Hunter of the North: The Ward Series, #2

By Cem Bilici

STACEY TRAMPLER'S FIGHT CONTINUES ... AND THE WARDS WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN.

 

Two years after her deadly battle with the Umbra, Stacey has a new threat to contend with, after having sacrificed so much, and lost so many people: PTSD.

Fanta, her trusty German Shepherd sidekick, and her best friend Charlie are by her side luckily, or she would have lost it long ago. But when a new street drug in America starts turning people into Umbra infected monsters, her anxiety attacks and flashbacks of the horrors she faced become far worse.

Having to put down the very people she's sworn to protect, and struggling with nightmares that she isn't sure aren't visions of a a far greater threat, Stacey's already taut nerves are ready to snap. And she'll break with them if she can't find a way to cope.

If Stacey can stay sane and alive long enough, she might be able to unravel the source of the drug and put a stop to it, and find some level of peace ... at least until the next attack.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cem Bilici
• Release date: Dec 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9780648036173

Cem Bilici

Cem Bilici is an author and screenwriter of supernatural thrillers and fantasy adventures. Born in Adelaide, South Australia and of Turkish heritage, Cem lives with 1 dog -- Bucky the beaglier -- and 0 cats (that will likely never change), and a couple of humans. Cem is also an avid fan of horror films, video games, and heavy metal.

Book preview

ONE

The rumble and roar swelled above the screams and cries of the crowd, inciting the frenzied masses. Arms thrashed, legs kicked. Bodies jerked and spasmed to the sounds. The shadowy figures were driven by the same motivation, but all Jamie could make out was chaos. A sea of grimy, sweaty flesh that attacked his senses.

One among the many eyed Jamie and lunged. The man’s lips parted, jaw cracking open as he screamed in Jamie’s face. It was a primal sound. The roaring bellow of a Neanderthal.

Get the fuck away from me, asshole! Jamie tried to push the crazed man away, but was locked in a tight grip. He turned, eyes wide. Ryan?

The crazed man bared his teeth and lifted his hands high before Ryan could reach them. Metal militia, motherfuckers! the headbanger yelled, pointer and pinkie fingers extended in the sign of the Devil. As he rushed off, he left behind a meaty wash of sweat in Jamie’s face.

Jamie grimaced, waving a hand in his face as Ryan laughed. Remind me why I agreed to come with you to a heavy metal concert?

Because I went to Gaga with you. And Taylor Swift. A lascivious smirk spread across his face. And because I promised to do that thing you love so much afterwards.

Mmm… Jamie sighed, bit his lip. If you keep giving me that smile that makes my insides melt and my cock do the opposite, we’re going to have to do it right here and now!

Why not? Ryan pointed. It’s certainly not stopping them.

Jamie’s mouth eased open as his eyes fell on a man and a middle-aged woman grinding on each other, her legs wrapped around his waist. The man’s pants sagged, the woman’s buttocks flashing.

Oh! Jamie said, eyes widening. "They are not just dry humping."

No, they are not.

"That cannot be sanitary!" Jamie cocked his head.

Come on, you pervert. We’ll have our own party.

Jamie turned, heart skipping and heat flushing his chest, his loins stirring once more.

Later! Ryan said, rolling his eyes.

Fine, Mister Mean-but-sexy-pants! You’re just lucky you look so hot in all black! Like a sexy vampire Gothling! But… like… Jamie waved his hand in the air over Ryan. Less emo, or whatever.

"Oh, you wanted Goths? Why didn’t you say so? I would have taken you to a totally different metal concert."

Uhh… no! Once in my life is more than enough, thank you! And I’m still not sure dating a metal head is a good idea.

Dating? Ryan said, smirking. Is that what we’ve been doing in bed—

You son of a—

—for these last six months, three weeks and one day.

Jamie’s cheek muscles burned as he fought their pull. You be careful, Mister, or the L word might start creeping into your conversations soon.

Ryan frowned, though the grin he wore remained. What? Labia?

Eww!

Chuckling, Ryan pulled a crinkled baggie from a pocket. He flicked his hand like he was performing a magic trick, and the baggie unfurled.

