Chapter 2
Present Day
"Why are we going to Germany?"
As Dalca hung up the phone, he looked at the girl walking into the library, her blue eyes filled with curiosity. The navy-skinned water vâlvă glided in after her to settle on a side table. A custom made lounge chair resided there, perfectly sized for the tiny fairy.
Dalca hadn't been brave enough to tell her it'd come from a doll house catalog.
By way of response, Dalca tossed the newspaper toward the girl. It was just a careless toss, one that would fall well short of her reach. But the girl was ready, and the paper came to a halt in mid-air, before an invisible force carried it to her outstretched hand. Dalca was pleased at the kinetic display, particularly so because he'd barely seen her lips moving that time.
With the paper in hand, the girl began to peruse the article on top as she settled into another chair. Dalca gave her a minute, and was ready for her questions when her head rose. "Was this some sort of ritual?" she asked as she skimmed the story.
"So it would seem," Dalca confirmed, his head nodding slightly.
One thing Jean Wilson had always been was quick, in body and spirit, but most importantly, in mind. Rather than questioning him further, her eyes dropped back to the newsprint. She'd reason out what she could, and ask only what was necessary. "What's an ewe?"
"A sheep," Dalca replied, not surprised she hadn't known. At seventeen, the girl knew a lot. But her education had been far from formal, and she hadn't grown up anywhere near a farm. She'd been born and raised in a small town in Canada that suffered from a distinct lack of livestock. There she'd remained, spending the first sixteen years of her miserable life wishing she was anywhere else.
That wish had come true almost a year and a half prior, when a job had brought Dalca to her town. He'd been ordered to take care of a breach in reality, and eliminate anyone that had been involved. He'd fulfilled his orders completely and exactingly, save for one exception.
Jean had most definitely been involved, but had been spared. Dalca's reasons were far from altruistic, and in fact were decidedly self-serving. He'd given the girl a choice: die, or agree to serve him.
While it might seem like an easy decision, there were few that would choose the latter. Especially knowing what Dalca was, as Jean did.
But the girl had grown up in a broken home with few friends and fewer attachments. Her sole pleasure in life had come from dabbling in magic, picking up what she could from the internet. She'd spent what paltry money she had toward putting together a 'brew kit', as she'd called it. Nothing more than a cheap travel trunk, she'd filled it with the supplies the internet had told her a witch would need.
When the smoke had settled, Jean knew there was nothing left for her in White River, Ontario. Her father was dead, as were several classmates and their families. As the sole survivor, Jean would have been the lead suspect in their disappearances, and likely would have faced prison for crimes she hadn't committed.
Not that she would have met that fate. Had she not chosen to join Dalca, she'd be just as dead as the others.
But knowing there was no-one to help her, and nothing tying her down, she'd accepted Dalca's offer for tutelage in the dark arts, in return for a regular donation of power.
Seventeen months later, the girl hardly ever touched her old brew kit. Dalca had given her what she needed for her own private lab, and instructed her on what he knew of mortal magics.
Which, given his history of killing wizards and absorbing their knowledge of magic as well as their power, was not insignificant.
Jean looked up as she finished the article, placing the paper to one side. Before she could begin to question him, Dalca held up a hand. "Summarize it for me."
The girl nodded, and considered her words. "A film crew was preparing for a shoot in one of the abandoned wings of a hospital in… Beelitz," she said, after checking the paper for the name. "When they were exploring the grounds, they came across a man, who fled when they saw him. After his departure, they found a ritual site and cages filled with what were most likely sacrificial offerings."
Her face had twisted with displeasure at the last. "What are your thoughts?" he asked.
The girl frowned. "Well, most of it was fairly typical," she replied. "Animals prepared to be slaughtered or offered up, similar to what… what we did."
By we, she meant those dead kids back in her hometown. One of them had gotten their hands on a book of magical spells. Many of the rituals had involved creating thaumaturgic links with the animals, to draw on their spiritual power and give the practitioners specific traits the creatures possessed.
Those rituals hadn't required the death of the animals, though, and despite spending over a year living with a monster, Jean was still a little squeamish about some types of magic. She had no problem working with animals, but didn't seem to have it in herself to harm them.
