me like there was any power in it. The vortex poured down over it like a waterfall hitting a flat surface. Except that there was no explosion, no outward waves. All that fuming dark power drove into the guitar, and as it did so, the thing just got bluer and bluer, its light becoming too strong to look at.
I don’t know how long it went on for, but I was practically on my knees by the time it had finished. There was an abrupt silence. Just the guitar, pulsing and humming, its strings vibrating.
“I’d say that thing is re-charged,” said Ariadne beside me.
“You knew that would happen?”
“Sort of. It was worth a try.”
I had no time to voice my views on that. Something else was manifesting itself out on the dance floor. The adepts had all been swept sideways in a rough circle by the implosion of the Pullulating Tribe and they were all flat on their backs, apparently exhausted by their efforts. The thing that drew itself up out of the floor twisted and stretched itself until it became a man. But this was no ordinary man.
It had elongated arms and legs, a weirdly bloated body and an oversized head. I knew immediately why the head was elongated. Something had attached itself to the mass of hair, burying its own legs into it.
Spiderhead.
This wasn’t van Brazen, but a new host for the monster. He—it—stood there, feral eyes blazing like a demon, lips drawn back in a snarl that would have embarrassed a full grown tiger. Those eyes fixed on the stuff scrawled on the walls, containing spells. It howled like a caged wolf, or worse, stepping toward the guitar like it intended to snatch it up.
Ariadne was quicker than me to respond. She pulled out both her blades and ran across the floor with the clear intention of decapitating the creature. She had good cause to want to exterminate Spiderhead, having suffered the thing’s evil attention once before. But the two swords whistled through the air, inches short of their target as the monster leapt sideways, incredibly agile. Ariadne was no slouch and moved with speed that almost defied the eye.
Time and again the creature weaved and bobbed out of reach. I thought it must be a matter of time before she nailed it. I had my guns up, ready to use them, but the movements on the centre of the dance floor were so rapid that I could have hit her. I stepped a little closer, waiting.
In the end, Spiderhead landed the first blow, one of those long arms swinging out and catching Ariadne off balance, sending her tumbling. She rolled, both blades upright in a defensive move, while the creature closed in over her. It swept both blades aside and I realised it was going to dip its disgusting head and close its teeth over her face.
There was no time to think. I used both guns, aiming as best I could in the faltering light for the elongated arms that were supporting the creature. My aim was good and the elbow joints both exploded in a welter of flesh, gore and matted hairs. Spiderhead was blown sideways by the impact, emitting a high pitched shriek, a mixture of fury and pain.
Ariadne moved twice as quickly, rolling over and up. She brought one of her blades down and severed the head of the monster, which tumbled end over end into the shadows. She used the other blade to drive down into the guts of body, pinning it to the floor, where it thrashed for long moments. I ran forward and emptied one of the Berettas into the shadows where the head—the enormous spider—had rolled. There were adepts near to it, but they all put some space between themselves and the spider-thing. Chances were it would try and take one of them over.
I got as close as I dared, preparing to fill the bristling monster with enough lead to sink a rhino. There was blood and other fluid pooling around it and I was careful not to step in any. As quickly as the thing had first materialised, it began to alter its shape, like some kind of thick, black gunk and found enough cracks in the floorboards to drain away. I fired again, unsure whether my bullets were having any effect.
By the time Ariadne had reached me, Spiderhead was gone. All that remained was a wide pool of viscous fluid.
“Do you think you killed it?”
I shook my head. “Damaged it, maybe. More damn lives than a cat.”
Henry joined us, his arm around Suki Yosimoto. She seemed a little dazed like she’d just come out of a deep sleep. Chances were she and Maria were free of the powers that had used them. Henry stooped down and slid the blue guitar into its case, zipping it shut.
“This thing wants putting somewhere well out of reach,” he said. “If anyone wants to play the Entropy Chord, there’s going to be one hell of a blast. Thermonuclear stuff.”
* * * *
It was long gone midnight by the time Police Chief Rizzie Carter had been to the club and arranged for his crew to dispose of the headless body. I explained to him what had happened. Only a cop who knew me and the kind of madness I got mixed up in would have taken it at face value. The dead man was known to him and Ariadne, an ambitious hoodlum by the name of Jed Rawls, who the Chief had been trying to nail for some time. Just the kind of creep that Spiderhead liked to use.
“We’ll put this one down to a mob killing,” Rizzie Carter said, grinning through a big mouthful of hot dog. No matter what time of the night it was, you could rely on the Chief to find himself a big, fat feast.
“And nice work getting hold of van Brazen,” he said to Ariadne. “Your men handed him over to me earlier. Looks like all the fight’s gone out of him. Tomorrow we’ll send him back to the sanatorium. That’s if he wakes up. He looked about ready for the big sleep when I left him.”
Ariadne and I watched him leave.
“Nightcap?” she said.
“I think I’ll just hit the sack.”
“You do say the sweetest things.”
A QUEEN OF CARPATHIA, by K.A. Opperman
O my belovèd, in your loveliness
I trace the shadow of an ancient queen
Who ruled a proud, Carpathian demesne
From out a castle lost in wilderness.
Dead pomp and splendor haunt your sapphire eyes,
And in your visage rouged with eglantine,
I note refinement of a monarchess;
Your sable mane the baser comb belies.
I see you leaning from a moonlit tower,
To catch cruel winter’s kiss upon your cheek,
But why so mournful, I cannot surmise,
Nor why you watch the forest at that hour.
I only know that on that night antique,
The wolves all serve you, howling as they scour
Those haunted mountains, barren, cold, and bleak.
THE DEAD OF NIGHT, by Christian Riley
We were against the storm for three days and three nights before our fishing vessel, the Portland’s Pride, finally sank. Failed welds in the hull most likely. She took water