Ryan! Jamie glanced around, but if anyone had seen him pull out the drugs, they weren’t showing it. He stared at the black crystalline powder sitting in a heap across the bottom. "Jesus! Are you trying to get your ass thrown in jail? How much of… whatever that is, did you bring"

It’s called Obsidian. It’s new, so my guy gave me a deal. Ryan’s face tightened when Jamie frowned. I thought you said you were up for partying with me.

I— I am, Ry. But I thought you wanted to share a joint or do a little molly or something.

This isn’t an EDM rave, Ryan said, eyes widening and teeth flashing. It wasn’t an expression Jamie had ever seen on him. Not since they’d met when Ryan had come to Jamie’s rescue fighting off some street punks that had accosted Jamie after party. From that night, they had fallen both into bed and into a relationship.

This new side of Ryan, though…

But Ryan wasn’t listening. He’d already opened the bag and was dipping his little finger into the black crystals, his hand shaking in a way that worried Jamie.

With a shake of his head, Jamie fumbled his phone from his back pocket. Obsidian? he said, typing in the word and adding drug when all he got was volcanic glass. It certainly looked like it could be crushed black glass.

A tattoo covered blur swept in and ripped the baggie out of Ryan’s hands.

What the fu—

The thief hoisted his prize high, whooping in triumph. His hair hung in matted ropes the same colour as the dirt and grime ingrained in his skin. When he bared his teeth, they were brown, broken and rotted.

Jamie may not have known much about drugs, but he knew the tell-tale signs of a long-time user when he saw one.

Obsidian! the druggie bellowed, the word a drawn-out battle cry.

Ryan exploded toward the druggie, grabbed a fistful of the man’s once-black shirt and drew back a fist. The skin across his knuckles and tendons blanched, muscles in his neck bulging. Give it back, asshole! he screamed, spittle flying into the druggie’s face along with his fist.

The druggie stumbled and fell, quickly rising to sneer with a bloody lip. Ryan was tall and buff, but this guy was his equal and looked like he’d been scrapping on the streets his whole life. Hand to hand, Ryan could probably beat him. The druggie looked like he’d missed more than a few meals because of his habit. But something other than the plastic baggie flashed in his hand.

People around them and jumped back as the druggie whipped the large combat knife out and sank it into Ryan’s stomach. Quickly pulling it free, he whipped the bloody blade at the concert goers leaping away. He lifted the baggie to his mouth and tipped in a large amount, chewing and grinning with blackened teeth and waving the knife wildly.

Jamie stood in shock, his voice caught in his throat. Ryan? he said, finding his voice and shuffling forward.

Ryan clutched at his gut, now on his knees. He almost looked like he was praying, until he lifted his tear-filled eyes to Jamie, his own long hair, usually tied neatly back, hung around his face.

The druggie appeared at Ryan’s back, leering, and grabbed him by his hair. Here, he shouted, yanking Ryan’s head back, knife catching concert lights as he raised it. Eat this!

Jamie couldn’t tear his eyes away. He was sure the crazed druggie would slit Ryan’s throat. Decapitate him. Stab him repeatedly. All those things and more he saw in his mind’s eye. Instead, the druggie tipped the whole huge baggie of Obsidian in Ryan’s open mouth, clamped his mouth shut until Ryan swallowed, then threw him aside and ran into the terrified crowd.

Like a rag doll being shaken by an angry child, Ryan’s torso vibrated. Then whipped around until he was kneeling once more, fingers locked to his face. His elbows jerked and his head thrashed in convulsions.

Ryan! Jamie fell to his hands and knees and grabbed at Ryan’s pale, almost grey hands and attempted to pull them from his face. Jamie stopped as a deep gagging burbled from Ryan’s lips. His ashen fingers tensed and clawed into his own forehead and temples, thumbnails digging into his cheeks.

Jamie turned the frozen onlookers. Someone call a fucking ambulance! He’s O.D’ing! Please, I— A feral growl drew Jamie back.

Ryan’s hands quivered, knuckles white, veins popping. For a brief moment, Jamie thought something black pulsed through them. With a sudden movement, Ryan was up on his feet.

