The Shade

[PepsiWhirda]

*****

In the chamber above, Whirda struggled to break free of the shadow serpents' hold. She writhed and twisted, her wrists held fast, her remaining weapon held limply in one hand, Lady Tyrande's holy fire sputtering along its blade.

Just inches from her face, the shade cackled. The shadow dagger rested against her throat. Whirda grimaced, her feet kicking at empty air.

"Come now," the shade intoned, eyes smoldering in the darkness. "It won't be so bad, working for me. Why, once you've tasted the power I offer, you won't even have time to mourn. It will be all you care about."

"To hell with your power," Whirda spat. "Just kill me."

"Oh, no, I couldn't do that." Ahn'Thrix bared his rotten teeth in a humorless grin. "What a waste that would be. You seem not to understand, Whirda. Once the shadow is inside you, it ceases to be a choice. It is an addiction. One from which you can never hope for freedom—from which you won't even want to be free."

In the shade's words, Whirda saw an opportunity, a fleeting chance. The idea turned her stomach, brought a fresh sheen of cold sweat to her skin, but it was her only option. She repeated the phrase to herself: her only option. There might be no returning from her choice, but it would be worth it to see Ahn'Thrix fail—to see that crackling light fade from his eyes—to see his corpse reclaimed by the dust and rot and darkness from which it was born.

Whirda Windstrom had a plan, and from that plan she drew courage.

"Is it freedom you fear, shade?" Whirda said, her voice sharp and clear.

"It is freedom we all fear, Whirda Windstrom," said the shade, digging the dagger deeper into her neck.

Whirda smiled. "Well then," she said, calling the holy fire to life. "Allow me to indulge you." She nimbly flipped her remaining kukris toward Ahn'Thrix as fire roared to life along its blade. The shadow serpents lunged, releasing their grasp on her wrists, to protect their master.

With one hand, almost quicker than the eye could follow, Whirda snatched the hilt of her twirling blade, pulling the weapon toward her. With the other, she grabbed the shade's hand—the hand holding the shadow dagger.

The shadow serpents dove past their mark as Whirda pulled her weapon away. Ahn'Thrix tensed his arm, expecting Whirda to pull the weapon away from her throat. The shade never expected her to do the opposite, plunging the blade into her own throat.

Whirda screamed as the blade tore through skin and muscle with a spray of reddish black. She threw all her momentum backward, tugging the surprised shade with her.

It all happened so fast, Ahn'Thrix never saw her other hand, the one now clutching her kukris and unimpeded by the shadow serpents' hold. The shade noticed a moment too late. The weapon darted between two ribs and up into Ahn'Thrix's heart, holy fire greedily devouring tattered flesh and brittle bone. Whirda released her hold on the shade's wrist and on her blade. She fell backward, gasping for air, the shade's dagger still lodged in her throat.

A preternatural scream filled the chamber. Ahn'Thrix disappeared with a crack, only to reappear a fraction of a second later, suspended in the air near the ceiling. The holy fire spread down his arms and legs, up his neck to lick at his exposed teeth and jaw.

Gods, how the shade screamed. The shadow serpents, hundreds of them, raced writhing toward their master, darted in to extinguish the flames, but the pyre that was Ahn'Thrix's dry, decaying body burned too fiercely, holy fire reaching out to envelop them one by one. The conflagration filled the chamber with bright light, illuminating every nook and cranny. Whirda crawled back, one hand flung up to shield her eyes, the other holding the hilt of the shade's dagger as it pumped shadow into her.

The shade's robes wilted away, followed by rotten flesh. The screams continued as Ahn'Thrix's leathery skin peeled back to reveal his yellowed pate. His skull crackled and split, showing the pulsating blue brain underneath. "This is far greater than us, bitch[i]!" the shade howled. "You know nothing of what is to come!"

The holy fire continued its work until only the shade's eyes remained, two orbs of crackling blue in a rapidly darkening chamber. Whirda managed a thin smile as they were snuffed out, the agonized screams dying away. The holy fire, with nothing left to destroy, vanished as well.

