Inside the run-down apartment, a ritual was being enacted.

  The twelve members of the Cult of the Red Horn, eight shamans and four sorcerers brought together by simple convenience and greed, worked tirelessly on their respective roles, be they sustaining the concealing wards around their base or working directly on the crimson relic, like in the masked man's case.

  His face was concealed by a bronze mask depicting an old man's face that covered his head like a helmet, and his body was just as concealed by the black shawl that hung from his shoulders, leaving a small portion of the exposed olive skin of his neck and his great height as his only recognizable features. Despite the mystery around his physical appearance, however, not one of the eleven present would have mistaken him for anyone else, for the scant two months the group had spent together in their communal project were more than enough for his being to be engraved on their brains, like a brand on a cattle's hide.

  Right now, this man was giving the containment unit its finishing touches, the ones that would ensure that none of the sacred power within it would leak as it had been. He was the only one allowed to treat the vessel directly, as ordained by the cult's head shaman himself, for only he had the knowledge and skill, both surgical and alchemic, to work with it reliably.

  It was as he brought his cauterization tool down on a small gash in the vessel, stopping the last problematic outflow of shining red power, that the leader approached him. He was a shaman, the most skilled amongst them, and the embroidered red cape that hung from his shoulder was a symbol of it, alongside the black wooden staff he usually carried around.

  "Brother," he said as his eyes, almost covered by his graying eyebrows, went straight for the vessel. "Is the vessel ready yet? Our current position has been compromised. As we speak, the tyrants of the Solomonic Order close in on our position."

  The masked man considered the words of his 'leader' carefully, pondering on them with exquisite calmness and an amused humming, as he did with everyone. Just one of the many, least positive reasons he was well known in their group. Finally, he raised an arm and pointed behind the leader's shoulder.

  "My brother," the man said through his mask, his voice carrying a hint of patronizing amusement. "I can assure you that, as of now, we are the least amongst that order's worries. Take a look out the window, would you kindly?"

  The shaman scowled, and his dislike of the other man's tone was clear. Still, he bit his tongue, as he often did when dealing with his so-called brother, and walked to the pointed window. They were currently operating in a fairly large apartment in the city of Boston, the access to which had been obtained after one of their sorcerers had used a couple of mind tricks on its original owner, a lonely and elderly gentleman whose name no one in the cult bothered to remember, to keep him docile. The vessel had been placed in the apartment's living room, in the space between the sofa and the TV, where the room's large, floor-to-ceiling windows could let the sunlight in over its frame.

  When the leader reached one such window and looked down to the street, both his bushy eyebrows rose in shock at the sight below, for every single speck of vegetal matter in sight, from trees to bushes to grass, was sporting a color that was unlike what it should be. Unlike how they had been just a few days ago, when they had settled in. The leaves and grass were a strikingly bright shade of yellow, one that would have been odd-looking in the cusp of October, let alone the start of August. And where once had been bark the color of freshly tanned leather, now stood a sickly, dried thing that was both pale and riddled with black spots that were like cysts in their bulbousness and wetness, as if all of the tree's moisture and color had flowed into them to the point of curdling.

  "What is that?" He breathed to himself, horrified. He turned to the masked man and repeated. "Brother, what caused this?!"

  With his usual calmness, the man put down his tools, carefully placing each one in its respective place, and only once he was done was it that he acknowledged the inquiry.

  "That, my brother," he began speaking as he walked up to the man, opening a path amongst the wandering shamans sharing the room with them, who dared not tread on his path. Not after seeing what he could do to a human body. "Is the reason for the sudden influx of self-righteous sorcerers this beautiful city is seeing?"

  He reached the window and gestured at the scenery down below like a ringmaster presenting some sort of particularly amusing freak. "The influence of a demon, brother! One specializing in plagues and other noxious magics. Or, in other words…"

  "The preferred subject of the Solomonic Order," the leader completed, letting out a mild sigh of relief, before another coat of fright graced his face. "Is this happening all over the city?"

  The masked man nodded. "And the outskirts, brother. It has been quite the talk amongst the Veiled Ones. They chalk it up to some type of foreign disease or parasite." The man began chuckling in his condescending way. "Well, in a sense, they have a point! Am I right, brother?"

  The other man didn't partake in the comedy, and when his mouth twisted, it wasn't to form anything resembling a smile. "A demon capable of such widespread foulness through its presence alone…" He turned his head at the masked man so fast that some of the sweat coating his brow flew off in a sprinkle. "We have to move. Now! Before that thing kills everything on this side of the country!"

  "That is not going to happen, brother," the masked man said. "The demon is actually fairly weak, you see. It is simply that it has been sealed for a long time. What you see before us, brother, is all the power it has been emitting for the past four centuries. A frightening display, sure, but even you and I could do better if we had that long to build up energy."

  "I see," the other man said, raising a hand to swipe back his gray hair. He didn't bother asking his chief alchemist why and how he knew such things, nor did he doubt his words in the least, for knowing things that he logically should not have had become a known and, ironically, expected trait of the man.

  "I have finally finished sealing the vessel," the masked man said. "Now, nobody will be able to track us, at least not through the usual methods."

  The leader nodded. "Good job, brother. Your work will have its proper reward once the ritual is complete; that much I assure you."

  This time, it was the masked man who nodded. "I know, brother." He then straightened his back suddenly, startling the older shaman. "I'm going to take a walk now, if you don't mind. All this time cooped up has left me with an overwhelming need for fresh air, or whatever it is the plants down there are producing. Is that ok, brother?"

