Modern Rituals (24 page)

James froze.

“What do you want?” Olivia said.

“What every man wants—a bit of love, a bit of lust, a bit of blood,” Horace said.

“Let him go,” James said.

“Oh, and what is little James going to do?”

“Take me instead.”

“James!” Olivia said.

Horace licked his lips and massaged his chest.

“Now
that
prospect has got me all hot and bothered! James, you are a delightful creature—give me your body and I will gladly free Keto.”
 

Horace withdrew a machete-sized glass shard with a cloth-wrapped handle: its edge dripped with blood. He bit his lip and fingered the tip while staring at James—James’ jugular thumped hard against his neck. His numb hands went clammy, and he stepped forward, placing his wrists in front of him in an act of submission.

“Oh, my—you were serious! All for a man you don’t even know? How splendid! Heroic! I cannot wait for your transcendence,” Horace said. “Being human is so blasé. Step over here—that’s right. Good boy.”

James did as he was instructed.
 

“James, no!” Olivia said.

He looked at her.

“Take Keto out of here. Colette, too. Don’t look back.”

Horace is right—all for what? I don’t know these people—but I just can’t let them die. What am I doing?

This would bring it all to an end, maybe for the best. Perhaps
this
was his purpose. It wasn’t a bad way to go out. Unexpected, sure. Heroic, even—an electric trill surged in his gut and propelled him forward. Where this courage originated eluded him, but it entranced him—foreign, yet comforting.

Horace bound James’ wrists with a torn shirt and shoved him against the wall. A rusted manacle gnashed a cut deep into James’ forehead above his left eye. Blood trickled down his face as Horace locked a single manacle onto his arm.
 

“Now let Keto go,” James said.

“Fine by me!” Horace said and ripped from Keto’s shoulders and hips the sharpened sticks on which he was impaled. Keto groaned and fell to the floor like a sack of rotten flour.
 

Colette ran to Keto’s side. Horace kicked her to the corner, waving his glass dagger at the room.

“Not yet, young lady—I almost forgot,” he said and loosened the tourniquet on Keto’s leg then punt-kicked Keto in the gut—once, twice, again and again, fast and furious—he sent him rolling across the room followed by spirals of spurting blood. Keto came to a stop near Olivia and Horace skirted back to James’ side.

“No! What have you done?” Olivia said.

Keto looked like he’d lost consciousness.
 

Trevor lunged at Horace.

“Watch it, Trevor! You wouldn’t want to see me pull James’ tongue through a hole in his throat, would you?” Horace said, pressing the blade against James’ neck.

Trevor stopped.

“Trevor—it’s okay. Take them out of here, please,” James said.

James’ courage proved much. Trevor balled his hands into fists. Despair coursed through his heart as the mental conditioning erected by Magnus collapsed. He gazed to the floor, weighed down by a lead neck. Rituals exposed and contained the horrors from a bygone age—their design was never meant to expose today’s horrors.
 

Horace.
 

Horace was more monster than Arikura Fukushima, Super-814N.
 

Trevor shrugged.
 

It didn’t matter any longer—living in a world where terrifying savages ran free was no better than letting the ritual fail, returning humanity from whence it had come—returning control to the Gods.

The lesser of two evils—I am cursed. This isn’t my decision to make. Forgive me.

“I’m sorry, James,” Trevor said.

Trevor placed his forefinger between his incisors and bit hard. He winced; blood dribbled from his mouth as he withdrew his finger and knelt.

“What are you doing? Stop!” Horace said.

Trevor focused on the dilapidated cobblestone before him, where he began painting a torii
in his finger’s blood
.
The image required but a few masterful strokes, and when completed, Trevor placed his hand on it and recited: “Arikura Fukushima. I am here to free you. Reveal yourself!”

Pale, crimson light washed Trevor’s face as the symbol glowed. It waxed and waned. The firelight in the room extinguished then lit again as a wind swept through the dead, stale air.

“What did you do?” Horace said. “What’s going on?”

Trevor scurried away as an outline of a girl dressed in a gossamer gown appeared atop the bloody symbol.

“Not this annoying bitch again,” Horace said, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a tiny figure like the ones James had in his.

