Bleudark: An Other World Series, #1

By Varnadore Vaughn

                                                           "Don't be afraid to look into the eclipse!"

                                                            -Jee

 

     Rune Hartsmund is on the verge of pitching the game of his life and making baseball history when there is an attempt on his life from somewhere behind the stadium lights. Miraculously, he is saved by a young boy who runs onto the field just before the bullet strikes home. He soon finds out that his savior, Jee, is a 600-year-old Japanese deity, reincarnated in the body of a 13-year-old Asian boy.

     Reluctantly, he is drawn into a magical world where guns are called wands, bullets are curses and Magí use the lifeforce of humans to fuel their magic. Pulled between the loyalty of the only world he has ever known and the Other World that now lays claim to him, he struggles with the ethics of his newfound magical abilities.

     Together with a rag-tag group of Paladín-Magí and The Alliance, Against, Dark, Arts & Arcane, Magics (A.A.D.A.A.M), he struggles to defend both worlds against the Necromancer, Nubilous. Rune uncovers that nothing was ever what it seemed and learns the malignant mysteries of the Bleudark.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Varnadore Vaughn
• Release date: Jul 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201299163

Varnadore Vaughn

Varnadore Vaughn is a twenty year, retired military veteran that turned his lifelong dream to write into a reality. His first offering, Bleudark is a thirteen year labor of love to fantasy books and action movies that he grew up on. He currently lives in Guam with his family.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

A VERY BRIEF HISTORY

There are 6IX predominant MAGICS known to Other Worlders. They are:

BLACK

WHITE

VOODOO

LEGERDEMAIN

NECROMANCY

ESP

There are very few in the Other World that are blessed with knowing the 6IX, and of those who do, there is a war going on to keep a balance between those who use those magics for good or evil.

But . . .

There is another magic, a lost magic. A 7EVENTH. It is an amalgamation of the 6IX, and whoever wields this magic, their power is absolute. It is known as the . . .

BLEUDARK

CHAPTER 1

A DARK RADIANT

We shine darkest in the light.

BARCELONA, SPAIN

Dia often found solace in being alone even though it seemed like she rarely was, especially when it came to male companionship. Genes from her African American father and Asian mother made sure of that. This time, however, she thought she had found real love.

Not the kind she read about in tacky YA novels or what she’d been leasing from past lovers over the years but the real thing . . . if such a thing actually existed. Once again, she had been gashed by love’s razor-sharp edges, and it put her in a wickedly foul mood.

The streets were crowded today on her way to the office—more than usual in one of the busiest tourist cities in the world—and this did nothing to improve her disposition. She hadn’t even been able to get her morning constitution of espresso to her lips before her boss was in her shit about a disturbance near La Sagrada Familia, Antoni Gaudi’s most acclaimed architectural feat. It was just another damn church to Dia.

He hadn’t given her many details other than they were taking directions from some new division back in DC called AADAAM or something along those lines. All he told her was that the National Police Corps or CNP as they were more commonly known, had come to an impasse and reached out for help and to get her ass over there ASAP!

A pair of C4 Picasso cruisers blew past her with lights and sirens blaring. Undoubtedly heading to the same place she was. The crowds seemed to be getting thicker as she arrived at one of the large parks that surrounded the basilica. Dia was familiar with the area, as she visited the UNESCO site many times to shop, eat, and people watch.

What the hell are all these sillyvilians doing out here? she said as she pulled up to a checkpoint.

A young police officer was standing at the checkpoint, validating credentials. She rolled down her window and gave him her ID. He ran his fingers over the ID card and read aloud. Interpol, Special Agent Dia Allen, he said in broken English. The officer looked at the ID, then back at her, gave an approving nod, and waved her through.

She pulled forward and was in utter amazement. There seemed to be more people inside the cordoned area than behind it. What are all you siesta-taking bastards doing out here? she thought.

If this was any sign of how the Spaniards ran a crime scene, she would have her work cut out for her.

Dia parked her car, grabbed her purse, and began making her way through the crowd.

Excuse me, pardon me, she said as she pushed through the gawking crowd of onlookers. What the hell is so interesting?

Her answer came almost immediately.

