Thirsty - M. T. Anderson [64]
“Lay your hand upon this wilderness that the wicked and untoward may not stalk within it. Smother us with peace, O guardians of Light.”
“Soon,” mutters Chet. “Soon.”
“Bless us in this time of trial. Place your seal upon the waters of Wompanoag and the valley where once our ancestors roamed. Place the ancient seal of holding upon those hills and forests, that Darkness may not —”
And then there is a burst of static.
Nonsense voices keening and screaming.
The squealing of wind instruments untuned and blown without rhyme or reason.
People screaming in Latin; screaming in Greek; screaming profanity.
“. . . seem to have some static on your line . . .”
And ripples start to shoot across the lake.
Vampire voices scream blasphemy and blood.
Chet is licking his lips. His eyes fly from one point to the other, absorbed.
“The spell of interruption,” he says. “I’d give it one more minute.” Slowly, statically, like a statue unfolding, he lays his arms out straight on either side. And as he does so, there is a low hum of power. I hear him whispering beneath his breath, “Lord, make me an instrument of your discord.” His fingers begin to twitch with blue fire. On either hand, his slim fingers wheel like the branches that thrash around us.
“No!” I scream as the wind starts to howl. “No!” And I throw myself at Chet, and pass through his body, and slam to the ground on the other side of him.
His head is back, his mouth thrown open, his eyes rolling uncontrollably. His skull rocks as if his neck is broken. A bulb of blue flame smokes on each outspread hand. His body pops and flares, sections blurring and fading and snapping back into focus.
The lake is in turmoil. The waters boil and rock.
Lines of light have started to burn from point to point, stretching to the unseen sites where, in the town forest and the White Hen Pantry, the people chant old rites.
On the water flickers a triangle of red.
Chet flashes; is there; is not; is.
His body is burning with blue fire.
“Kneel!” he roars. “Kneel before the power of the Melancholy One! Tch’muchgar, Vampire Lord, we welcome you!”
The nickel lies on the ground, searing the leaves, howling with voices, with cries, with screams of fear. Blasts of static crack through the night.
Chet screams weird words — his throat pops and spatters with power —
And in the midst of the triangle, thrashing above the lake, I see the Vampire Lord.
A dim maw — vast — outlined — the huge motion of something so massive that the mountains ripple — howling.
With a cry that courses through the heavens — knocks stars spinning — wallops leagues of hills — the Dark Lord leaps.
And there is a burst of energy.
A crack of thunder.
The sky turns to day.
The lake smashes with fire.
I scream.
And then he is gone.
My eyes are fixed for a while on the ground. Princess pines cluster around the base of a tree. The crickets have gone silent. The wind has dropped, exhausted to nothing. When I look up, Chet is sitting on the ground, resting his elbows on his knees, looking out at the lake. The lake is quiet; dead. Fish bob belly-up in the reeds.
“Where is he?” I ask.
“Gone,” says Chet softly.
I wait. I look suspiciously out at the shapeless hills and the inane blinking of the radio towers. Out in the middle of the lake, the town selectmen splash near their overturned boat. Their tiny mewling voices drift over the water. “Where is —” “Help! Help!” “Is that thing in here? Is it in here? Get me — I thought I saw —” The water tinkles as they scrabble with the boat, way out in the vast center of the reservoir.
Finally I say, “Gone where?”
“Nowhere. Dead. Tch’muchgar doesn’t exist. The Arm of Moriator destroyed him. Remember, you placed it there yourself, Christopher.” Chet softly taps his knees with his fingers. “When Tch’muchgar tried to escape, the Arm kicked in. It displaced his prison world; he leaped out and slipped into the crack between worlds. He no longer exists. Gone.”
Slowly, I look straight at Chet’s face. There is a look of serene triumph, a kind of hidden sweet glee there. All the sarcasm