Page 9 of A Shade Too Far
“It’s a dybbuk attack,” I said, marching into the fray. Except, I immediately got held up by a knot of people running away from the melee, and no amount of pushing and shoving got me clear.
We were in the middle of the Danger Zone, the period between sundown Friday and sundown Saturday where dybbuks were released from being tortured in Gehenna to come to earth and find a host with lowered inhibitions to enthrall.
Even though the wards around the island had been lowered and dybbuks could show up, people had been drinking all afternoon. Tatiana had told me this event was a giant game of chicken where any show of weakness resulted in hostile takeovers—or worse. Thus, the desperate need to prove one had the biggest balls. I got that. But I still thought it was stupid.
Wards weren’t common, even for this crowd. I was only getting mine in payment for a dangerous mission. So how much magic—and money—did it take to ward up an entire island?
Alert for magic and stray punches, I pushed forward, Tatiana nattering angrily at me, with Emmett bringing up the rear.
I couldn’t make sense of what was happening because Santiago’s attack was too violent for a possession.
My boss clamped her hand down on my shoulder, spinning me around with surprising strength for her age. “We have to go.”
Torres was driven to his knees by the homicidal specter, his right leg bent under him at an unnatural angle. A couple guards got close but the dybbuk whirled on anyone who came within range, ripping into them, but not attempting to inhabit them.
The guards not breaking up fights were grabbing whomever they could, presumably to interrogate them.
I shook Tatiana off. “This is wrong.”
Torres cried out and Tatiana briefly glanced his way. “No kidding.”
She didn’t understand and I couldn’t explain it to her because the dybbuk’s deviant behavior was unparalleled. If I couldn’t predict how it would act, how was I supposed to vanquish it? Would my scythe even work on it? It wasn’t inhabiting the Ohrists, but what if I was a tastier target and it chose to inhabit me?
And yet, how could I stand by and do nothing?
Mrs. Torres, understandably hysterical at her husband being attacked by seemingly nothing, was carried off to safety by two female guards.
“Five minutes,” I told Tatiana.
“You can’t help him without revealing you’re Banim Shovavim, which will attract a whole host of trouble with this crowd. Use your common sense and get out while you can.” Tatiana blazed off.
Emmett looked at me, then hurried after our boss, not caring that he was visible to everyone. Who’d give a damn in this melee anyway?
Torres lay on the mat screaming, a watery gurgling sound. The dybbuk enveloped him with an angry buzzing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of light across the lawn. A blindspot had flared up, catching three brawling Ohrist guests in its crescent of light.
The blindspot victims froze into stunned awareness of their plight, their fists still held high, before the supernatural energy consumed them, leaving nothing. The ohr, the well of magic that these magic users tapped into, had devoured them to replenish the power supply.
Frankly, it was shocking that with this much magic flying around that the ohr wasn’t erupting like geysers. That thought must have occurred to the others because the already chaotic scene went ballistic, people scurrying to safety.
With everyone sucked into their own self-preservation, no one would care I was Banim Shovavim. I glanced over at Tatiana, making impressive progress for someone her age and in that dress. One guard waylaid her, but she jerked her head at Emmett, who threw the man into a cactus.
Yikes. His violent side was really blossoming in her employ.
My shadow magic swirled around my feet. That plane was my only way home. For some reason the Kefitzat Haderech, a shortcut shadow transport used by Banim Shovavim, wasn’t accessible here on the island, and if I wasn’t at the airfield when Zev met us back in Vancouver in a few hours, he wouldn’t ward up my property.
But I was the only one who could save Torres. A quick rescue, then I’d cloak myself and race for the plane before anyone clued in to what had happened. I was already compromising my morals by giving the gloves to Zev; I couldn’t let a man die. Not even a man like Torres.
Thrusting my elbows out, I shoved through people to the quiet bubble of space directly in front of the ring.
I glanced around for any guards who might stop me, but they were all otherwise occupied.
Oddly, in all the frenzy, one woman stood off to the side, watching Torres. She had a sensuous figure, her diaphanous gown clinging to her curves. A scarf in a similar silky material was wound over her head and neck, with only a peep of dark red hair showing, like a Hollywood star from the 1950s, the look completed with a pair of oversize black sunglasses that hid most of her face.
Was she the dybbuk’s host? How was she still alive since it was free?
I rose onto tiptoe, straining for a glimpse of her shadow, but from what I could see, it was completely normal, with no trace of crimson or sickly gray flecks. I frowned. She couldn’t be the host if her shadow was fine, but she also couldn’t see the dybbuk. Standing around and rubbernecking at this spectacle could put her in harm’s way from a guest, a guard, or the dybbuk itself.
