Murder of Crows: Ch 3

Chapter Three

Instead of yellow police tape, the luxurious lobby of Pacific Heights was festooned in shimenawa, the sacred rice straw rope used by Japanese Shinto priests to mark out and purify contaminated ground. White strips of zig-zag paper - shide - hung from the rope at intervals, fluttering in an unseen breeze. There were no cops in here - there was no one except the sorceress at the center of the sacred circle.

Ruth Nakamura was a small, severe-looking woman. She had a deeply lined, austere face, a thin slash of a mouth, and a fan of lines around her eyes. Her beauty was fading, but she had not lost her crowning glory: her hair. When it was loose, it fell past her ankles like a silky black waterfall, marred only by a few stray strands of pure white. 

The Area Master of Washington was normally a skirtsuit-and-flats kind of lady, but tonight, she was dressed in the traditional red and white clothing of a Shinto miko, the traditional female shamans of Japan. She knelt in the center of a circle of her own hair, head bowed, her hands white-knuckled around a beautiful horn bow. A wand adorned with more shide lay in the black leather doctor’s bag beside her.

“Elizabeth.” Ruth didn’t open her eyes as she spoke my name. Her voice was prim, as severe as her appearance. “You are late.”

“Jack drove as fast as he could. But Seattle traffic is what it is.” Every word carried on a pulse of energy, like a hand pushing gently - but insistently - against my face. Ruth’s magic was the polar opposite of mine. I carried a dark, icy power. Wolf-magic. Ruth was a creature of Light and Fire, as pure as an avenging angel. She was also the woman who had just deposited fifteen grand in my bank account. 

“Then his best - and yours - was not enough.” Ruth turned her face to me, her movements polished and eerily graceful. Her eyes were still closed. Only her hands gave away just how much magical strain she was under. There were probably less than twenty Powered in the entire USA who were capable of exerting their will over an entire building like this one. “The Kami have accepted my invitation. They will offer the residents of the building protection while they shelter in place. You will go upstairs to the 39th floor, Penthouse B, and meet with Sergeant Ronnie Delrio before you engage.”

“There’s a kid up there,” I said. “A girl is trapped on the deck.”

Ruth’s serene expression flickered, a ripple of concern that briefly touched her face. “Put it from your mind. Focus on the Hunt and you will free her. And be careful: The Kami tell me this monster is polluted by something that repulses them. Some kind of… contamination.”

The heat seemed to be growing in intensity, and I grimaced. “I’ll be careful. But you and SWAT have to let me work in the way I work.”

“If we weren’t willing to do so, you would not be carrying those highly illegal swords. Fortunately for you, the Shaman is keen to see you prove yourself.” Ruth opened her eyes just a crack - enough for me to see the light of the sun shining through her lashes. “Take the keycard and go.”

The Shaman? A twinge of unease prickled through my gut. The overhead lights were growing unbearably hot, beating against the shell of my jacket. A trickle of sweat wound its way down my spine as I jogged over and snatched the keycard from the counter. “Roger that.”

Ruth did not reply. I left her to her ritual and headed for the elevator. I had magic of my own to do.

I opened my mind and relaxed my breathing as soon as the door closed, focused on it as I swiped the card and punched the button for the roof, and stood back. The elevator was made of glass, as was the shaft. As we lifted, the glittering velvet blue and orange tapestry of Seattle at night unfolded in front of me, partly obscured by my faint reflection in the crystal. Even on a good night, I’m not much to look at, but I stared ahead at the ghostly woman in the mirror, swords in hand, and tuned into the music inside my head. My heart, pounding; the runes on my weapons, skin and armor stirring, and the pulsing energy of the monster above. It got closer with every rushing second.

I stomped a foot, setting a rhythm. The heel of my boot thudded hollowly against the floor. 

"Alfadhir," I uttered the first of Odin's names aloud in old Norse, the language of my mother's blood. As I did, I felt him pay attention... like a man glancing up from a book at the sound of his name. "Wolfspeaker. Welcomed One. Pale Rider, God of Witches, Battle Father."