"Similar enough," Dalca confirmed. "What else?"
"Well," the girl said, her eyes flickering down. "There was also a child in one of the cages."
Dalca nodded. He left her to it, and she continued. "It says there was a large cauldron with seven sections. Probably one for each… offering," she finished, her already pale face growing considerably lighter as she thought about the child being killed.
"The article doesn't specify, but I'm willing to bet the cauldron had been divided into something akin to a Star of David," Dalca explained softly as his eyes grew distant. "Given that it was found in Germany, it's not terribly surprising they omitted that detail, even if they'd be wrong about the significance."
Jean blinked at that. "Why do you say that?"
Dalca assumed she wasn't referring to their omission. "Because I've seen it before."
The girl sat back and pondered his words. She didn't seem surprised that he'd seen a ritual sacrifice of a human. She knew what he was, and what he did to survive. Instead, she moved beyond the obvious.
"You think it's tied to the ritual you saw before," she concluded, to which he nodded. "When was that?"
Dalca took a moment to do the math. "Almost seventy years ago."
Jean had finished enough schooling to know what had been happening seventy years prior. Her eyes widened. "You saw this during World War II?"
He didn't think she was amazed that he was that old, but there might have been a sliver of surprise. They hadn't spent much time talking of his past, and he'd never been specific on just how old he was.
"I did," Dalca confirmed. "In fact, I participated in the ritual."
There was the briefest flicker of alarm as she realized what he meant, but it faded behind a facade of apathetic indifference. As if she didn't care that he'd willingly helped kill a child.
Dalca thought it best that she not learn just how many.
"So why are we going to Germany?" she repeated, choosing to ignore the direction the topic had turned.
"I need to confirm whether or not this is the same thing I saw before," he replied. "And if so, put an end to it."
Jean's eyes brightened at that, and Dalca almost sighed. No doubt she hoped that her monstrous mentor was looking to right past wrongs, and reform his ways. She'd been oh-so-subtly trying to influence him in such ways, just as he had tried to influence her.
Dalca wasn't sure if either of them had succeeded in anything.
"When are we going?" she asked, sitting up.
"When is the full moon?" he countered.
The girl didn't have to think. Such things were constantly on her mind as she performed her own rituals. "Tomorrow night."
"Then there's not much time. We'll leave now," Dalca said as he reached for the phone again. "Bring everything you think you'll need. I'll reserve a flight."
Jean was up in a flash and heading for the door. Before she was through it, Dalca added. "Full combat scenario."
The girl nodded, and then ran off to pack her things. Dalca turned to the tiny fairy on the miniature lounger, who gave him a toothy smile. "She thinks she's gotten to you."
"Let her believe it," Dalca replied as the phone rang. "She'll learn soon enough."
Their flight touched down in Beelitz late that afternoon. They could have driven, but the shorter flight gave them time to prepare. As the sun was just beginning to set in the west, the three climbed out of their rental car outside of the Beelitz Heilstatten Sanatorium.
"Finally," Jean muttered as she removed a steel shackle from around one wrist. The sharp metal spikes glinted in the fading light as she tucked the thorned manacle into a pocket. "You know, I don't need this anymore."
Old scars adorned the wrist, left from when she'd had less control over her magic. That could be considerably troublesome for someone like Dalca, who often traveled by plane.
Mortal magic tended to have irksome effects on the environment around the caster. Spoilt milk, gruesome boils, and other tedious but ultimately harmless side-effects had cursed his apprentices over the years. But the latest, an acute incompatibility with technology, was more than an inconvenience. It was debilitating in the modern age; even more so when a temper tantrum at 36,000 feet could result in engines dying.
Such things were of limited concern for someone of Jean's ability. She still wasn't Council level, but her power was growing. As it did, so too did the danger of it causing unfortunate accidents.
Which is why, after their first flight together experienced a single engine failure, Dalca had made her start wearing at least one manacle whenever they traveled. She'd protested about having to spend hours at a time wearing the things, but after he'd reminded her that he could survive a plane crash — whereas she could not — she'd agreed to wear them.