Whirda crawled backward, groping in the darkness. She could feel the dagger doing its wicked work. As blood poured from her mouth and the wound in her neck, it was replaced by icy shadow. The chill spread down her arms and legs as it filled her veins. Every part of her was numb. She wrenched the dagger from her throat and flung it aside, collapsing onto her back.

Darkness encroached from all sides, blurring the edges of her vision. It was cold—[i]so cold. She thought of Nyx and Dobson, of the professor, of the elves in their mighty tree, who might look out over The Tangled Green without knowing a sense of dread, and she knew it was worth it.

Then, she thought of nothing at all.

*****

Professor Abraham Van Helsing came back to consciousness on his back, with the expansive sky of The Pale Moors sprawled expansively above him. The moon scudded inexorably overhead, like a doomed man led to execution. Every breath came in a ragged gasp as sharp pain filled his chest. His ribs were broken. He lifted his left arm, bound in a rudimentary splint. His hand was blood-flecked, his nails black with grit, the skin peppered with scrapes and bruises.

"How—" he managed to get out, before a fit of coughing overtook him. He moaned as it subsided, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He heard rustling somewhere to his left, tried to turn his head, but the pain and stiffness were too great. There was the sound of branches parting, followed by a familiar voice.

"You're awake!?" Dobson squeaked, rushing to the professor's side.

"Dobson," Van Helsing wheezed. "My dear boy, what happened?"

"Well..." The boy paused, seemingly unsure what to say next. Sorrow crackled behind his eyes like a storm.

"The truth, Dobson."

"Right. Well, I was taking the kids out of the caverns, just like you said, but I kept getting this feeling, you know? I kept getting this feeling that something wasn't right, with Nyx and that—that thing. So I snuck back to check, and that's when I found you."

"Was there any sign—any sign of the girl, or her—or her—" The pain came in waves with every breath, making it hard to speak.

"No," Dobson said flatly. "Nothing."

"Just as well," Van Helsing muttered. "She was... in league with the demon. It was all a ruse."

"That can't be." Dobson blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the situation. "She was kind. Gentle."

"A trick, dear boy, intended to win our hearts. It pains me to admit it, but we were fooled. Where are we?"

"On our way back to Darkshire," Dobson said. "We found an old cart in that abandoned town. Thanatos has been pulling you."

As if on command, Nyx's great cat padded up to them with a throaty growl. The professor flinched as his gaze met the animal's. "The beast was Nyx's familiar," he said. "We should put it down, else we can never be certain of our safety."

"No." Dobson shook his head, adamant. "Thanatos is mine now. We're friends." The cat sensed Dobson's words and nuzzled into the boy's shoulder.

"Very—very well," Van Helsing whispered. He could feel the exhaustion taking over, beckoning him back into sleep.

"Professor?" Dobson asked, quietly.

The professor stirred, regarding Dobson blearily. "Yes?"

Dobson bit his lip. "What about Whirda?"

Whirda! The thought hadn't occurred to him, that she was still in the caverns, perhaps still embroiled in battle with the shade. "How long has it been?"

"Two days," Dobson said, frowning. "I wanted to go back—I really did want to! But you said to take care of the kids, and, and..." He turned his head to hide the tears leaking down his face. "What if she's dead, professor?"

"There is no helping that now, dear boy," Van Helsing said. "Whatever the outcome of our battle with the shade—whatever the outcome, know that you did well. Those children are safe because of your heroism."

Dobson dragged a hand across his face and squared his shoulders. "Right."

Whatever had transpired in the lair, the professor knew, it was over. If Whirda emerged victorious, she would find her way back. If not, well... it was too late to save her, and besides, he was in no condition to walk much less to fight. The only option remaining was to return to Darkshire, where a better plan could be devised.

"I must rest, dear boy," Van Helsing whispered. "Keep us safe, and you shall be rewarded." He felt guilt, shame, fear, but most of all, the professor felt tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of the constant threats of the Omniverse. Tired of the responsibility of protecting a town of people too proud—too foolish, perhaps—to seek safety. Plagued by the notion of his own failure, Professor Abraham Van Helsing drifted into fitful sleep, the image of Whirda Windstrom haunting his dreams.