Stomp. Ting. The elevator counted each floor as we passed it. Stomp. Ting.

"Hooded One. Wandwielder. God of the Hanged." I banged my bootheel down harder, faster, making the sound part of the chant. "Victory Tree! Knowledge Bringer! Lord of Secrets, Terrible and Stormy One!"

There was a screech from outside, as primal as any of the giants of myth. The monster’s cry made the air itself shiver. Dark coils of energy looped through my blood, winding around my limbs and biting in with icy teeth. It was a welcome pain. When I’d sworn myself as a Valkyrie, Odin and I had made a deal. It was the same deal he’d made with himself when he pierced himself with a spear and hung on Yggdrasil for nine days – suffering for wisdom.

I shouted the next names. "Burning Eye! Hero Maker! Lord of the Aesir!" My view of Seattle and the Sound was obscured as the elevator slid into the top of the shaft and slowed to a stop. “Shieldshaker! Attacking Rider! Chooser of the Slain! I am Hjörthrimul, the Dancer in the Dark! If your daughter should fall tonight, bring me home!”

The doors opened into a plush penthouse hallway, where a startled officer in SWAT gear took one look at me and backed away from the open doors. He put two fingers to his earpiece as he jogged off down the corridor and turned the corner, glancing back. “The SRU Striker is on site. Repeat, SRU Striker is on site...”

Cold magic wrapped around me like a billowing shroud. I rolled out like a storm cloud, weaving through the shattered glass on the carpet, and followed the howling gusts of wind roaring in through the broken windows. Something had been in here, and had knocked over the fine gray furniture, paintings and sculptures in this $6500-a-month apartment. There was blood everywhere. I passed cops cowering by sheet-covered lumps that only vaguely resembled human bodies. The cold disguised the smell of death, but it couldn’t touch the awful, haunted feeling that hung in the air. It was an energy of terror and of evil, and it clung to the back of my throat like bad wine.

SWAT was clustered in the kitchen and the shattered double doors that led out onto the huge rooftop deck. Three men in black tactical gear argued over a laptop on the counter. One of them was wearing a yellow armband - the Sergeant.

“Sergeant Delrio?” I called his name as I crossed over.

The Sergeant turned. He was a fierce, hawkish man, with stiffly gelled black hair and piercing eyes. He looked me up and down, tensing at what he saw. “Who the hell are you?”

I tried not to look him in the eye. “Striker Elizabeth Fox.”

“You? You’re the Striker they’re sending in? Where the hell is Kyle?” He pushed back from the counter. 

“Kyle’s dead,” I replied.

“Fuck. They’re sending a little girl out to face that thing?” He slapped the wall in frustration. “FUCK!”

I was beginning to get sick of the ‘little girl’ schtick. “Look at me, Sergeant. Tell me what you see.”

There was power in that command, just enough to compel him to look up. He jerked his head with a brief look of shock. I locked gazes with him, and the shock froze into a mask of horror.

I knew what he saw. One eye turned black and fathomless, the other drawn to a point of hot light, burning like a distant star. My magic chilled my skin and tightened my face over my skull. The swords in my hands were now rimed with frost. No matter what the comics say, there is nothing pretty about a Valkyrie. We are the avatars of War.

“Bruja,” he whispered. 

“Keep your men out of the way,” I said, my voice jabbing like a spear on each word. “If I don’t enact the ritual of the Hunt and land the mortal blow, it won’t die. There’s no round you’re carrying that will touch this thing.”

He recoiled from me. “Mercenaries don’t tell me what to do at my own scene, witch.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “Ruth Nakamura is billing the department a hundred bucks a minute for this ‘bruja’ to be here. Save your boss some money and approve the fucking op.”

The corner of his mouth jumped. “Get out there, then.” Delrio jerked his head towards the deck, where his men were taking cover beside the broken door. “And God have mercy on your black soul.”

The Sergeant crossed himself as I stalked off.