“Nice try, Trevor, but I already discovered this cunt’s weakness,” Horace said and held the figure toward the girl.

Arikura let forth a terrifying scream and rushed at Horace but smashed into an invisible barrier like a fly hitting a window. Sparks filled the air where she struck. Horace squealed, spittle flinging from his lips. He danced, giggling.

“Who’s the scary little bitch, now?”

As Horace pranced about, Trevor caught James’ attention and pointed to his pocket, then at James, who nodded and fought to wriggle his bound hands into his slacks and withdraw the statues. But Horace caught on to their exchange.

“Oh, I don’t think so!” Horace said and heel-kicked James in the chest. James dropped the statues, which Horace retrieved, holding them together in his hand. When the statues touched, Arikura cried aloud, yelping like an injured dog. Her image scintillated, appearing in one place, then another, wildly thrashing against the invisible barrier. Red, white, gold and purple sparks shot around the room. Trevor recognized this turbulent, spectral pattern—Arikura had grown unstable and had reached the height of her threat potential.
 

While Arikura’s rage captivated Horace, Trevor dove through the chaotic veil of sparks and surprised him with a well-aimed fist to the jaw. Horace staggered and tripped over his left foot but kept his grip on both the statues and glass dagger. Horace ducked a hook from Trevor and dodged a kick, feigned right—Trevor threw an elbow, missed and stumbled, hand steadied on the floor. Horace slashed at Trevor’s kidney and struck millimeters shy of a fatal blow. Trevor ignored the hot laceration, blinded from the pain it would later register. He sweep kicked, bashing his shin into Horace’s ankle—Horace howled and faltered. A statue dropped.

James’ breath returned. His eyes widened as he watched—the two fought as blurs until Horace dropped a statue. James leapt for the tiny figure, but the manacle’s leash snapped him backward. Cursing, he pried at the cuff with his fingers. It deposited rust and grime under his nails, which gave him an idea. He bashed it against the stone wall, pulverizing the mortar into dust, and kept bashing until blood ran from his wrist.
 

The manacle broke.
 

James turned. Horace stood over Trevor, glass dagger raised. James launched himself forward, barreling his shoulder into Horace’s chest, propelling them both to the ground. The sharp glass clinked as it skidded away from Horace’s outstretched hand. Horace hurled James aside like a rag doll, and James landed on something the size of a small rock—he grimaced as it pressed between his ribs, then rolled away from the object. The statue Horace had dropped. He took it.
 

Horace crawled to the glass knife, reaching out to grab it, but Trevor’s foot interrupted him, stomping down and smashing Horace’s pinky finger. Horace shouted a string of incoherent syllables and held the damaged hand to his chest.
 

“It’s over,” Trevor said and picked up the shard of glass.

“Like hell it is,” Horace said.

Trevor replied with a swift kick to Horace’s cheek. It connected with a sickening thud. Horace was still.

“James! The statue!” Trevor said holding out his hand.

James tossed him the figure. Though Trevor clearly wasn’t who he’d said he was, James pocketed his suspicions for the moment. A blinding cyclone of sparks and swirling light permeated the room. The floor shook, banking left and right, forming lava-like, tectonic cracks between slabs of splintered cobblestone. Arikura’s frantic apparition melded into the frightening storm. Static electricity tugged at James’ hair and a deafening hum thrummed in his ears.
 

Trevor straddled Horace’s limp body and tore the remaining figures from his hands. He stood and walked toward the blood-drenched torii
—
the calm eye of the storm centered around him and the statues. He set the three small figures, a mother, father and son, on the painted symbol then placed the tip of the glass shard to his forearm. His body tensed as he forced the blade into his skin. Blood spilled on his jeans, pouring from the sanguine hole in his arm. He positioned it over the statues and let it flow.
 

Horace knocked Trevor down with a hammer-fisted punch to the temple before a drop of blood made contact with the torii
or the figures.
 

Trevor lay unconscious. Horace cocked his head curiously as he placed his foot between Trevor’s Adam’s apple and jaw
.
 

“It’s a shame, I would have loved to play with you while you were alive,” Horace said.

