Zatanna #17 - Meg Ytic, V: Gnirednaw

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Author: ScarecrowSid

Book: Zatanna

Arc: Gem City

Set: 22

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    Acrid fog from melting rubber and the stinking hiss of burning flesh painted the air into a nightmare from another century. San Francisco was dying, and doing so quickly. Jason and Philomela’s progress was hindered with near constancy by the strange soldiers combing the streets, clad in armor made of deep violet glass that shimmered in the right light. They carried weapons of similar make, with edges so keen Jason saw them skewer a city street.

    The pair were hidden, nested near the windows of a two-story brick and mortar residence, watching the scene unfolding below. Whoever these people were, and wherever they came from, didn’t matter so much when they were bent on atrocity. No fewer than a hundred men and women had been cut down or captured in the last hour, and they continued to flee toward the edges of the dome over the city.

    Jason hated this feeling, it reminded him of darker times and crueler ages, but he kept his silent vigil. They were outnumbered and overwhelmed, and these men were not amateurs. This was obvious from their disciplined formation and tight command structure, the efficiency with which they swept the streets.

    Searching eyes scanned the windows of second and third stories, and Jason ducked below the windowsill and turned to sit with his back against it. Philomela sat across from him, her back to the baseboards of a small bed, a child’s bed. There was a deep gash across her right forearm, hastily wrapped in a sheet printed with bright yellow stars on a blue field.

    “There are too many of them,” Philomela mused, her head lolling slightly in his direction. “The two of us cannot face an army.”

    “That has occurred to me.” Jason looked at the purpling of his own knuckles, swelling from several strikes across armored heads and chests. “But we also lack a suitable alternative.”

    “It was not my intention to complain.” Philomela stared down a violet shard she liberated from a fallen invader. It served her well in their last skirmish, performing as well as any throwing dagger despite the lack of balance or grip. “I have long since become accustomed to fighting battles I am certain to lose.”

    “A comforting thought,” Jason replied. This entire scenario was something out of his nightmares, something beyond reason or rhyme. There are a great many things one learns to expect as history rolls on, but few are as jarring as mass events of magical proportions. In his youth, they filled him with wonder. Every dragon, draug, and dread were a chance to see something new, some supernatural. Now, they only sparked worry.

    Gone were the days of noble knights and cunning sorcerers, and left in their wake were a people too soft for what was coming. There were no more true sorcerers, only scholar. All of the arrogance with none of the talent, and that included Zatanna. Despite her best attempts, she was nothing less than a pale imitation of the warlocks of yore, and this was beyond her.

    He chanced a glance over the windowsill, searching out the patrol. They had yet to move on, and there were indications a camp was being set up.

    “It would appear they’re here to stay,” Jason mused.

    Philomela smirked as she checked the integrity of her makeshift bandage. Jason knew what she had in mind and, in the back of his mind, Etrigan chuckled in agreement.

    She wants to kill them in their sleep.

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    Evening fell, or so the Demon said. To Philomela, every day was darkness.

    Whatever strangeness the pink of the evening glow offered, it was lost on her and the Demon’s consistent babbling on the matter only served to frustrate her. She was a warrior, not a painter, and pretending otherwise would only serve to embarrass them both.

    She crept through the house, careful and quiet despite the fact it was empty. A moment of carelessness was triple the threat when one found herself outnumbered and besieged. She would be quiet, or she would be captured. Philomela preferred the former.

    A soft creak greeted her as she eased the hinges open, pulling the back door free of the frame and slipping through. Her palms caught the other side and settled it in place, and the patter of her heart was soft, still, and utterly without worry.

    Worry was another thing she didn’t need, it was useless in a fight and even worse outside of one. To wander into war bearing worry, was to try and swim in armor. A shell, a shield, but entirely useless to the task at hand, and certain to let you down, and drown.

    And so Philomela sneaked her way through the yard and over the side fence, into an alley seeping with cool tendrils of evening air. The soldiers huddled around something, jabbering on about something in their strange tongue. There could have been a fire at their heart, she could smell the smoke.

    It was a colder night than many that came before it, even for January beside an ocean. Whatever the construct overhead and all around her was, it was drawing in heat city within, and winter was sure to follow.

    That was good. Winter was a good time to hide.

    Laughter covered her next steps, and the hiss of her steel escaping its sheath. She loved that sound, but it was nothing compared to the sounds to come.

    She stepped out of the alley, around the corner, and smiled. That was the other thing about winter: It was a good time to hunt.

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    “She’s a madwoman,” Jason muttered. Philomela stood at the heart of carnage. “A monster.”

    I enjoy her. The Demon’s reply came in his head, as clear as Jason’s own thoughts. She is… capable.

    Good, that was just what he needed in his life. His inner demon was infatuated with the Amazon, and Jason was not quite sure what would happen when she broke its heart. She was capable, sure, but she was more monster than anything. Where once there had been eleven men, armored and armed, there now lay an array of limbs and gore.

    It brought him back to his youth, to days spent in gleaming armor on bloody fields and bright streamers across muddy skies. In the warm glow of nostalgia, he had always thought it was a noble time, with noble men doing noble deeds.

    Looking down at the Amazon, he realized it wasn’t. There was no part of a war that was beautiful, and even the wonders of his youth were ugly. How many times had he come to this realization over the years? How many different times had he learned this lesson and discarded it, simply to find a way to live with himself. If Philomela was a monster, then he was no better.

    Jason approached her, stepping carefully through the pooling blood. It was red, and he wasn’t quite sure why, but he expected it to be some otherworldly hue. But, no, it was a simple, human red. That was reassuring in a way, to know that his enemy was human.

