucent violet stone already rested upon a hill.

    She smiled again, twirling her parasol, and began to walk. She was needed here.

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

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