Two nervous SWAT glanced at me as I stepped over the shards of broken glass and stepped out onto the deck. The frigid night wind hit me like a punch to the face. There was a roar - the dinosaur.

Inari hadn’t exaggerated its size. About two thirds of its body was wing, and most of the rest was head and beak. Most of the lights on the roof were still on, and the creature was clearly visible: a massive pterosaur with a purplish body streaked with red and black, like rotten steak. It seemed to flex in and out of reality. The air around it warped and sparkled as spun up into the sky, screeched, then dived at the air-conditioning tower where the girl was hiding.

“Winter.” I dropped down into a crouch and stealthed along the ground to the first available cover: a waist-high planter box full of generic shrubbery. In the presence of so much dirty magic, the plants had withered, dumped their leaves, and turned black. “Can you give me any insight into this thing?”

I’d left Winter in the apartment, but he wasn’t any ordinary bird. Winter was my familiar, a specter who assumed a physical form. No sooner had I spoken to him than I saw him. He perched on the twisted wreckage of the south railing, a fat, glossy black bird that looked like a void of darkness against Seattle’s downtown skyline. In the tradition of Hunin and Munin, Odin’s ravens, Winter was a Specter of knowledge and wisdom. Just as well, because I was frequently lacking in both.

“You no longer Hunt alone, Valkyrie. I ask that you reaffirm your pact with me.” Winter’s telepathic voice was dry and throaty. He spoke slowly, but precisely, like an academic orator.

“As I have done before and will always do, I swear my pact with you, specter. You will feast on the corpse of this creature after my victory so that we might consume its wisdom, and if I fail, you feast on me.”

“So may it be.” The raven replied. “This is the uneasy spirit of a Quetzalcoatlus. As a cryptid, it is commonly known as a Kongomato. They are most common in the Central African lands of your Father’s blood. But this one… it is not from this timeline.”

“Timeline? What do you mean?”

“It has entered from another dimension of time... pulled through a portal, or a dimensional rift. Something has called it.”

“Is it intelligent?”

“No. I hear no voice in its mind, only fury. It is not a Greater Specter, but there was evil intent here, Hjörthrimul. The contradiction is beyond my understanding. Even I do not know all.”

My eyes narrowed as I watched the monster. The Kongomato was divebombing the apartment like an angry crow trying to chase off an eagle. Screaming, flapping, turning on a hairpin and shooting back up into the air to dive again. 

Over the din, I heard the thwop-thwop-thwop of an approaching helicopter. My radio chirped. “COMMS-Striker, you copy?”

Resigned to being interrupted, I pushed the button and sighed. “Copy.”

“Striker, we’ve got it in sight. Etheric warping is Red, so we are stuck at three hundred meters.” Jack’s radio voice was clear and crisp from years of training and practice. “Lancer is setting up for a long shot.”

“Did he get the cold iron jackets?”

Inari replied. “Lancer copy. Cold iron loaded and ready to fire. Acquiring target.”

Jack chimed back in. “COMMS-Striker, do you see any special abilities? Projectiles?”

“No.” But no sooner had I spoken than the Kongomato emitted a bone-shaking shriek and dived. Instead of trying - and failing - to get through the shattered windows, the pterosaur plunged through the penthouse’s deck and swimming pool, blurring into a flash of cold light. It was so fast that it broke the sound barrier. The thunderous boom we’d heard from the ground split the air and rattled my teeth. More windows shattered below us. The swimming pool froze solid, swelled, and cracked, splitting the surrounding concrete. The deck groaned like an iceberg. I could hear the voices of people screaming on the wind. Tenants in the apartments below us. “Okay. I spoke to too soon.”

“What did you see? We just saw a flash.”

I squeezed my fists around the hilts of my swords. “This thing just flew through the deck. Anyone on the ground needs to get out of the way. A couple more hits like that, and this roof level will collapse. If it phases through the chopper, you’re toast.”

“Roger that. How fast is it?”

“Somewhere between lightning bolt and fighter jet.”

“Fuck. Stand by.” There was muttered cursing, and then the radio cut.