Horace ceased to move. He looked down. The glass shard protruded from his stomach. James removed his hand from the blade—Horace staggered backward, turned and fell on the torii
,
his
blood pooled, coating the statues and covering the symbol. An immediate calm settled the spectral storm—the stale air grew dank and cold, Olivia’s hair, which had gone spiky in the storm, fell flat. Colette’s sobs and the heavy breathing from James and Trevor replaced the storm’s discord.

“What was that, Trevor?” James said. “What did you do? And how did you know to do it?”
 

“Listen…we need to talk—” Trevor said.

“She’s back!” Colette said.

Arikura Fukushima materialized atop the torii, her visage composed, free of malice—she appeared a normal, young girl. Where her skin had been degraded and tattered, it now was soft and healthy—warm and tender. Her eyes held kindness, her lips curled into a gentle smile.
 

“Watashi wa saishūtekini kochira no jiyūdesu. Arigatōgozaimasu,” she said in an airy whisper. Then she vanished in a ball of light.

James sighed, sank to the floor and put his head between his knees.

“I have no idea what she just said, but it sounded like a good thing,” he said.

Trevor spoke up. “She said, ‘Thank you. I am now free of this place.’”
 

James drew in a long breath and let it out in an exhalation that wavered between a sigh and a whine. The room fell silent.

7

“Well, now what?” James said.

Keto coughed. His chest gurgled and his body began convulsing.

“Oh no—I think we’re losing him,” Olivia said. “He’s lost too much blood—there’s nothing I can do. James, help me hold him down.”

James rushed to her side, followed by Trevor. They pressed on Keto’s shoulders as he spasmed. By the time Keto relaxed, sweat drenched James’ shirt. Olivia knelt over Keto and rested his head in her lap. “Keto. Look at me,” she said. “Can you look into my eyes?” He did. “Good, that’s it,” she continued. “I want you to breathe slowly—we’re here for you. Just calm your breath.” She placed her hand on his chest and helped him find a relaxed rhythm. “There you go,” she murmured. “Just stay calm, everything will be better shortly—I promise.”

Keto’s eyes left Olivia’s, focusing high above the room. His pupils dilated as his last breath left his body. Olivia closed his eyes with two fingers.

“He’s gone,” she said.

Colette wrapped her arms around herself and gasped for air.

“I…I should have saved him from that monster—but…” She trembled, face pale. “But there was nothing I could do! Dear God, why is this happening to us?”

Trevor sat down and put his arm around her.

“There, there. None of this is your fault,” he said. “It’s okay. I can try and explain…”
 

“Yes, why don’t you?” James said.
 

Who is this guy?
 

“Goddammit! If it isn’t drenched demon girls or maniacal killers, it’s lying—” James took a breath. “Trevor, you’d better have a good explanation or I’m going to go ape-shit. Correction—I’ve gone ape-shit—hell, I just killed a man—I’m going to go full fucking King Kong on your ass.” Who was he kidding—Trevor would wipe the floor with him. But at least he knew James was serious.

A rare bleakness entered Trevor’s eyes.

“There’s no good way of explaining this to you,” he said. “So I’m just going to come out and say it—again, actually. Everything you see—this entire school, the forest—it’s all designed to facilitate rituals.”

“Rituals? Wait…what?” Olivia said. “How do you know this?”

“Yes, rituals,” Trevor said. “This might be hard to believe—”
 

“Trevor, I’m not sure where you’re going with this,” James said, glancing at the two dead bodies and gesturing around him at the desolate chamber. “But under the circumstances, believability shouldn’t be an issue.”

“It might be better if I preface this,” Trevor said. “Do you believe in magic? Sorcery? The paranormal?”

“Magic?” James said. “No, I believe in science, though how it applies to miss wet girl is beyond me.”
 

“Not as such,” Olivia said. “Though I’ve seen some things in India that could be called magical.”
 

Colette remained silent, staring straight ahead through red, swollen eyes.

Trevor paused and took a breath, then went on.
 

“Well, you’re right,” he said. “And you’re also wrong. The world today is without magic—okay, that’s not entirely true—it has
quarantined
magic. I’ve spent the better half of ten years researching such phenomena.” His head fell to his chest. “There are things I’ve seen that would make mice of generals. Anyway, you want to know what this place is.”