The crowd cried out as the druggie returned, combat knife waving. Oh, you ready for some more! he shouted at Ryan and ran at him. Here, piggie, piggie! The blade sunk into Ryan’s stomach again, as if it was nothing but dough. Ryan’s hand closed on the druggie’s wrist, and even though he pulled, neither the knife nor his hand would move. What the fu—

An animal scream flew from Ryan’s throat into the druggie’s face before black foam sprayed from his mouth, the acrid sting of vomit assaulting Jamie’s nostrils as it splashed the area. The black foam clung to the druggie’s face as Ryan threw the man aside then ran into the crowd, spraying the foam as he went.

Ryan! Jamie screamed, taking off after him, people with black covered faces and limbs falling around him.

Someone behind him cried out for help, and Jamie glanced back. He thought he saw the druggie, up and about, and also spraying the black foam, but it had to be a trick of the concert lights. It couldn’t be real. He turned to Ryan again, but instead found utter, nightmare chaos.

People were running and screaming, not just from Ryan, but from one another. He saw a burst of the black bile, and thought it was Ryan, but instead he found the woman they’d seen having sex.

A scream filled the venue over the speakers as the music stopped, feedback from discarded instruments blending into the cries of the audience as the terrified band ran from the stage, an almost unrecognisable figure dripping black turning in the lights.

Ryan! Jamie yelled.

A figure appeared behind Ryan. In the mayhem, it looked like she had literally appeared behind him—the stage empty one moment except for his boyfriend, then some woman standing behind him.

The woman lifted a booted foot and kicked Ryan from the stage as if he was nothing but trash. Then she stepped to the microphone and picked up one of the band’s discarded guitars, and plugged it into something on her wrist. Slinging the guitar over her shoulder by its strap, she grabbed a pick from a guitar stand, and struck a chord. The sound system screeched, a deep pulsing electronic tone underlying the guitar that stopped everyone in the hall, even those spewing black vomit.

Everyone that can move, the woman yelled into the microphone in an Australian accent, get the fuck out of here, now!

The frozen crowd resumed their escape… except those dripping black liquid from their lips, who clutched their heads in pain.

Stacey Trampler’s here to rock your worlds!

TWO

Closing her eyes, Stacey back away from the microphone and thrashed out on the guitar before stepping back to it. That’s right, motherfuckers! she called out as she continued to play, quickly brushing a bright red lock of hair from her lips. For one exclusive night only, Pussy Whipped Cream’s Stacey Trampler, and Charlie ‘the Mhyr maid’ Moon, are going to burst your earballs! So hang on to your nuts and flaps because it’s going to be a bumpy fucking ride, bitches!

The panicked crowd made the small venue all the more claustrophobic, the heat from the stage lighting the adding to the oppressive fog. Stacey ignored the choking weight in her throat and did her best to use it as fuel for her guitar playing. The stink of fear and death in the air, the rapidly spreading Umbra infection, all of it meant nothing as long as she had a guitar in her hands. At least for the moment.

A sudden weight brought the anxiety back with intensity. The tone Charlie was pumping through the sound system combined with the guitar was the only thing holding the Umbra infected from attacking the crowd. People’s lives were literally in her hands.

A speaker on the wall rattled and jerked.

Charlie! Stacey shook hair from her face and turned to the stage curtain. You called that fucking backup yet?

Charlie shook her head at a control panel, her long straight blonde hair waving, then nodded. Uh, yeah. They were going to set up a cordon around the hall to catch any escapees and assess infected. More Wards should be on the way.

Okay. Cool. No sweat. I’ve got this. But get those lights on, will you?

Her hand hovered over the controls. I’m trying, but whoever designed this shit— Charlie stabbed at a button.

There was a hiss beneath Stacey’s feet. Wrong fucking button, Charlie! Stacey yelled as stage fog billowed into the mosh pit. "I actually need to see what’s going on, not—"

All right, all right! Gods and goddesses, I’m working on it!

Geez, what the fuck’s up your alien arse? Stacey shook her head. Did you wear your studded leather G-string inside out again?

