"But – you're dead!" Carl burst out.
The new man smiled thinly, his mouth a slash across an aged face. He was sixty at a glance; and he possessed his son's cool control. "You'll find," he began in a deep, commanding voice, "That Derek inherited both his patience and his good humor from his mother. I want your answers. Now."
Joseph Hastings' eyes were green and when his gaze rested on you for too long, you could feel the sickly power roll off him in waves. Carl discovered this as the man stared him down. A defiant retort dissolved in his throat; all that came out was a sullen-sounding, "No."
The man nodded. "Very well then. What of your companions? Hmm?"
Lamar met the man's gaze evenly for a moment. "No," he refused strongly, before he could no longer hold that burning stare.
"And you?" Impatience burned in his tone, as he turned lastly to the hunter. There was a muffled sound from Gabriel – his face was buried in his knees as he strove to regain control over his body. "What!" Hastings demanded. "What do you say?"
The shaking stopped then, the hunter's body stilling. The world seemed to hold its breath. Clear and cold, one word rang through the space between them. "No," Gabriel hissed. Hazel eyes clashed with green, and Carl felt himself staring, though he could do nothing about it. The hunter, with each passing moment, was somehow different. It was as if a bright light blazed inside of him, burning too fiercely to be seen by mortal eyes.
He was not the only one to notice this change; Lamar was staring with memory clouding his eyes. Derek Hastings took a step forward, peering incredulously at Gabriel. And his father, the warlock, was drinking in the sight greedily.
"Where did you come by this power?" he asked, eager avarice in his bearing as he stepped even closer. Gabriel rose smoothly to his feet, all signs of his previous illness forgotten.
The hunter had stopped fighting. With the close proximity of such evil his true nature would not be withheld; amplified by the drugs, his senses screamed at him to act, to destroy. He stepped close, in a flash of movement. The warlock didn't flinch, although Derek Hastings and Ancell jerked backward. He was flush with where the ward should be, toeing the black line and staring down at Joseph Hastings.
The warlock's eyes widened. "Magnificent," he breathed, drinking in the ever-growing radiance spilling from Gabriel. Carl was squinting to make out the hunter's features in the resplendent glow. A true smile, chilling and malicious, curled Hastings' lips. "Incredible," he continued loudly. "Such power – how did you come by it? I knew there must be more to you than what met the eye. But for all your strength, your power is eclipsed by my own," he gloated darkly.
"Guess again." Gabriel bared his teeth in a smile more akin to a snarl. He tore through the line as if it didn't exist, released into the clearing and vicious with battle-fury. Ancell jumped between the hunter and his prey – and Gabriel turned his attention from Joseph Hastings. For now.
It was a sorry sight to watch; the blacksmith was overmatched from the beginning. Gabriel's movements were swift and powerful, imbued with a beauteous grace that was thrilling to behold. Beside him, Ancell's lumbering motions were sadly pathetic.
The blacksmith's first heavy punch was avoided with skilful ease. Faster than thought, Gabriel grabbed his outstretched fist and in one smooth motion flipped the large man over onto his back. With that, it was over. A spinning Tojo blade descended relentlessly, ready to cleave flesh and bone.
A shot split the air, and Carl cried out in shock and pain. In disbelieving surprise, the friar clutched at his sleeve. The bullet had penetrated the warding line, grazing a deep, blistering line across his shoulder. The skin had split, and was stinging angrily with blood trickling from the cut.
Gabriel's hand had stopped dead.
"Kill him, and I will not hesitate to shoot," the warlock promised, deep voice echoing through the air.
The spinning Tojo blade disappeared, and Gabriel stepped smoothly away from Ancell, never losing the impression of contained, poetic violence. His hands rose in the air. The hungry flames of the fire crackled in the background, the only noise in the clearing. "Robert," the warlock snapped. Ancell hastily scrambled backwards out of the snow, a thin line of red scoring across his throat. "Get the chains," Joseph Hastings ordered. His sights remain fixed on Carl, and his attention never left the hunter. "You are a warrior," Hastings told them. "Your own life means little to you. The lives of others, however -" He clicked his tongue disgustedly. "These bullets are dipped in silver. They will penetrate the warding line with ease. If you move, even the slightest, I will send one through his heart. I do not bluff. Useful as he may be to us, he's of no use to me if I am dead."
Ancell lumbered back, Derek Hastings halting him with an outstretched arm. "Father?"
"For that insult, they both stay," the warlock snapped. "They will be prepared, with the other. Robert. Now. Go," he ordered Van Helsing. The hunter carefully retreated as Ancell indicated – he was moved back to a tree standing a short ways inside the clearing. The thick, shimmering links were securely wrapped around the solid trunk. Ancell stripped him of his thick coat before locking the manacles around each wrist.
Joseph Hastings was clearly more satisfied with this arrangement. "Steel chains, coated with silver. Man or monster, they will hold you."