"You're the one that picked the B.M.W. with all the bells and whistles," Dalca replied, arching an eyebrow as he headed for the trunk of the SUV. Mara alighted on his shoulder as he went.
"It's not like they had a jalopy on the lot," Jean shot back as she rubbed at her wrist.
"True," Dalca admitted. He opened the back hatch, and pulled the long hardshell case toward him. "But you specifically asked for one with built-in WiFi."
"If I have to be shackled anyway, I might as well enjoy it," the girl replied as he opened the case and withdrew a small arsenal.
The first thing out was a thigh holster that bore his spell-worked Luger. Enchantments on the barrel made the gun all but silent; something that movies and television had done with their fictionalized version of suppressors. In the real world, suppressors did little to actually silence the gun; they merely dampened what noise they could by decreasing the velocity of the round. Dalca's magics made no such sacrifice for much better effect.
The customized holster contained slots for several backup magazines, which he slid into place after securing the straps. Last into the holster was his black bladed stiletto. The knife's tip was razor sharp, as were the two edges on what was nearly a perfectly rounded blade.
Lastly, Dalca strapped his sword and scabbard over his left hip. Both were black through and through. Dalca drew several inches of the dark blade out of habit, before triggering a spell in both it and the sheath. The light seemed to shift and bend around them, until both disappeared from sight.
When he was ready, Dalca turned to watch as Jean finished preparing the last of her gear.
Despite her protestations, the girl was very much what Dalca had heard referred to as a 'goth chick'. She preferred dark clothing, hair and nails, and was naturally pale enough to pass for a vampire. As she'd begun to build her own arsenal of magical weapons, she'd done little to dissuade Dalca of his initial impression of her.
One of the first things he'd had her work on were defensive spells. Dalca didn't have to worry much about such things, but as a feeble human, Jean was particularly vulnerable to everything from guns to thumb tacks.
He'd had her select a number of items that she'd be responsible for enchanting, and taught her what she needed to know. The spells constantly needed to be refreshed, but they offered protections that no mundane materials could hope to match.
Predictably, the girl had chosen an all-black ensemble. Black jeans and a black leather jacket were joined by black boots, gloves, and what she called a 'hoodie'. It looked like a hooded sweatshirt to Dalca, but for some reason the girl insisted on calling it by that ridiculous name.
She'd learned quickly that it was nearly impossible to maintain spells on jeans and cotton. The leather of the jacket, gloves and boots held up better, and only needed to be touched up now and again. Everything else would be all but useless after a single tumble in the washer.
To help with that, Dalca had supplied her with cleansing spells to help keep the clothes fresh. Additionally, she only wore her combat gear when they expected trouble. Between infrequent use and the cleansing spells, Jean somehow managed to protect herself while not smelling like a dirty hamper.
Dalca waited as she donned all of it, before adding the more offensive items of her armament. A ring went onto each finger, and a hoop bracelet was secured around her left wrist. She wrapped a black choker around her neck that Dalca wasn't entirely sure served any function, and then slid a few choice weapons into several pockets.
After what seemed like a good half hour of preparing for a night out on the town, she finally got around to attaching her sword to her belt.
It was a short cavalry blade, a single edged weapon with a slight curve toward the tip. The sword thrummed with magical enchantments as she hung it at her hip. Once it was in place, Jean grasped it and muttered a command. "Pusummu šēssu."
As she spoke, Dalca felt her power reach out to the blade, to activate one of the enchantments on it. The air shimmered again, and when it settled, her weapon had disappeared just as Dalca's had.
When she was done, she turned to Dalca, only to find him feigning sleep. Mara was doing likewise, draped across his shoulder as if she'd passed out while waiting.
"Let's go," Jean snapped as she smacked his arm.
Seeming to start awake, Dalca closed the hatch and started after the girl, who was quickly making her way across the hospital grounds. Mara stretched, and he wondered for a second if she'd really fallen asleep.
"Hold up," he said when he finally caught up with the girl. "Parts of this place are still in use."
Jean nodded, and the two waited for a moment to make sure no-one was in sight. Assured they were alone, the girl made a series of gestures. "Napšu pusummu."