The synapses in her brain couldn’t fire quick enough to process what her eyes were seeing. An entire outdoor food court of people lay dead. There was at least a hundred, distorted, bloated, and petrified bodies. It was as if a pyroclastic cloud had engulfed the area without leaving any evidence of ash. Whatever it was struck them down in the act of whatever they were doing at the time. Many of the poor souls were sitting, possibly chatting with a friend or eating brunch at their table when whatever happened, happened. Others seemed to have been walking with family when they were razed. Men, women, toddlers, infants, senior citizens; no one was spared. It was a virtual cul-de-sac of death, but what had killed them?

She showed her identification to another officer, and he let her pass as well. She hopscotched her way past the plethora of bodies strewn throughout the plaza. Whatever killed these people was indiscriminate, and their demises hadn’t been painless. Each victim had an expression of excruciating pain plastered over his or her petrified face.

A short, thick, balding man walked up to Dia. She felt like she towered over him even though she was no more than five feet, eight inches tall. He was dressed in a black untailored suit, a thin tie, and pointed dull-black dress shoes, which seemed to be all the rage with European men. He had a yellow stain on his shirt that could have been yolk from a runny egg or polenta. Dia was leaning toward the latter. She figured he must be semi-important.

Ms. Allen, I presume? asked the man in a thick Spanish accent.

Dia nodded and pulled her ID out for a third time. The man hardly looked at it. He seemed more interested in her cleavage than her credentials. She crossed her arms over her breasts.

I’m Deputy Inspector Anibol Sanz, but everyone calls me Ani. I was told by my division chief that you would be helping us out with this, he said as he pointed a stubby finger around the square.

What the hell happened here, Inspector? she asked.

I was hoping you could tell me. We have never seen such a thing.

Did any of the cameras catch anything?

Another conundrum. Right before this happened, all the cameras seem to have shut themselves off, replied Ani.

More like someone shut them off, I’m guessing.

The CCTV is controlled from a central office run by the CNP, so that is highly unlikely.

Corruption on the police force? Yeah, that almost never happens, said Dia mockingly.

Everything is a conspiracy to Americans, isn’t it? Why couldn’t it just be an unlucky coincidence, Ms. Allen?

I don’t believe in those, Ani. And neither do you, she retorted.

The inspector did not respond and Dia put a lot of thought into his loud silence.

She had no idea what to tell Ani. Her theory was far-fetched at best, so much so that she dared not share it at that particular moment. If she had to guess, everyone in the square was killed somewhere else, left to ripen and bloat in the sun for a couple of days, put on ice to slow decay, and dumped here. A ludicrous theory, she knew, but it was the best she could muster. Maybe this was some kind of sick art exhibition by a delusional serial killer or something?

It also crossed her mind why she was even there. She was Interpol, and they were nothing more than the glorified meter maids of the law enforcement world. Used as a virtual database for other international agencies like the CIA to tap into when they needed information on individuals fleeing justice. They were the middlemen between foreign law enforcement agencies and host countries. Even though she had extensive training in processing crime scenes, weapons, and combat, a homicide detective she was not, and apparently neither was Ani; at least not a good one anyway.

Dia was tenacious if nothing else, and that tenacity had served her well in life. She was second in her graduating class; could have been first if she hadn’t been fucking the valedictorian. That didn’t end well!

She graduated college with a master’s in criminal justice and a baccalaureate of science in psychology. The FBI and CIA came calling, but she wanted to take the road less traveled and decided to give Interpol a try. The jury was still out on whether it had been a wise decision.

Ani took her over to a man dressed in an orange hazmat suit. He seemed to be part of some kind of coroner CBRNE team. He was processing the bodies of a mother and her infant. The mother looked to be in the process of breastfeeding the child when the deathwatch-beetle taps came a-calling.

The baby was still on the teat when it happened. There was a scowl on its face as if its mother’s milk had been fouled by the event. They looked like ash mixed with nuclear glass from an impact proxy, or like the aftermath when heavenly bodies strike the earth.

Dia could tell it must have been a little girl from the pink onesie the child was wearing. For the first time, she was grateful she didn’t have children yet. She couldn’t relate to losing a child because she didn’t have one; it was the only way she could keep it together. A defense mechanism in a way; it was how she kept the malevolence out.

The inspector left Dia to ponder while he went over to talk to another man dressed in a hazmat suit, minus the hood. He wore a face shield in its stead.

