Thomas
The ground carried the smell of a charnel house—dust, yellowing bones, and old death. Newer offerings had been piled on top of the old, and the stench of putrefaction hung in the air like malignant body odor. It was impossible to say just how many victims the Reds had dumped into the mass grave, but Lara's reports put the most conservative estimate somewhere around two thousand.
I sank down onto my haunches, tracking the Fomor Servitors as they piled out of the back of a semi-truck. Eight total. It was doable if we could approach unseen and hit them hard. It wasn't strictly necessary to kill every one of them. All we needed was an opening. If Daniel was sane, he wouldn't fight me. If he wasn't...
Well, I'd deal with that if the time came.
"Seems like an odd place to make camp," Ray said, settling in beside me.
Ray was surprisingly light on his feet for a man of his size. He hid his enormous bald head under a cap. When he stood he towered over most people. Six foot four with a large barrel chest and enough thick, dark hair on his arms and chest to make a Wookie green with envy. His skin smelled faintly of blood, a holdover from what he used to be. The bloodline curse had torn his vampire half free, but the trauma of it had left its mark, a psychic footprint of sorts. It would take time to fade completely.
"I doubt it's anything that innocent. Hand me the binoculars will you? They're dragging something out."
He reached into his pack and produced a pair of binoculars. Ray squinted down at the scene, face scrunching up with effort. He pressed the binoculars to his face before I could seize them.
"Looks like a wheelbarrow or summat," he said, leaning toward the scene. "Can't really tell at this distance. I hate the fact I need these damn things. The bloodlust I can do without, but I gotta admit I miss the eyesight."
"Them's the breaks," I said, snatching the binoculars before he could stop me, lifting them to eye level just in time to watch the lead servitor wheel a machine down the ramp.
He was right. At first glance, it looked like a wheelbarrow but was too small to collect remains, skeletal or not. It didn't seem to matter much to the servitor. It pulled the thing around the edge of the clearing, smearing something pale behind it. Paint, maybe. I didn't have much time to dwell on it. Four of the servitors retreated into the truck's interior, and two came out balancing the weight of a large, powerfully-built figure between them. His dark hair fell past his chin, too long to have a wholesome, preppy sort of look, but too short to be considered roguish. He hadn't shaved in over a week, and a full beard had come in. It made him look more like his father. He didn't need to turn his head or raise his eyes. I knew him.
"It's Daniel."
"You sure?" Ray asked. "Because I don't want to piss these bastards off if you're not."
"It's him. Let's go. Take the ones setting up around the clearing. I'll handle the ones..."
I paused. Daniel had dropped to his knees. I half-expected the servitors to pull out a .45 and blow him away while he knelt, hands splayed on the ground. They didn't. They sat next to him, wedging what looked like bongo drums between their crossed legs. I couldn't hear the rhythm they pounded out at this distance, but I knew it would be a measured beat. A heartbeat for the restless dead.
The reality of what I was seeing snapped into terrible clarity. It wasn't a wheelbarrow, it was a chalk liner. The servitor was drawing a broad circle of power around a grave brimming with corpses. One necromancer, a handful of drums, and two thousand dead, minimum.
"Fuck," I said quietly but with feeling. "They're raising an army. They must have gotten into his head. We need to-"
Click.
Something cold and hard pressed into the base of my skull. I'd been too busy watching Daniel to notice Ray shifting into position behind me. I could smell him there now, oozing blood, sweat, and primer from every pore. His heart thundered in his chest, a staccato beat I could have danced to.
"I owe Hannah my life," he said quietly. "And she says you need to go. Sorry man. It's not personal."
Ray's finger twitched on the trigger and I had another flash of insight. Molly had seen a female figure wielding hellfire. It hadn't been Tessa. It had been Hannah. And I'd left Molly in her hands. Son of a bitch.
Ray leaned in, pressing the muzzle in tight, and pulled the trigger.