Dalca waited as the girl's spell spread out, creating a sphere around the two of them. He couldn't see it when looking forward, but the barest hint of it could be detected out of the corner of his eye. It was all-encompassing, and he knew that if anyone had been watching, they would have seen the two disappear.
"Nicely done," he commended her as they began to make their way down the path.
Rather than replying, the girl simply nodded. Her concentration was on maintaining the veil around them, something she'd had only moderate success with while in motion.
Leaving her to it, Dalca led them across the grounds, toward the abandoned wings where the ritual site had been found.
Dalca had studied up on the hospital on the flight from Copenhagen, and was familiar with its odd history. The facility had seen a lot of action over the decades, including treating a man that would one day go on to become the Führer. During the war, it had served as a military hospital, and was later procured by the Soviets during their occupation of East Germany.
Parts of the hospital were still in use, but several wings had been shuttered over the years. It was those untouched sections that sometimes drew the attention of movie and television crews, who brought the older facilities to life for the big and small screens.
Just such a crew had been the group to discover the ritual sight. Some movie about the second World War had been scheduled to use a wing, and the site coordinator had wanted to see what was available to work with. They and some others had wandered away from the designated area, and had come across the cauldron and still-breathing sacrifices.
As the two now approached the remnants of the old building, with the setting sun casting the world in unsettling hues, Dalca had to wonder if the movie was meant to be a horror film.
The place was decrepit, with most of its windows broken and open to the elements. Those on the first floor had been boarded up long ago, certainly long enough to let the boards themselves begin to rot. The old-world brick architecture, once beautiful, had been left to decay with time.
Vines climbed up the two story walls, contrasting darkly with the faded bricks. They looked more like varicose veins protruding from the building, and the gaping windows more like dark liver spots pock-marking ancient flesh.
The building hadn't seen use in decades, and looked exactly like the kind of place that would-be sorcerers would choose to perform their dark rituals.
"Fuck this place," Jean said softly as she rubbed her arms absently. Her gaze was fixed on the blighted sanatorium. "It gives me the creeps just standing outside."
"This place has a dark past," Dalca explained. "Such histories often cling to the world, and are perceived in ways we barely understand." He gestured at the decayed building. "People didn't abandon this place without reason."
Mara made a contemplative sound on Dalca's shoulder, and he turned to see what she might be thinking. But despite his interest, the water vâlvă kept her thoughts to herself.
"Let's find a way in," he said, leading them away from the main entrance. A set of doors had been installed, perhaps even that very day, with fresh signs to keep people out. Getting through them wouldn't be a problem, but not without leaving evidence behind.
The three made their way around, until Dalca located a suitable spot. One board over a first story window was loose enough to pry up without breaking, and he pulled himself in before offering a hand down to Jean. Once the girl was inside, he replaced the board, leaving them enclosed in a dark room.
As soon as they were in, Jean released the spell that had concealed them. Dalca could smell the sweat on her skin, the evidence of her exertions at holding the spell for so long.
"Iškūrtu," Jean muttered as she held a hand aloft. In response to the spell, one of the rings she wore began to glow with a soft light. The small crystal sphere clutched by a silver dragon's claw shone bright enough for the two to see by.
Dalca didn't need it, but the girl didn't have his abilities. He let her lead them through the building, content with letting her think for herself.
"Seriously, this place is a fucking nightmare," Jean grumbled as they made their way down a grungy hallway.
Leaves and debris had blown into the place through second story windows, enough to cover everything in filth. Mold and mildew clung to the old hospital tiles, and the floor was coated with an inch of dust that looked like it hadn't been disturbed in centuries.
They made sure not to touch anything as they went through. Dalca wasn't worried about leaving fingerprints; Mara had already given their fingers her usual treatment, which left the skin smooth and unidentifiable. He was more concerned with the girl getting tetanus from the rusted railings.
When Jean seemed unsure of where to go, Dalca took the lead. Her light bobbed behind him as he sniffed at the air. His olfactory sense wasn't the greatest of those he had, but it was good enough to lead him to where mortals had recently tread.