Not looking up from the console, Charlie gave Stacey the finger.

A smirk on her lips, Stacey returned her attention to the instrument. It was high quality. A custom Ibanez that would likely go ‘missing’ in the clean-up.

Stacey bit her lip as she shredded on the guitar. Ooh, yeah! Mama likey!

Her eyes widened when a guy who looked just north of teenage made his way toward one of the frozen infected. The one she’d kicked off the stage, she thought.

What the fuck, dude! Wrong way! she said into the microphone, but he paid her no attention.

If he didn’t get out, whether he once knew the infected guy or not, it wouldn’t matter. The Umbra would do their thing. Infect him. Grow inside him. Use him to infect others and feed on life energy. Unless the Wards got to the poor sucker first, they were pretty much dead.

But this foamy Umbra up-chuck seemed to be something different.

The Umbra were cockroaches. Monstrous life-energy eating vampiric cockroaches, sure, but still vermin. They hid in the dark cracks. Came out to pick up the crumbs. Attacked the lonely and vulnerable, picked off people on the fringes. What they did not do was attack noisy crowds.

At least, not normally. Not unless they were led and instructed.

Stacey shook her head, the blockage in her throat and chest growing claws and squeezing. No! she said, voice a croak, head still shaking.

He was gone. Dead. Burned alive. Burned up like—

Stacey’s hand fell to the Ward’s eye amulet around her neck, the edges of the gold oval digging into her palm.

Stacey! Charlie yelled from backstage.

She dropped Fenton’s amulet as an explosion of sound brought her back to the moment.

Sparks flew from one of the speakers. A spotlight high above popped, then three other lights in the same bank, glass raining to the floor around him.

Fuck me, Stacey muttered, eyes locked on the young man. Charlie, what is that sound doing?

Give me a break, I said I’m working on it!

No, Charlie, the—

Another of the speakers blew.

Whatever Charlie had rigged by pumping the guitar through Stacey’s armband had worked, but maybe too well. But along with messing up the Umbra, it was destroying the electrics.

In the crowd, one of the infected lowered their hands and began to move. Then another. People screamed and pushed and shoved in panic as the Umbra shambled toward them. Slow at first, then picking up speed.

Charlie!

She lifted her scowling face from the console as Stacey pointed. Shit! Charlie said.

"Charlie, move your skinny arse, now!"

Face hardening, Charlie was gone in an instant. One moment there, the next not as she jumped to the Nexus, then into the crowd and took out a creature with a blast of energy to its face from her palm.

Another speaker blew, pieces flying off the wall only to be stopped by the cabling within, holding the shell together like coils of intestines.

Uh, Stace? Charlie faced the dozens of infected now jerking toward her and the crowd at her back.

Fuck. Get that back-up in here now, Chuzza! This party is getting too wild for—

Charlie lifted the band on her arm up to her face. I… Charlie’s face darkened as she tapped at the display. She lifted her head. I can’t get a signal!

The people at the door exploded in screams. Someone, or several among them had turned. Charlie did her best to attack the infected, but with the dense pack of frightened people, and the Umbra creeping up behind them, things were getting out of hand.

Fuck this shit! Stacey lifted her fingers to her lips and letting out a whistle.

Moments later, a tall German shepherd appeared at the rear of the stage and ambled to her side.

Fanta! He cocked his head, sucking his lolling tongue back into his mouth as he waited for her command. Go ape-shit! Stacey pointed at the Umbra.

A low growl built in him as he edged toward the front of the stage. His lips peeled back, muscles tensing and fur bristling as his head turned in a slow arc, taking in the hall and the Umbra. His fur lengthened, the patches of brown amongst the black darkening to the same shade. His body expanded as he grew taller and Fanta’s paws skipped as he flew off the stage and into the nearest Umbra, savaging the once-person as it flailed and clawed back at the now giant creature that was more wolf than dog.

The boy that had gone through the crowd to the Umbra saw Fanta and turned to the infected in a panic.

Look out! Stacey yelled to him. Both she and the boy had made the same mistake, eyes fixing on Fanta instead of the infected beside him.