The Kongomato winged up into the air to make another pass, diving down and then turning away, as if unable to stand being close to the air conditioners. My heart skipped a beat as its head darted toward the child’s hiding place, but it turned away at the last second with a sharp cry. There as a high-pitched scream of terror from inside. The girl. 

I had to make a choice and make it fast: wait for my new teammates, or take this thing on the old-fashioned Viking way. 

It was an easy decision.

“Hey! Bird brain!” I shouted. “Over here!”

My voice carried on the wind, and the Kongomato hesitated in its next maneuver, head twisting toward me. Its eyes were piercing points of smoking white fox fire.

“Come on! You hungry, little bird?” I stepped away from the planter and clashed my swords together, sending blue sparks shooting off from the blades. “Or is that beak just for show!? It better not be, because I’ll fucking tear it off and beat you to death with it!”

The taunts were not just drunken shit-talk - they were magic in action. Boasting had ancient roots in the Nordic and Celtic - and African - worlds. In Old English, getting really drunk and bragging about how great you were was called beot, a demonstration of courage before the gods. A beot was also a lightning rod for aggression, drawing the attention of enemies and inspiring allies. The more I shouted, the brighter and more charged my swords became, and the more focused the monster was on me.

The Kongomato pulled away from its target and streaked toward me. I waited until I could see its ulcerated tongue, and then called on my magic.

“Fljuga!” Runes burned on my skin, searing cold, like liquid nitrogen. the wind seized me and jerked me away like a cloak in front of a rushing bull. I twisted up into the air, and when I was over the Kongomato’s back, I let go and barked the next command word. “Níðr!”

The word literally meant ‘down’. Darkness magic, as a supernatural element, deals a lot with gravity, not evil. Evil is its own thing. 

I slammed into the pterosaur’s spine feet-first, sending it crashing into the ground. There was a dull crack, but just before it hit the tarmac, it blinked and vanished like a comet made of smoke.

Instinct drove me up. My skin was chilly and clammy, damp with sweat that froze as I shot up into the air with a burst of supernatural speed, dodging out of the way of the Kongamato as it reappeared mid-air. It turned and snapped, but the creatures’ teeth were peg-like, with round ends. The teeth slid over my leather armor and snagged on the cuff, where the creature clamped down. It flew up with me, flapping wildly.

“RRRAGH!” Snarling, I plunged my right-hand sword into its shoulder, jamming the blade just in front of its wing. Thögn blazed with bright blue light, feeding greedily. The monster squealed, and I held on for dear life as it cartwheeled with me through the air some four hundred feet off the ground.

G-force pulled at my guts up, then down. I snarled with the effort of hanging on. The life-draining runes on the sword fed off the Kongomato’s energy, but they weren’t draining it fast enough. The dinosaur’s injured wing struggled to keep pace with the other, pitching us into a steep corkscrew down toward the roof of the apartments.

Muscles straining, I tore my sleeve from the beast’s mouth and rammed the other sword straight through its neck. Ectoplasm gushed like blood. The Kongomato wailed.

The roar of a helicopter swept up over us and drowned out the monster’s bellows. There was the rolling crack of a powerful rifle. The first round whiffed, barely clipping the creature’s back. The second shot hit it dead on, slicing through its body.

The undead don’t really have a center mass like a living creature. The only weak points are the heart and brain, and only a ritual strike to the heart will kill it – and only then once it’s been drained of enough energy to expire. Sword and bullet strikes that would have quickly killed a living creature would only wound it, but the cold iron hurt. Not only that, but cold iron forced the Kongomato to become more corporeal, more ‘real’ - and it didn’t like that one bit.

Screeching, wheeling, the monster strove for air. I wrapped my legs around its body, screaming back at it as I stabbed with the right hand and hung onto my embedded sword with the other. Every second, the power I had called in the elevator was exerted through my body, chilling it. This was the price of my magic: it slowly froze me from the inside out.

There was a third sniper shot, which tore through the monster’s wing - the injured one. It folded like a broken kite, and we plummeted down toward the deck.