Thank God, she mumbled under her breath as the inspector waddled away.

The inspector looked to be speaking to the man and slyly pointing to her at the same time. She took in the scene a little more, her mind now racing to things that made no sense, like this being some new sick variant of COVID. She thought anything was possible since that virus had shocked the entire world. Nothing would surprise her now. Hell, aliens were probably next.

Ani left the coroner to continue his work when he spotted a man that could have been his twin.

Dia walked around the small picnic table complete with a parasol to take in the scene from all angles. It was fucked up no matter what slant she examined it from. Then again, was there any good way to view death?

She could make out small particulates of fried flesh floating on the morning breeze like the dust particles she saw sometimes when a beam of sunlight shot through her bedroom window in the morning. She had always thought it a beautiful sight until now.

The coroner was taking small samples of skin from the bodies. He was transferring them into petite plastic containers and meticulously labeling them in writing so small that one would need a magnifying glass to read it. She could tell the man took pride in his work.

So, how’s it coming? she asked, thinking how silly that probably sounded afterward.

The coroner responded in Spanish and went back to taking his samples. He was talking to himself as he collected petrified chunks of flesh and fat from different parts of the bodies. He was engulfed in his work, seemingly to almost be enjoying it.

Dia knew what the corner said, but she decided to play the fool. He had probably been told not to trust any outsiders with info. In her experience, people often had a different energy and tone if they thought a person didn’t understand their language. You were likely to see the person for who they really were. Or in this case, what the situation really was.

She had been fluent in Spanish ever since high school. It was still a challenge talking to people when she traveled, however, since the Spaniards had a number of different dialects in their country.

So, what do you think killed all these people?

The man continued to ramble on in Spanish. He seemed to be explaining his theory on the situation.

I don’t mean to be rude, but can you speak to me in English? I know a little Española, but we’ll be here all day if I have to translate that shit in my head, she said, needling the man. She knew she sounded just like the typical arrogant-ass Americans people despised, but there was a method to her arrogance.

Si, said the coroner. I mean yes. I do not know what they died from. The moisture seems to have been extracted out of them. They are all bone dry. It is almost as if they were freeze-dried or microwaved, like a prehistoric man that was buried alive and exhumed after thousands of years.

Like raisins in the sun?

Exactly.

Could it have been some kind of chemical, radiological, biological, or dare I say nuclear weapon or incendiary device?

It could be any of those things. We checked for everything that you mentioned. The Geiger counter is showing normal signs of radiation, and there are no traces of accelerants. Until we analyze these samples in a lab, I can’t tell you what happened to all these poor bastards.

All right, if you find anything interesting, let me know right away please. I would like to be kept in the loop. Okay?

Got it.

As she walked away, Dia heard the coroner mumble puta under his breath. She beamed. It was just the reaction she reveled in. Her little experiment worked. He would be more likely to speak freely around his peers in his native language now, hopefully revealing something they didn’t want her to know. Like maybe who turned off the CCTV.

Dia turned once more to look back at the mother and child. The coroner moved in to take another sample, and he must have been a bit too aggressive, because the woman and her child fell from their chair into a crumbled heap on the cobblestone like ashes from a cigarette.

The baby’s head vacated its small body and rolled around a bit like a fallen coin before it came to a complete rest; its concaved eye sockets stared directly into her soul. She jerked her head away so as not to lose her breakfast.

There was a commotion coming from the center of the mob of onlookers. Then she heard the voice of the person she was most hoping to avoid today. She would rather be one of those bloated fucking corpses than to have to face him today.

James Livebriik broke through the sea of onlookers with ten other Interpol Crisis Action Team (ICAT) personnel, as it read on their ballistic vests. He and his team were armed to the nines. For what Dia did not know. This was no hostage situation.

The crime scene stopped Livebriik in his tracks just as it did her, but he and his team seemed more disappointed in the fact that there was nothing to kill rather than the actual tragedy of the situation.

Livebriik once confessed to Dia after a marathon night of drinking and sex that all SWAT team members secretly wished for police matters to go to shit. And by the look of virtual disappointment on their faces, she actually believed him now. She guessed that was what must happen when you train twenty-four seven to kill criminals.