Ryan, no! the boy yelled as the Umbra attacked him. His hands flew, fingers spread wide to catch Ryan’s face as it bore down on him. Stained teeth gnashed at him as they fell to the ground.

Fuck! Stacey ripped the cord from the guitar and ran for the edge of the stage, hefting the instrument high.

Reaching out for her powers, she locked her eyes on where she wanted to be. Instantly, the coordinates—for want of a better word—were etched into her mind as mental GPS coordinates. They weren’t numbers she could have written down or passed on. It was more like she was a ball of iron and the location a massive magnet. As Stacey jumped to the white nothingness of the Nexus, she released her power and the magnet powered on, but she held off, the connection to her destination stretched like a rubber band.

Spinning, Stacey turned her connection to both her powers and the Nexus, her Avatar. Danica, the massive four-armed Amazonian woman, towered behind her, all roller-derby chic—tattoos, hot-pants, fishnets, crop top, and sporting a dreadlock mohawk.

Danica grabbed one of the four black leather-wrapped juggling clubs hanging from her belt and slapped it into one of her palms. Is now really the time to be playing with yourself? Danica’s psychic voice boomed in Stacey’s head through their connection.

Shut the fuck up, and get ready to blow me.

Blow this. Danica flipped Stacey off.

Stacey ignored her and jumped from the Nexus, appearing beside the boy and the infected. She swung the guitar like a golf club. It cracked against the umbrafied Ryan’s skull and he rolled off of the young man, stopping in a crouch and baring his teeth at her.

What the— the young man on the floor said, flitting his gaze from stage to Stacey.

I know, right? Stacey grinned and craned her head over her shoulder. My chunky arse totally looks hotter than you expected. She ran a hand over her hip.

Pulling a different trigger in her brain, Stacey let her power flow once more. Energy coursed through her arm to her hand, her vision sharpening as the sigils tattooed on her palm lit up.

The kid on the ground gasped again. She knew her eyes would be the same swirling blackness of the stuff dripping from Ryan and the other Umbras’ mouths. She’d done it on purpose. If the kid was shocked, he might listen. And if he listened, he might live.

Stay down! she said, then turned to the Umbra.

Something flew past her and the kid behind her cried out in panic. A giant bulb the size of a basketball was attached to his leg, a mouth like a Venus fly trap wrapped around it. Each of its many teeth was a slithering tentacle the same colour as the vile liquid. The flytrap head was attached to a thick vine-like length that pulled the kid across the floor, the other end attached to Ryan’s arm.

Stacey blasted the flytrap head with a crack that echoed through the hall like an electric shotgun, at least that’s what it sounded like to her. The top of the thing exploded and it unravelled, its flesh peeling back and curling, flowing over and up the tentacle at speed to its source.

Stacey backed up to the kid on the floor, palm and eyes fixed on the Umbra. Get the fuck up, kid!

He stayed seated, wide-eyed and shaking his head. Who— What—

What’s your name? Stacey said, voice hard.

He blinked at her. Ja… Jamie, he stuttered.

"Okay, Ja-Jamie. I’m only going to tell you this once. That is not Ryan. Whoever he was to you, that’s not him. Not anymore. Ryan is dead. Got it? There’s only a Ryan-shaped animal left. And all it wants from you now is to chomp on your guts and turn you into another one of it."

Jamie blinked at her.

You hearing me, Ja-Jamie?

He nodded. Slowly at first, eyes watering as understanding hit.

From Jamie’s reaction, Stacey could tell Ryan had been far more than a friend. Shit, she muttered, and shook her head as if to loosen the creeping feelers reaching out from the lump in her chest. She clenched then released her jaw. Are you sure? Because—and you really need to fucking listen to me now—I gotta take him out before he—

Jamie turned to her suddenly, but they were interrupted by loud growling from Ryan. The Umbra released its flytrap-headed hand and drew it in like a baseball player, then launched it at Stacey, forearm stretching.

Acting on instinct, she raised her palm and grit her teeth and prepared to blast it.

