The Contagion

[PepsiWhirda]

The distant walls of Darkshire were a welcome sight indeed as Whirda approached, her thoughts buzzing with fears both real and imagined. She hoped a hearty meal and, if they yet lived, gods willing, reunification with her companions would put a rest to her troubled mind. She felt somehow assured of their continued presence in the Omniverse—perhaps one of the varied and ambiguous advantages of her status as a Prime. Whether they had remained in, or even made it to Darkshire, that remained to be seen. Whirda's skin crawled at the very idea of dealing with Mayor Boone again, but in her companions' absence he was likely the only one in Darkshire with any useful information. She remembered keenly Van Helsing's silent warning, the look of terror hiding behind his eyes when he spoke of the man, if truly he was a man at all.

Night was falling. It seemed the darker it grew, the more comfortable she felt—as if all of her physical maladies were simply fading away. She had always preferred night to day, for the concealment it provided her when she stalked her bounties, but this... this was something different. It felt almost like an attunement. The very air around her rippled and thrummed, the waves coursing into her one after another, washing her pain away.

"Not a step further!" a ragged voice hailed from somewhere above her.

Whirda tilted her head up, forced her lips into a thin smile. "My name is Whirda Windstrom!" she said. "I have returned from the lair of the shade Ahn'Thrix with news of his defeat! I seek an audience with Mayor Boone!"

"Whirda..." the voice echoed. "Impossible."

"You have my assurance, it is quite possible."

"Wait there."

Whirda waited as the clump-clump-clump of boots trodding down stairs echoed through the stillness. She took a step back as the gates groaned open. Light filtered through, outlining the silhouette of a man in heavy armor, holding a spear.

The guard took a cautious step forward. "Show yourself."

Whirda stepped into the light, shielding her face with one hand as her eyes adjusted to its brightness. She blinked away the spots in front of her vision and lowered her hand. "Now, can I speak with the mayor?"

The guard's face contorted in a grimace. He stumbled back, thrusting his spearhead toward her. "You will find no shelter here, creature," he said, retreating through the half-open gate. "Begone, lest the might of Darkshire reign down upon you!"

"I don't—" Whirda began, but the gates slammed shut with a resounding crash, and her voice was lost in the clamor.

"Hey!" she roared, anger quickly replacing confusion. Her chest heaved with inexplicable rage, rage that clouded her vision, raced through her veins like scalding water. She cast her gaze to the top of the wall, pictured herself perched in the crenel between two merlons of rough-hewn stone. Her perspective shifted almost instantly: where before, she had looked up at that shadowy nook, now she felt it beneath her feet, held one hand on that very stone for balance as she dropped to the pathway atop the wall.

She looked left, looked right, her teeth bared and the dagger, somehow, in her free hand. The familiar clump-clump-clump signaled the guard's ascent. As he rounded the corner at the top of the staircase, Whirda flashed into existence behind him. Her kneecap drove into the back of his leg, dropping him heavily to his knees. Her dagger settled comfortably against his throat, the pressure just short of drawing blood.

"I'm not sure you understand me," she rasped, the words emerging from the back of her throat like a growl. "So I will be more clear. My name is Whirda Windstrom. I need to speak with Mayor Boone. You are going to bring me to him." She enunciated each word through clenched teeth as the terrified guard stared forward into empty space, his voice leaking out of him in a whimper.

The guard swallowed, bobbing his Adam's apple up against the edge of the blade. A single drop of blood trickled into his armor. "I understand," he said slowly. "Whirda Windstrom is a friend of Darkshire, there is no question."

"Then what is the problem?"

"You are no longer her." Quicker than she expected, the guard shoved his weight backward into her and dropped to the ground, the dagger passing an inch in front of his face. He rolled forward, came to his knees spinning, and brought his spear to bear.

Whirda stepped back, slipped the dagger through her belt-loop, and showed the guard her palms. The rage faded. "What do you mean?"

The guard motioned with his spear for her to look down.

When she did, Whirda gasped. Black veins criss-crossed her arms, pulsing with the beat of her heart. Her skin was gray, as if the color had drained straight out of them. She looked back to the guard, her expression pleading with him for information.

"And your eyes," the guard muttered. "They're black as night."

Whirda took a horrified step back, holding her arms in front of her face as if seeing them for the first time—and in a way, she was.

"Now," the guard said, his voice wavering, "leave."

Another step back, then a third, and Whirda stood between the stone merlons once more, her heels rocked back over the precipitous fall. As the guard watched, she disappeared with a ripple of residual energy, appearing on the ground thirty feet below. Then, for the second time that day, perhaps for the second time in her entire life, Whirda ran away.