James appeared to be just as taken aback by the decaying bodies as Dia was, but she was sure he had seen much more carnage than she had throughout his career. He was a beautiful man. Blue eyes, tall, infectious smile, curly blonde hair, great sense of humor; it was no wonder why she fell for the prick.

The special ops unit he was leading was a smorgasbord of individuals with special tactics training from all over the world. Besides Livebriik, Dia only knew Shultz and Weston.

Out of the eight others, she recognized the one female. It was the bitch she caught Livebriik with a couple of nights before. He just had to be the first one to fuck the new girl, of course. Because it was just a matter of time before one of the others would have bedded her and bragged about it. He would be able to say he had climbed Everest first now, and that was all that really mattered, wasn’t it?

The girl was attractive. Dia could see why he did it, but that didn’t make the betrayal go down any easier. Hell, she would have slept with the bitch too if she were into that type of thing: long silky black hair, big brown eyes with lashes so long they touched her fucking forehead, and tits like scud missiles. What was there not to like?

Dia had to catch herself, because she was falling into the same trap she accused other women of falling into—being angrier with the woman their man cheated with than at the cheating-ass man!

Monroe was written on her name tape. Dia didn’t know anything else about her. Google would solve that little conundrum when she got a chance later on that night.

Shultz came from Seattle with Livebriik. He tried hard to put on a rough exterior, but it was nothing more than a Vegas façade. Strip all that machismo away and he was probably a nice guy. But of course, she was never attracted to the nice ones.

Weston was a handsome Aussie, and he, too, gravitated toward Livebriik just as Dia and Shultz did. She loved his accent and quick wit, and she knew he had a slight crush on her. If she hadn’t been with James, she could easily see herself in Weston’s arms.

What the hell happened here, Dia? It looks like the second coming of Pompeii for Christ sake, said Livebriik.

Your guess is as good as mine. The SME can’t even tell me what the hell did this right now. What the hell are you all doing here, by the way? No one told me you were coming.

He grabbed one of the agents and pointed at the writing on the ballistic vest. "Do you see that? That says Crisis Action Team. Key word being crisis, my sweet little Asian zing . . . and this looks like a fucking crisis to me. How’s that for why we are here? He pushed the agent away and moved in closer to Dia so only she could hear him. Let’s be professional about this, okay, babe? Don’t bring personal shit to work. You’re embarrassing yourself."

I didn’t even say anything about the other thing, asshole, said Dia incredulously.

Yeah, but you’re giving off a vibe, babe, replied Livebriik with a raised brow.

Dia looked around nervously. Was he right? In this sea of carnage, did she and James seem to be the center of attention? Some of the agents from both Interpol and the CNP were giving them strange looks and whispering amongst one another.

Look, I got in this morning, and the boss said the Spaniards asked for our help. The call came from the stateside office. Some new fucking division they started. Starts with an ADDA or something like that.

ADDA? What the hell does that mean? Is it an acronym or something?

I guess. Probably some bureaucrats trying to make a name for themselves. As far as the other night goes, I just wanted to catch you in the act. I wasn’t surprised in the least. Serves my ass right for getting into a relationship with a co-worker anyway. You could at least have had enough respect for me to not bring her here though.

What would you have me do? Tell her not to come and do her fucking job because my on-again, off-again girlfriend might get jealous?

What’s that supposed to mean?

Are you telling me there are no other guys in your life?

That’s exactly what I’m telling you, asshole! That wasn’t clear to you?

She knew deep down inside what he was going to say next, but she dared to hope. He better not fucking say it! If he does, I’ll pull my gun out and shoot him in front of everyone, she thought.

It didn’t mean anything, if that makes a difference, said Livebriik predictably.

Before she could pull her sidearm and shoot him in his black-ass heart, something caught Dia’s peripheral. A door to one of the shops squeaked open slightly. Someone was standing in the doorway, but she couldn’t quite make him or her out from that distance.

Inspector, I thought your people cleared all these stores. Hey, get out here, she shouted, but the person didn’t respond. There was a glint of red light as the individual ducked back into the boutique. Did you see that?

I did. Ladies and gentlemen, we might actually have something to fucking do here after all, declared Livebriik to his mustering crew. Weston, Shultz, go and see what’s going on in there. Don’t go destroying the damn place either. Could be a—how do you say it, Dia?—sillyvilian in there. Don’t want to kill any innocents and have this side of the world hating law enforcement as well. Seems like enough of that already happened here today, but stay vigilant. It could be a person of interest or a scared kid. Remember your training, guys!

