Chapter 21 continues with the usual warnings. This is a rough draft and includes adult language. Thanks for reading!
On the other side of the door, a single woman was facing off against a small group of horribly injured people. Each of her opponents sported devastating injuries that, if not immediately fatal, should have easily put them down for the count. What’s more, they all had an attendant identical ghost hovering at their sides. It was obvious to Stirling that some manner of arcane fuckery was afoot.
If the physical bodies were in bad shape, the ghosts were even worse off. Every one of them was in the process of being consumed by a creeping silver fire that was slowly moving over their flesh them like the final line of ember crawling up blackened paper. Red ethereal haze rose from their forms to be drawn into their physical bodies.
As Stirling watched, the group rushed her and it was only her incredible speed as she darted away that saved her from being surrounded. Stirling didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone move so fast. The mystery of the slapping sound Stirling had heard from inside the hallway was answered when one of her adversaries got too close and received a devastating open palm slap to the face. His head snapped violently back and Stirling was nearly certain he heard bones crackle.
Stirling took a moment to survey the rest of the room. Most of the customers had pulled back to the far wall and were watching the fight in expressions that ranged from fearful to uneasy.
Stirling was disappointed to note that despite being a club for people who used magic, not a single one of them had yet to so much as tossed out a fireball. On the other hand, at least one of them must have had a pair of balls because a path of wrecked furniture led to where a honest-to-god dragon the size of a compact car was being piled on by a group of silent combatants and their ghosts. A number of them had managed to grab hold of the dragon’s wings, and more were piling on top of it as he looked on. It was like watching ants taking on a large insect and winning through sheer weight of numbers
At the sound of flesh smacking into flesh, Stirling turned back to the fight in front of him. The lone woman was laying into the small group with an incredibly fast flurry of strikes. Even though it was obvious she was invested in the concept of putting boots to asses, Stirling recognized something disheartening in her technique almost at once; she had no idea whatsoever how to fight. The only reason she was still on her feet was that she could hit hard and moved faster than a cheetah on re-entry.
Most people went through life never having to think about the best way to really hurt another person, which Stirling considered a mostly positive thing. The down side of this was that if a fight did break out, it was rare to find anyone who could do more than flail around. Even just making a proper fist that didn’t break fingers when you hit something took a lot of practise—and making a fist was only the first step in delivering a proper punch. Between her lack of skill and her opponent’s poor condition, the brawl in front of him was like watching the first meeting of a toddler fight club.
Stirling had no love for ghosts, but what was being done to them was cruel, even worse, he was sure that his own magic was causing the damage. When he looked to check, he could see the same red haze around the mob that was attacking the miniature dragon.
There was a constant shiver moving up and down his spine and he needed to clench his muscles to keep his hands from shaking. More than a few people wouldn’t be making it out of Strangefellows this evening, and it was partly his fault.
He knew that there could be negative consequences when he began marketing his hunting decoys, he just hadn’t ever imagined his magic could be stolen like it had. Another frission of expiring life made his shoulders ache. He made up his mind.
He turned from the door and sprinted back toward the back room with Dimitri trotting after him.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Something stupid,” he replied, pulling on his jacket, then tearing one of the discarded briquette bags in half. He poked two eye holes in the rough paper and jammed it over his freshly shaven head. Charcoal dust went in his eyes and up his nose. He choked and coughed. He probably should have shaken out the bag before he put it on.
He picked up his precious box of notebooks from where he’d left it in the corner of the room and gravely handed it to Dimitri. He hated leaving them behind, but he’d need his hands for what was coming next. “Keep these secret, keep them safe,” he said. “I’ll be back for them.” It came out muffled from behind the multi-layered paper sack and he could already feel the air around his face becoming hot and moist. He didn’t have time to rip a mouth hole.
He sprinted back down the hallway and out into the room. With all that was going on, the appearance of a guy wearing a charcoal bag on his head didn’t cause much of a stir. That was about to change, there was a good reason ghosts hated him.
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