Not for long, Gabriel thought. He kept his gaze locked on the warlock, a promise of justice, as Ancell carefully frisked him for weapons. All of his knives but one were found, as were his pistols and blowgun. With each additional weapon, Derek Hastings' eyes widened. Gabriel believed in being well-prepared, for anything.
Ancell rifled briefly through the pockets of his coat, discovering the secreted Tojo blade and fingering it experimentally. Gabriel had lost the other – he did not know when, only that it had probably happened between when he had been drugged at Hastings', and when he had woken inside the ward. He was meticulously attentive in regards to each and every one of his weapons. The blacksmith, satisfied with what he had discovered, dumped the remaining weapons into the coat pockets, bundling up the garment and dropping it on the far side of the clearing, well out of reach.
Joseph Hastings stepped forward again, stalking angrily toward the hunter. "Impressive," he bit out. The jealousy was painted plainly across his countenance. "You will tell me where you acquired your power." His tone brooked no opposition, and he cocked the gun as he glanced purposefully toward the imprisoned men.
"I did not acquire it."
Such an answer could be expected to light a madman's short fuse, spiraling them all towards a deadly explosion. But the warlock merely narrowed his eyes searchingly. "You do not lie," he murmured at last. "But you do not answer me."
Gabriel grimly inclined his head. "Just so."
"I have no patience for a game of questions," the warlock snapped. The strands of darkness cocooning his figure grew thicker, stronger in the hunter's sight. He raised the weapon, pointing unerringly at Carl. "He can only dodge for so long. Tell me from whence this power comes!"
"From God."
Derek Hastings snorted at the serene answer. "How many times do you receive that answer, father?" His much-praised patience had obviously reached its natural end. "All fight for their god, all claim that their power derives from him. They are driven by fanatical faith, ready to cheaply expend their lives and those of their fellows for a belief that, in the end, is false."
"Bold words," Gabriel observed coldly. "Especially from you and your ilk."
"You answer truthfully, without answering at all," Joseph Hastings said once more, as if he had not heard his son. "Yet if this is true – it is of no use to me." He whirled now, one outstretched arm pointed at the quaking friar. Carl was murmuring prayers under his breath, ready to dodge for his life while knowing the small space he had to maneuver guaranteed his death. "Tell me now, on his life, do you speak truthfully?" the warlock yelled the question, tension racketing higher in all the men in the clearing. Except one.
"Yes." The calm, simple answer melted the danger away, for now.
"In that case," Joseph Hastings said, very softly, "I have no need for you, then, do I?" His attention was fixed solely on the hunter in a sort of maniacal glee as he brought the gun to bear. "Even your power cannot protect you from this."
"Father!" snapped the younger Hastings, taking two paces forward. "Would you destroy everything on his account?"
The elder hesitated.
"Remember, the first blood -"
"I know, boy," barked Joseph Hastings irritably. He champed his teeth for a moment. "If you're so intent upon his continued survival, I suggest you prepare him to view the coming events. I will not have them obliterating our chances for success now, when we are so close!" He stomped off to stand in front of the fire, the situation abruptly diffused.
The hunter stared warily at Derek Hastings, as the smartly-clad Mayor approached him. "Prepare?" he tested the word lowly, as the other stepped into hearing range. There was a wealth of warning and defiance in his posture.
With a revival of his usual charisma, Hastings only smiled. "Since you're not bounded by the warding line, we must enter you into the final preparations for the creation of our protective pentacle. You will be a participant, though a motionless and silent one. Your friend's life will depend on it." The forthright flippancy was somehow more repellant than his father's unstable temper, and Gabriel didn't even try to hide the disgust he was feeling. "You needn't worry, however," Hastings continued, ignoring his expression. "All that's required for you is that you change clothes. You don't even need to be properly cleansed, as we will be – you are not going to do anything other than stand here." The last words held a dark promise of more than equal retaliation for any action he might take.
Gabriel didn't even bother to respond, never taking his attention from the three men circling the clearing like wary wolves. The number was soon increased to four, as Schoen returned to assist the preparations. With a gun tracking Carl's every nervous twitch, the hunter was forced to strip, wash briefly in the snow, and dress himself in garments provided by the warlock. The clothes were of undyed, handwoven cotton – white and thin. Fully clad, he earned another penetrating stare from Joseph Hastings, and the continued contemplative attention of Schoen.
With the hunter chained once more and securely bound, the three men left the clearing, presumably to prepare themselves.
"Am I the only one here who thinks they don't quite know what they're doing?" Carl asked snappishly the moment all sounds of their passage had disintegrated into the brush.
"No," Lamar muttered. He was uneasy. "Do you remember what the mayor said, about the first blood?"
Gabriel frowned.
"In most summonings, a creature will be killed so that in the moment of death, there is a connection between the world of the living and the afterlife; a connection the demon uses to slip through to our world," Carl rattled off, thinking hard.
"But Derek Hastings specifically said that the pentacle would be one of protection," Gabriel objected tiredly.