Livebriik and the rest of the team cleared the area. The coroners stopped what they were doing, and everyone took cover. Dia mentioned something to Ani about getting all the onlookers out of the way, but he gave her one of those that’s easier said than done looks.

After everyone took cover, Shultz and Weston made their way toward the boutique in a stacked formation, each man anticipating the other’s movements. They pulled open the door, and both of them stepped inside and cleared the room, treating the area like a slice of pie, just as they were taught.

Weston cleared one side of the boutique, and Shultz took the other. Neither saw anything upon their initial sweep. Shultz tapped his earpiece. The store looks clear, sir. Whoever it was might have exited the back of the store, he said to Livebriik, who was listening on the other end.

Both of them scanned the room again, their weapons at the ready. This time they were not alone. What the hell? Where did you come from? Weston asked, startled.

A set of electric-orange eyes shaped like inverted triangles pierced the darkness of the boutique. Standing in plain sight as if appearing from nowhere was a tall slender figure dressed in black fatigues, draped in an olive-and-black trench coat with spikes on the sleeves. But other than being dressed like a complete weirdo, the masked individual didn’t seem to pose any kind of serious threat.

Interpol! Please come forward and present yourself, shouted Shultz, keeping his weapon at the ready.

The person of interest said nothing but instead tilted their head to the side as if Shultz was speaking in a foreign tongue. He repeated his demands in Spanish this time. Still there was no response.

Look, we don’t have time for this shit. We have real issues to deal with. Now please step forward, sir or ma’am! repeated Shultz.

We’re going to give you to the count of three, and then we are going to have to forcibly remove you. We are not fucking about here, mate! screamed Weston in his Aussie accent.

One! shouted Shultz.

The assailant was still standing there motionless and unresponsive as if no threat had been made or command given.

Two! What is wrong with this guy?

Apparently, he has a fucking death wish, replied Weston.

Three, shouted Shultz with finality.

The suspect moved their head around in a circle, cracking their neck in the process, as if they were prepared for what was coming next. Then, where their mouth should’ve been, a demonic smile perpetuated by LED lines of static appeared on the mask, and just as the assailant seemingly appeared from nowhere, so did the automatic weapon the person was now pointing at them.

Holy shit, where did that come from? Shoot, shoot, shoot! bellowed Weston.

Outside, Dia and the rest of the international coalition heard the gunfire and took cover as the windows of the boutique exploded outward and bullets and shrapnel peppered the square. Livebriik threw all caution to the wind and stood up to see what was going on. Dia tugged on his vest, but he paid her no attention.

Weston, Shultz! Talk to me, fellas! What’s going on in there? shouted Livebriik.

No sooner had the words left his mouth, a body spilled out of the door. It was Shultz, and his vest was riddled with holes the size of scuppernongs.

Livebriik called for Weston, but there was no response as the boutique door thudded back into Shultz’s lifeless body as it tried to close.

This bastard’s going to die. Everybody grab your shit. We’re going in, cursed Livebriik as he mustered his remaining squad members.

James, do you think that’s wise? There could be more than one of them in there. Let’s try to make contact first, said Dia.

Fuck that! Looks like they already made contact. Those assholes just killed two of my boys.

Dia stood up and got in front of him, but he pushed her out of the way, just as he had pushed her out of his life so many times before.

Livebriik and his team headed toward the boutique door. He looked back at Dia and mouthed, We’ll talk later.

Dia nodded as he and his team rolled up to the boutique door in a V formation, this time with him running point.

His team was armed up even more now than before after they saw what happened to Shultz and most likely to Weston. Each of them was carrying ballistic riot shields, all besides Livebriik, of course, the one who probably needed it the most.

What a fucking showoff and idiot, thought Dia as she took position behind another squad car, and that was why she loved him. They would work it all out after this. She peeked over the top of the trunk of the C4 Picasso cruiser just as the team reached the door.

James threw up a fist. The others stopped behind him. He put his hand on the door and pulled it open, making sure not to step on his dead friend. Before he could even think about pulling the trigger on his weapon, the muzzle of the assailant’s weapon was in his face. Dia, he whispered over the airwaves before the barrel of the assailant’s weapon sparked to life with firelight.