The flytrap opened wide, baring its multiple teeth that quickly solidified into blackened shards. The Umbra may have been vermin, but they were shape-changing vermin that could manifest any part of any creature they had consumed, creating all sorts of monstrosities.

A flash of a memory flitted through Stacey’s mind.

The Void, the home of the Umbra. A vast ocean of Umbra that filled a dimension—maybe a universe. Constantly shifting and changing, forming all manner of life both known and alien.

The rushing flytrap head did not stop widening, instead turning inside out as it flew. And there, inside its folds, was a face. A face that made her stop.

A face that Stacey recognised.

Stacey! Charlie shouted as she ran toward them.

The ball of flesh struck Stacey’s forearm and burst like a balloon full of thick mucus, quickly solidifying and trapping her arm. Whip-like vines crept out from the reforming flytrap head, travelling up and down her skin. The vines pulsed as they thickened. Thorny bone shards pushed free from their fleshy lengths and dug into her skin as the head opened wide.

The back of the flytrap exploded with a blast from Charlie’s hand.

Stacey shook her head. The thing was still stuck to her and fast regaining its shape. Her first thought was that the Umbra was going to ruin her sleeve tattoo. She then realised she would not have an arm to re-tattoo.

A powerful tug unbalanced Stacey and brought her out of the thoughts.

Fanta’s teeth were buried in what remained of the flytrap, worrying at it with a shake of his massive head. He tore it away and tossed his head back, swallowed the thing whole. His black swirling eyes were level with hers as he nuzzled her, his breath smelling of earth and blood, rot and death.

The smell of Umbra.

Stacey’s jaw clenched, her lips pressed tight. I told you never to pork out again. Fanta let out a whimper and nudged her with his huge muzzle. Her muscles loosened, but something seemed lodged in the back of her throat and fought to rise. I’ll deal with you at home, Stacey muttered around it, fighting back the sobs and tears that would likely come with it.

Fanta slunk away before vanishing, causing Jamie to gasp again.

Ryan growled and ran at Stacey and Jamie. Stacey screamed back at the creature and swung the guitar two-handed. It caught the running Umbra in the face, knocking it down. The guitar let out a crack and hummed, reverberating. She kept screaming as she raised it overhead and brought it down over and again.

When she was finished—panting, Umbra dripping, body trembling—the guitar body hung in splinters, pieces dangling. Stacey’s eyes widened as she stared at the remains. The strings cut at her breath like garottes.

She clutched the neck tight, frets biting into her fingers then tossed it aside. Now you’ve really fucking pissed me off!

Her life had been planned out. She’d known what was going to happen. She was going to make it happen. Play in her all-girl thrash metal band, working her day job at the kindergarten until it took. Start roller derby, and come home to her boyfriend and girlfriend every night to spend a sweaty and blissfully happy night and life.

Then the Umbra and the Wards had come, death and destruction close behind. And Stacey’s entire life and plans had fallen apart.

No job. No band. No life. Alone.

Motherfucker! She blasted the umbrafied Ryan in the chest over and over as she closed in on it.

Ryan, no! Jamie shot up from his rump onto hand and knee.

Ryan went down with the blasts.

Standing over him, Stacey stomped her purple, scuffed and stained Doc Marten boot on his ragged chest. Look at him, Jamie!

Jamie blinked, but didn’t shift his gaze from her eyes.

I said look at him!

Jamie’s tear-filled eyes jerked around. Sobs racked his chest.

Stacey could tell he finally knew the truth. Not Ryan! Only a monster now, she said. "You can let this thing with Ryan’s face run around if you like. But it will go out there and kill more people. Take away their boyfriends. Girlfriends. Parents. Children."

Jamie’s eyes shot up, wide and pleading.

It’s your call, dude.

Snot bubbled at his nostrils and spit flecked his lips as they pulled back, his head shaking. Why? Why me?

Because it has to be you.

Jamie hiccoughed, shoulders jerking. He hung his head. Do it, he said, voice barely a whisper.

Pain shot through Stacey’s ribcage. Grief wrapped its fingers around her organs and squeezed. Her vision swam as her head reeled.