They finally came across a hall where the dust and debris had been swept aside by the tread of countless police, as they'd worked at investigating the unexpected crime scene. Dalca followed in their footsteps, which led down a dark stairwell to the basement.
"Because of course it had to be in the basement," Jean sighed.
"You don't expect dark mages to do their work in the light of day, do you?" Dalca responded as he started down the steps. Time and dust had made them surprisingly smooth, and he heard Jean slip twice before they reached the lowest level.
"It's just so cliché," she replied. "Setting up a ritual site for human sacrifice in an abandoned sanitarium? One that looks like it belongs in a horror film?"
Her observation made Dalca smile, but it was Mara who replied. "There's more to this place than it seems."
Both of them looked to her in surprise. "What do you mean?" Dalca asked as they made their way down an even darker hallway, one where the cobwebs hadn't been broken by the police, so much as pushed aside.
"Don't you recognize it?" the water fairy replied.
Dalca paused, and reached out into the world with his intangible senses. Jean did the same, or at least pretended to do so. Her sensitivity and empathy wasn't the greatest.
As his consciousness touched the world around him, Dalca found himself shivering. There was a darkness to the place that he'd neglected to pick up on. One that had nothing to do with any questionable mortal history. Nothing to do with the stains left behind after human death and trauma.
"There's a ley line here," he observed softly.
"A dark one," Mara confirmed, her tiny head bobbing gently. "One that we've seen before."
Dalca started to ask her what she meant, but Jean's startled gasp broke his attention. He turned to her, and saw her looking in an open portal to one side of the hallway. The door was still creaking open from where she'd pushed on it.
"Oh my God," she whispered. Dalca could see the whites of her eyes in her spell-worked light. He moved up beside her, and looked upon a massive pile of bones.
What had once been a hospital storage room had become a bone-yard. It seemed someone had dumped hundreds of bones in one corner, until the pile had become so large that it cascaded halfway across the room. Some had crumbled to dust beneath those on top, while others had collapsed into piles of ash.
A few were obviously human, although most of them were not. There were animal skulls mixed in with human rib cages. Small curling horns seemed to be wrapped around a pile of skeletal wings. Hooves and hands were left jutting from the pile, discarded carelessly by whomever had dumped them together.
Despite the differences, there was one thing that each bone had in common.
They were all burned and blackened from fire.
Perhaps the girl had been drawn to the lingering energies that such collections retained; perhaps it'd just been the police tape put into place over the doorway. Either way, it was clear that the police hadn't finished with the site yet. Which meant they needed to be extra careful.
Dalca turned, not needing to see anything more in the room. He could feel their destination calling to him from further down the hall. An almost familiar darkness seemed to be waiting.
He continued on, leaving the girl for the moment. Mara was silent on his shoulder, clearly sensing the same thing he was. They walked until they reached a gaping door marked off with more police tape, where he found the ritual site waiting within.
Cages still lined one side of the room. Their doors were left open, their contents evacuated when the police had stormed the place. Traces of dried blood remained inside, although Dalca had to wonder at the age of it, to be so dusty and crisp.
The rest of the room was empty. There were scuff marks on the floor where boxes had once stood, and he could almost make out circular markings where short columns might have surrounded the sunken cauldron in the center of the room.
Dalca's eyes fixated on the segmented pit, with its all-too-familiar star pattern set within its rim. It was recessed within the floor, the ground beneath it having been dug out to accommodate the structure. Burnt remnants of coal and wood remained in the sections, none of which had been lit recently.
"This isn't a new site," Dalca said, stating the obvious. "Someone's been doing this for quite some time."
"So it would seem," Mara replied softly. "They're clearly trying to accomplish what Schröter could not."
Dalca shivered. "So it would seem," he echoed.
"Is this it then?" Jean asked as she appeared at the door. Dalca looked up to her, and noted the nervous look on her face. "The ritual site?"
"Yes."
"It's…" she started, looking for the words. "It's so… cold."
Dalca studied her, and noted the goosebumps springing along her neck. Jean's entire body shivered, as if an arctic wind had pierced the walls and blown across her bare skin.