Livebriik’s gray matter splattered onto the riot shields of the Interpol agents behind him as his head evaporated into a crimson mist. The rest of the team fell like dominoes as the accoster exited the boutique, firing mercilessly. Their riot shields were useless. They shattered like jelly jars hitting a concrete floor.

Ballistic glass isn’t supposed to shatter like that, unless a fucking missile hits it, thought Dia.

They might as well have been in shorts and fucking sandals as far as she was concerned. The assailant’s ammo ate through the officers’ body armor like termites eating through wood, their blood taking the place of frass. Monroe was the last member to fall as a round exited her back and distorted the word crisis on the back of her vest.

Dia ducked back down behind the squad car. She had never seen anything like it before in her five years as an agent; armor-piercing rounds that seemed to pierce anything and everything as she watched a fire hydrant explode when a round from the attacker’s gun contacted it. This person definitely knew what happened to those people in the square. Was it possible that he or she had another device on their person that could eradicate the rest of them as well?

The masked aggressor seemed not to care about collateral damage whatsoever, as the bastard turned and began firing on the crowd. The idiotic onlookers finally decided this wasn’t somewhere to play spectator and record on their smartphones and began running for their lives, but it was too little, too late.

Bystanders were scampering around the courtyard as rounds befell them along with exploding pigeons that got caught in the crossfire. The muzzle flash from the attacker’s gun was a near continuous beam of red and blue light as people met their untimely demise.

The entire Spanish police force was on the attacker now. They were throwing everything they had in the assailant’s direction, but it seemed they were hitting everything but the attacker.

Surely, these fuckers can’t be this bad at shooting, thought Dia, observing the carnage. The assailant should have been dead a thousand times over by now.

Dia began returning fire from her position. She was a superb marksman, one of the best in her class at the academy, but none of her shots hit home either. She racked the slide back on her weapon to make sure the damn thing was loaded. She was live, but she was hitting nothing but air as she took aim and fired another volley of shots.

For that matter none of the thousands of rounds fired by anyone except for the accoster seemed to be hitting anything. Bullets were avoiding the active shooter like house cats avoid water. It was as if the shooter had some sort of force field around him.

The assailant continued mowing down officers like weeds, shooting haphazardly and killing people in the crowd as well, who had probably wished they hadn’t stuck around.

We have to flank this asshole! Dia yelled at some of the Spanish officers.

They seemed to understand what she said, as they started to make their way around some of the other vehicles to try to get behind the shooter. Dia looked around for the inspector, but he was nowhere to be found.

She was waiting for the perpetrator to reload so she could get the perfect shot off, but the shooter seemed to have an endless supply of ammunition. The assailant began walking toward the police line, and miraculously no one managed to hit him. Everything in the square was riddled with bullet holes except for the intended target.

The police were looking at their weapons in disbelief. One of them began pulling the slide back on his service weapon, repeatedly chambering round after round as if something was wrong with his ammunition. The assailant’s bullets found their mark, sending the weapon floundering policeman to the afterlife.

Another officer got brazen in his desperation and ran up on the assailant with a shotgun and missed at nearly point-blank range. Dia could see that his first mistake was his ammo. It was buckshot and not a slug, which would have been okay if he were dove hunting, but she wasn’t sure if it would have made much of a difference after what she just witnessed.

Hundreds of pellets fanned out away from the assailant and hit everything around him. The officer was quickly dispatched with a flurry of rounds to the chest by the terrorist.

Dia happened to get a quick glance at the aggressor’s weapon, and she couldn’t make heads or tails of what she was seeing. It was similar in size to a SIG Sauer MPX, but the barrel was like that of a small Gatling gun. She had never seen anything like that in such a small package. It couldn’t be firing anything larger than 9mm rounds, but 9mm rounds didn’t cause that kind of damage. It was like nothing she had ever experienced in her life—in training, on the internet, or anywhere else for that matter—but what she witnessed next . . .

That’s impossible, her brain told her, but nonetheless she was seeing it.

Two perfect arcs of casings surrounded the shooters weapon. Shells were coming out of the ejection ports on both sides of the weapon and were being recycled back into the gun via dual banana clips. The arc of bullets moved wherever the shooter moved. If the shooter paused, the rounds floated back into the dual clips. If he or she changed their rate of fire, the arcs would change as well. If they fired a burst, three rounds exited the weapon and three shells went back in. No shells hit the ground from the shooters weapon.