Do it, the voice in the memory that triggered the panic attack said.

Stacey’s voice.

Fenton’s fingers were a tensed claw around the root of a long black javelin that had sprung from his palm.

The spike pinned Paul in place like a moth held to a board in a glass case, his crazed eyes locking Stacey similarly in place with their pleading.

Do it! Stacey said.

Stacey, no! Paul cried out, voice cracking, mouth turned down in shame and heartache. I love y—

The shocked ‘O’ of his mouth and his eyes grew as the tendrils exploded in a frenzy, ripping the man she had once loved—had fought to save—apart, raining him down on Fenton and Stacey.

It was over so quick, Paul there, then gone—

Stacey, look out!

Charlie’s voice and the shot of energy from her outstretched palm tore through the memory.

Stacey forced herself to blink several times in an attempt to dispel the vertigo and tunnel vision the attack had produced.

A spiked tentacle wormed blindly on the floor, black as the spike from her would-be mentor’s hand in the memory. The spike that had killed Paul.

She forced air into her lungs in gulps.

Oxygen made its way in, but with each breath came the sensation of a still-healing wound being forced open. A wound that burned with an infection she’d been battling daily, holding it at bay by binding it tight in an iron fist.

Stacey was barely aware of the pain in her stiff jaw, neck and hands. Get out, she said, her voice forced and hoarse.

Charlie took a step forward. Stace—

I said get out! she screamed, and didn’t stop.

She didn’t stop to see if they’d left. All that she cared about was obliterating the pain from the face of the Earth as the flames from her palms—from Danica’s fire element juggling club in the Nexus—scorched flesh and wood and plastic until all that remained was fire.

THREE

Boots unlaced, clothes wrinkled from having picked them from a pile on floor, Stacey shuffled across the asphalt-like road. She glanced up and around the Enclave.

As the headquarters for the otherworldly Wards, the Enclave was perfect. An inverted world inside a giant artificial sphere that floated in a pitch-black void, which unfortunately she’d seen. Giant conical columns of light ran to a smaller sphere at the centre of the Enclave from the poles, what they called the core and used as an entry point for newbies.

They had somehow constructed the Enclave generations ago. Of course, much of it had to be rebuilt. Then there were the other Enclaves, belonging to the four different worlds that Charlie called the Multiverse. Mhyr was Charlie’s home-world, and had an Enclave almost exactly like this, only a lot less busy than Earth’s, and their core was surrounded by a ball of water. Stacey was only one of a handful of Humans who’d ever seen it. Not that she thought it much of an achievement. Little good it had done Stacey and the other Mhyr in her life, Jasper.

The Mhyr were Adept Wards and technologically advanced, their Wards regarded as heroes and celebrities. Practically worshipped.

Here?

Stacey dropped into the hard, plastic fold-up chair and glanced around the newly constructed hall. When a giant monster worm wiped out a whole section of your base, it left a lot of room for some renovating. Charlie had gone through a construction orgy, using her Mhyr knowledge and experiments with deactivated Umbra and the white matter from the Nexus to rebuild the Southern Sector of the Enclave in record time.

It still looked like a hundred other halls Stacey had been to in her life though.

Where the hell you been, Trampler? a male voice called out in what to Stacey was a bog-standard American accent. His tone was also average, if somewhat unsure. Not the most commanding of leaders.

Stacey brushed back her hair, pulled the large aviator sunglasses to balance near the end of her nose and looked over them at the man.

Richard looked like he should be running the white goods department in a middling chain department store, which was exactly what he’d had done before falling into the life of a Ward. Now, he managed the fledgling Hunters of the North—the region of Earth predominantly made up of America and Canada.

Cleaning up small fry Umbra was not glamorous, he liked to tell people and reiterate to Stacey often, but it had been a necessary job of fledgling Wards for centuries.

Raising her mid-finger, she slid the sunglasses back to the bridge of her nose. Hi, Dick, she said, leaning into the chair, head hung back.

Dick—as Stacey insisted on calling him to his annoyance—snorted in disgust. "Your eloquent banter never fails to brighten