Turning back to the cauldron, Dalca reached out with his own senses, to see what he felt about the place. But all he could detect was the same cloying darkness that he'd felt before. The same that had drawn him down the hallway. It didn't feel cold, or evil, or malicious.
It just felt… familiar.
"How long—" he began, only to cut himself short as Mara tensed on his shoulder. Before he could ask, the fairy disappeared in a blur.
Dalca turned to Jean as he cocked his head to one side and listened. After a moment, he heard what Mara must have sensed.
Someone was approaching.
He was in motion before Jean even realized Mara was gone. Grabbing her arm, Dalca pulled her further into the room, to the side wall. She was smart enough not to make a noise. Instead, she released the illumination spell, plunging them into nearly complete darkness. When they were across the room, Dalca motioned to her, and the girl nodded.
"Napšu pusummu," she whispered, and the familiar sensation of her magic rolled across Dalca's skin as the girl's bubble veil surrounded them. It was finished just as the voices arrived, and a new light reached into the dark room from the hall.
"…place feels like a nightmare," a young male voice stated, sounding unsettled.
"Understandably so," an older man replied as the two arrived at the door to the room.
A small sphere of light floated between the two, revealing them as they looked about the space. Dalca studied them as they studied the cauldron, the younger one stepping forward to get a good look.
"This doesn't look new," he observed as he knelt to a crouch. He was indeed young, perhaps only a few years older than Jean herself. His curly hair was dark and cut fashionably long, ending just above his shoulders. He was lean with subtle muscle, which was made more apparent as he twisted to look back at the other man, drawing the gray cloak he wore tight across his chest.
The second man likewise wore a dull slate fabric around his shoulders. He was considerably older, easily passing for his late fifties or early sixties, had he been any mundane human. His white hair was cut short, and as he stepped forward, his hazel eyes were narrow as he looked down upon the ritual pit. "No, it does not," he agreed, his voice ruff and haggard.
Jean gasped as she realized that she was only a dozen feet away from two Wardens of the White Council.
Dalca's head twisted, an odd sensation rushing over him at the sound of the older man's voice. There was something familiar about the him, but he couldn't quite place it. The face was lined with wrinkles, and the man's body was thick with aged muscle. Dalca found himself stepping forward to get a better look, some part of him entirely thrown by the man's presence.
Jean's reaching fingertips snagged Dalca's shirt just before he stepped out of the veil. Dalca froze, realizing that he'd almost given them away. A very rare mistake for him. But he couldn't shake the surreal feeling.
"So how long have they been at it?" the boy asked the older man. "You said the ritual had to be done on a full moon?"
"Not just any full moon," the old man replied as he walked around the cauldron. "A June moon. A Hot Moon."
The man's head turned as he passed by Dalca, as if sensing something just out of sight. Dalca didn't breath until he was past. He knew he should retreat to the wall, but he found that he couldn't step back. His gaze was fixed on the old warden, as if drawn to him.
"So, you mean once a year?" the young man asked as he stood, brushing his hands together.
The old man failed to reply. His eyes had narrowed even further as he'd circled the room, until he came to a stop across the way. His lips were pursed, and it looked as if he were lost in thought.
"Wagner," the boy said, snapping his fingers together. "Hey, Wags, you in there?"
The old man grunted in reply, his attention on the cauldron. He reached his weathered hands out beside him, palms up as he felt at the aura of the pit. When they were spread wide enough, he closed his eyes. Something was mumbled between his lips, and then his eyes opened, swiveling to fix on Dalca.
Dalca froze at the sight of the man before him, arms spread wide in crucifixion form. His hazel eyes bore holes into Dalca as the two stared at each other not just from across the cauldron, but across time itself.
"Fürst," the old man growled as his face flushed with fury.
"Sunshine?" Dalca asked, stunned, as he finally recognized the warden.
The same that he'd killed in another hospital basement so many years ago. He hadn't seen the boy under the wrinkles of age, but the hate in the voice had pierced through the veil of time.
"Your turn to die, Dubhlainn!"
The long dead Warden of the White Council of Wizards snarled out a word, and Dalca could do nothing but stare as the raw power of the mage rushed at him.