What kind of horseshit is this? said Dia to herself. It wasn’t possible. What she was seeing defied all the laws of physics. She couldn’t even say what she was thinking. The cryptesthesia that her mother had always accused her of possessing was telling her something else. There was no technology like this. Elon Musk couldn’t have thought up such alchemy. This was supernatural!

The assailant shot his way through the police line and disappeared around a corner. Dia stood up to see her brothers and sisters in arms along with civilians laid out all over the square as if a category-five hurricane had just struck. Even Ani had fallen victim to the carnage. Dia knelt down to try to help him as he gurgled on his own blood, but it was too late; she watched his pupils dilate as he passed over to the other side.

Filled with contempt, she followed the shooter around the corner against her better judgment, but stupidity and training kept her feet moving. There would be no bringing this bastard in; she was going to kill this asshole, armed or not!

As she turned the corner, to her dismay the killer was standing in the middle of the street. The barrel of his gun was trained on her; it glowed a cherry red like the end of a freshly ashed cigar.

Dia dared not bring her weapon up. She was frozen in position, her gun pointing down. She was now at the mercy of this maniac.

Coils of smoke curled out of the muzzle of the gun like a kraken’s tendrils pulling a ship into the depths of the sea. It did not dissipate either. Instead it was moving along the sides of the weapon like it had a mind of its own, almost caressing the rifle, complimenting it in fact.

One of the tendrils curled around the shooter’s trigger finger as if coaxing the masked assailant to shoot at Dia, but the shooter shooed the tendril back with a flick of their finger. She and the assailant stared at one another in an awkward moment of silence.

Why am I still alive? she thought.

Clearly it wasn’t by the grace of God. This masked, bullet-dodging enigma didn’t want her dead, at least not yet. It wanted to play with its food. After a moment that felt like an eternity, she finally got up the nerve to say something.

Fucking do it already, shouted Dia. Who the hell are you? Why did you hurt all these people?

The assailant said nothing, but the gun was still trained on her as the shooter turned their head to one side, inquisitively taking her in.

Answer me . . . Why did you kill my friends, asshole?

The assailant pointed the gun at a manhole cover and then off to the side. The manhole cover rose into the air as if on a pull string and flew to the side like a frisbee and savaged the brick wall where it landed.

Dia looked on in disbelief at what just transpired. She had also missed her chance to bring her weapon up and shoot the prick.

The LED screen on the assailant’s mask acted like the moving parts of a mouth as the killer spoke in an automated tone to her.

Tell all who ask about what happened here today that a dark radiant is upon them and we shine darkest in the light, said the assailant.

The reason she was still alive was very clear now. She was to bear witness and explain this carnage. She was to tell everyone what happened here today and deliver that message to what would soon be a very curious and ravenous public.

The shooter stepped forward and disappeared into the open manhole. Dia ran up to the hole with her weapon leading the way. The agent fired off a multitude of rounds into the pit without looking before pulling out a flashlight. She shined it down the manhole, but the pyramid-eyed killer was nowhere to be found.

CHAPTER 2

RUNE

Magic can neither be created nor destroyed.

BRONX, NEW YORK – YANKEE STADIUM

It was a cool autumn night. The city was in a tizzy over game four of the World Series. The atmosphere was so electric inside the stadium that if it could have been harnessed it could power all five boroughs for a month. It was a subway series. Two decades had passed since the last one, and the town was split evenly between the two opposing juggernauts.

A mammoth of a man made his way up a set of spiraling stairs that encompassed the infrastructure of the stadium. He was dressed in cobalt-blue tactical pants and a black, sleeveless, dry-fit shirt that he looked like he was going to explode out of due to his mass and girth. A large gray duffel bag was draped across his torso. The man was so sizeable that he could barely fit between the stair railings.

A blonde triangle of hair adorned the crown of his massive cranium. Sweat was beading on his glistening onyx skin and on the sides of his otherwise shaved head. His gray eyes contrasted with the darkness of his epidermis, giving him the appearance of a black jungle cat.

With his free hand, the giant was dragging another large duffel bag, and a black turtle shell case was strapped to his broad back. With a final