Carl shrugged. "When I overheard Schoen this morning, he seemed positive it would be a pentacle of containment."
The hunter shook his head slowly. "Who was Schoen speaking to?" he asked at last. The weariness in his voice was almost palpable, and Carl stared for a moment before answering.
"Ancell, and Pardoe."
Gabriel closed his eyes, leaning against the tree at his back. Now that the evil miasma surrounding Joseph Hastings had moved a good distance away, it was not so hard to contain his true nature. With the emergence of mortality, however, came a resurgence in illness; the drugs had been merely forgotten, and their effects had not dissipated. All his senses were hyper-aware, and he could feel the evil around them in a steady pulse reminiscent of a heartbeat. It was growing stronger.
How long had he been lingering here, brought to a half-aware state by the drugs swirling in his bloodstream? As the sense of imminent evil increased, so did the inner light within him. With it came his strength. His mortal incarnation crumbled away before the power hidden inside. It was too strong, his nature. Too much for the mortals around him to bear unscathed.
So he strained to hold it back, as cold lucidity returned. They were very close now. He blinked, and sat up straighter, and found Carl and Lamar in a hushed conversation that had been going on for quite some time.
"They're coming back," he interrupted them. The change was in his voice, in his eyes, shining out through his skin. He could no longer hold it back, nor did he want to. Yet some inner voice of caution kept the restraint solid.
Soon the noises of rustling branches reached the ears of his companions; all too soon, the four men reemerged into the weak sunlight illuminating the clearing. Each man's hair was wet, and their clothes were thin and simple; hand-woven linen, both pants and shirts dyed black.
They were eerily silent, arraying themselves around the fire, which was still burning hotly. Black smoke blew through the clearing, bringing the smell of burnt meat to each of the seven men nearby. Carl gagged, and Lamar paled, swallowing hard. The hunter's attention was fixed, with animal intensity, on Joseph Hastings. The man began chanting, lowly, and his companions remained silent. Gabriel recognized the language Hastings was using, despite his clumsy pronunciation and near-mangling of the words.
After several long minutes of foreign words that dripped strangely into the ears, heralding queasiness and strange, shooting pains, the warlock descended into silence. It was hardly better.
As one, the four men around him turned. They looked unnaturally similar in that moment, their faces blanked of expression and outward thought. Their eyes were, to a man, flat and dead, consumed by their avid concentration. They were all focused in on one individual, and Gabriel's anger flared.
They moved now, perfectly synchronized in a way only practice could provide, and circled the warding cell of their chosen victim. With a knife of pure silver, flashing in the late-morning sun, the warlock broke the warding line. Ancell advanced on the smaller man, grasping him and hauling him toward the others. They closed in around him, and Gabriel gritted his teeth together in consternation as Lamar was completely hidden from view.
Whatever they did to him did not take long, and once he was released, he had ceased struggling. Arms and legs dangled limply; his eyes were half-closed and glazed with a drugged sheen.
Ancell dragged him from the now-useless warding cell, as Schoen and the younger Hastings moved off, behind the massive fire and out of sight. They returned in less than a moment, dragging a large wooden contraption behind them.
It looked like a table, whose legs had been attached to sled-runners. It was low, only reaching about knee height, and Gabriel had to stare at it for only a few seconds before he realized that the blackened coloring of the wood was not natural. Only one substance could leave a stain so irrevocable.
It was rudely constructed and clearly not the work of the local carpenter, yet for all its rough look, sigils and signs had been carved into the flat surface with utmost care. Gabriel knew of them all, though there were some he did not recognize. Ancient words of power, of seeking and binding, calling and commanding. Words that carved a path between the worlds, one specific to the maker's needs, and held it open. The table must be made of rowan – a more powerful wood for these workings could not be found, and for anything stronger, they would have been forced to use marble. But rowan was not black, stained in patterns of dripping and flowing fluids. The hunter bared his teeth when he saw it.
Lamar was heaved carelessly onto the rough surface, shackled down almost as an afterthought.
Gabriel tensed.
Ancell, muscles bulging, pushed the contraption into the center of the circle, not far from the fire.
It was then that Carl made a move. The sunlight, flashing off metal, caught the hunter's eye and he whipped toward the glint. Carl threw the missing Tojo blade, hard, toward the hunter. Six pairs of eyes followed its motion as it left his hand, slicing the air. It impacted with the warding wall, and dropped uselessly to the ground.
Carl's despondent expression disappeared under Hastings' furious parting glare, to be replaced with stony impassiveness. The four men dressed in black turned their attention from the friar.
The chanting resumed, the strange words filling the clearing with the memory of an evil that they fully intended to call to life. One by one, each of the men dropped out of the chant until only the warlock was left speaking. It was then that the knife, shining silver in the sun, arced relentlessly down toward the helpless man.
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Here you go! My vacation has extended, and I am quite literally stealing my internet access. Reviews will be heavy incentive for me to type, rather than laze about . . . do let me know what you think! Thanks once again to all my faithful reviewers!