    He leaned down and turned over one of the bodies. Vacant eyes met him, wide with surprise and framed by curling brown hair. He looked like nothing more than an ordinary man, albeit a dead one. The violet glass that formed his armor was cracked in places, and it seemed to spread across him like a second skin.

    Philomela warmed her hands against the enemy’s fire, palms toward the flames and fingers outstretched. When spoke, her voice had changed. It lacked the hard edge of before, and the softness set him at unease. “Their defenses are weak if they don’t see you coming.”

    Jason looked down at the man again, noting the scattering of armor. It was spread across the skin, and the deep, killing cuts were in places one would not strike if they meant to kill. “How did you know?”

    Philomela smiled again, the fire-light carving new shadows into her face. “I can’t see what’s on their skin, but I can hear it. It sounds like small stones down the side of a mountain, the beginnings of an avalanche.”

    Jason raised an eyebrow, not sure how she heard such a thing. It was obvious her ears were more keen than most, but this was beyond that. He turned the man over, those eyes were an unwelcome sight. “Are we done here?”

    “As you wish, Demon.” She stepped away from the fire, and her hand rested on the hilt of her sword. “Lead the way.”

    Jason turned toward the hill. It would be a long march at this pace, and maybe days more before they saw the zenith. They would mark their trail in blood, and corpses.

    A shadow leaped toward him, and a sharp pain followed.

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    Zatanna Zatara glared at the old woman. Her story was entering its second hour, and the sorceress’ interest was lost in a quarter of that time. Citrina, it seemed, did not notice her nodding off.

    “...centuries old, and there is no end in sight,” the old woman continued. “He and his kind will wash upon this city like…”

    Zatanna let her attention wander. Though the information may well be important, her own desire to hear it was smothered somewhat by the sights of the early morning. Brother Night had sacrificed a spirit, and used the power to tear open the sky. It defied known logic, and good sense, but more than that it offended her.

    It was gruesome and cruel in ways that were needless, and the sight haunted her to this hour. She stared back at Citrina, and cleared her throat to interrupt the woman’s story.

    “Yes, dear?” she asked, adopting a tone more suited for a grandmother giving out sweets than an old witch giving out history. “What is it?”

    “As fascinating as this is, I need you to get to the point.”

    “I am old, dear. You will need to condescend to allow me my pace.” Citrina eased back into her chair and snapped her fingers. Another woman stepped into view, with blonde hair and amber eyes.

    “Yes, madam?” she asked, her voice thin and high.

    “Laral, be a lamb and bring us some tea. Our young friend is losing focus, and we have a lot to discuss while Granch sees to gathering our forces.” Citrina smiled at Zatanna, a knowing smile. “Your demon is on the loose, Miss Zatara. We’re going to bring him here.”

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    Jason was bleeding.

    No, not just bleeding. He was dying.

    The shadow as it happened was not a shadow at all. Through the creeping haze of fading consciousness, he saw the creature. It was as large as a horse, and built like a bear. Eyes like smoldering coals sat in a face set with teeth like tusks, and the whole form lurched into a predatory stance. It stood on four legs, and when it moved, it made a sound like shattering glass.

    Philomela scored a shot across the creature’s side with her sword, it sparked against the skin and slid away. A second strike was just as useless, and the sword skittered free of her hands. The creature leaped toward her, and the Amazon swerved aside. Her instincts matched the creature’s own, if only in darkness.

    A low growl followed, and it charged at Jason. The skin of the creature was wrapped in the same violet glass as the soldiers, only layered thicker and jagged. Jason gasped, trying to heave himself up despite the wounds. He prayed for breath, but found none.

    Enough, Jason. The Demon’s voice echoed through his mind. The edges of his vision blurred, red as if he stared into the sun. Ash filled his mouth… It is my turn.

★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★・゜゜・。。・゜ ゜★

    Etrigan the Demon woke in a bed a fire. It warmed him, surged through his bones. It was good to be awake, and facing down a foe.

    He caught the creature’s open mouth both hands, wrenching the jaws open. It howled and growled, trying to bite down and break his fingers. It was a fine effort, but he was not a man. He was stronger.

    The Amazon took this moment to strike, her sword struck the beast in the side of the head, but the glass scarcely cracked. She cursed something in her native tongue as the beast’s left arm swung out and caught her across the forearm.

    It tore through the skin, revealing slender bone, but she did not whine or cry out. Etrigan stifled a smile, and stared the beast in its burning eyes. He wondered at the design of suck a creature, and the hardness of such armor. It was like carapace…

    A sudden idea struck the demon, and he decided to let the smile fly free.

    “Be ready, woman,” Etrigan said, chuckling. The creature still struggled in his grip, and the Demon drew in a deep breath. He held it there, and it began to boil in his lungs. The Demon drew his face close to the monster’s own, lips sealed into a sneer.

    And then he exhaled. The breath escaped warm at first, then burst into flame. They danced across the creature’s face, sinking deep into the many facets of glass. It began to glow beneath the onslaught, going from violet to red, and peaking at a molten orange.

    The Amazon needed no cue, she understood. Philomela charged at the creature’s side, jumping onto its shoulder and soaring into the air. She turned there, somersaulting in the night with her sword pointed straight down.

    Her sword struck with thunderous clamor. The point pierced the monster’s skull and drove straight through to the ground. It whimpered once, then fell limp to the ground.

    Etrigan laughed, releasing the monster. He laughed long and hard, his own hands blistered and bleeding. The Amazon came to stand beside him, smirking.

    “That was clever.” Her praise was begrudging and they both knew it, but he nodded in reply. “Now what?”

    As if to answer, a chorus of howls echoed through the night, matching the monsters own. A dozen eyes glowing down the street.