  "Fine," the leader said, agreeing to the 'request' as much out of habit as of genuine agreement. "Would you like for some of our members to escort you?"

  "No need, brother. Better not to move in large groups. Even if the Solomonic sorcerers are not behind us, it is better to lie low."

  Before he could get a retort to his words, the masked man made his way to the door in large strides, exiting the apartment in a hurried way. After he was gone, the cult leader looked at the vessel, which was bulging with crimson magic, and marveled at the perfect way it had been sealed up, not letting even an iota of its power leak out.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  "Just until the ritual is completed," he muttered to himself through gritted teeth, feeling a terrible heat rise to his face as he did so. "Just put up with him until then."

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  A scant two miles away from the apartment, in a park filled with sickly and withering plants, a man as large as a wardrobe moved. On one hand, he carried a black wooden staff. On the other hand, there was an artifact that was attuned not to the aether his kind could manipulate but to the currents of natural magic that were always present in the planet, as much a part of it as the seas and mountains are.

  The artifact—a piece of amber tied to a length of rope, both of which had been forcibly connected to the powers of nature through a shamanistic ritual—had one function: to strain for any source of natural magic that was big enough for it to react to, a threshold high enough that no regular tree or stream would trigger it. A few minutes ago, the thing had been pointing him to the northwest of his current position, just like it had been since he had set foot in the city. Now, the amber was hanging limply on his hand, straining the rope through no other force than the one its own weight produced.

  They've grown aware. The man thought, letting a snarl of frustration show through his beard. Should he keep pursuing, now that he had nothing but his own senses to go by? Sorcerers couldn't detect primeval magic, so any long-range tracking would now be impossible from now on.

  But he had been tracking the Aura all day long, and he had managed to triangulate its position to an area a couple of blocks wide. At this level, even if his aetheric sense was useless, it would be possible to track the Aura down, alongside the crazed warlocks that had captured it.

  "Would it be bold for me to assume you are looking for my group?" came a voice from his side. The man turned, finding a figure with a bronze mask and a black shawl staring at him. "Or, rather, for the thing we have?"

  "Who are you?" the sorcerer asks, brandishing his staff at the masked man.

  The masked man just chuckled. "They got you working like a bloodhound, eh, Mr. Anderson? I guess the DSP doesn't lend all that land for free, am I right?"

  The sorcerer fell silent, shock coloring his grizzled face. Then, without a word, he waved his staff at the stranger, and the earth between them moved, churning and bulging, rushing towards the masked man's shins as two gigantic spikes.

  They both hit nothing, as the man had been elevated from his standing spot at the last moment by two tar-black tendrils. The masked man chuckled and undid his shawl, letting go of the garment to reveal what was beneath. The clothes he was wearing were quite simple, just a pants and dress shirt combo, with the shirt's sleeves pulled back. But it was what was hanging from his hips that took Anderson's attention. Two canisters, each one half a foot long and seemingly made of silver. It was from an opening at the bottom of each container that each tendril came.

  Anderson recognized the power animating them immediately.

  "Demons," he said, raising his head towards the masked man. "You're dabbling with the creatures of the Abyss? On top of everything else?"

  "Hey, they're just imps!" the masked man said, raising his hands in a mockingly defensive gesture. "I'm using them as power sources to animate this—" He tapped at one of the tendrils with his foot, sending a single wave across its surface. "-alchemically produced gel. It can expand, contract, liquefy, and crystallize depending on the way one runs magic through it, and it's compatible with pure aether, necrotic magic, and abyssal magic. Pretty cool, huh?"

  The sorcerer didn't answer, instead casting another spell. This one came in the form of a perfectly round boulder, twice as tall as himself, that emerged from the ground between each tendril like a whale jumping off the water, shattering the earth around it in its ascent.

  "Whoa!" exclaimed the masked man as the footing of his demonic tools was compromised, causing his frame to start weaving back and forth, all as the boulder kept rising towards his feet with bone-shattering force.

  But then the tendrils churned, and dozens of hair-thin appendages emanated from each one, quickly looping around each other in a net that stood between the rising rock and their master. They collided, rock and net, and it quickly became clear that the rock would simply blast through the demonically empowered tapestry.

  Or it would have, had the net been intended to stop it. In reality, the net had been meant to flow with the rock's motion, using the aetherically propelled mass of rock for footing. And in that endeavor, it fulfilled its purpose, because as soon as they made contact, both tendrils snapped back a full 90 degrees, leaving the masked man dangling while facing the sky and far apart from the boulder's trajectory.

  The original one, at least, because as soon as he had seen this occur, Anderson gestured at the air-bound boulder with his staff, sending a surge of power and will its way. The rock shattered midair with explosive force, with the vast majority of its mass turning into mere dust. Except for one fraction of it, which instead remained together as a foot-long shard of rock traveling through the air with the speed of an arrow, directed at the masked man.

  "Ugh, so insistent…" the man said as he snapped his fingers. Suddenly, the net structure began shining crimson with unholy energy, which immediately shot the shard's way as a beam of orange hellfire, the abyssal essence of destruction and unmaking.

  They met midair, beam and projectile, at an oblique angle, with the hellfire blast merely grazing the lowermost part of the rock. Its influence became apparent immediately, as its power undid the molecular bonds of everything it touched, both air and rock. There was an explosion, and the shard's path changed. The projectile, which had been meant for the masked man's stomach, passed over his head and embedded itself in the forest's dead soil with a crunch of dry grass.

  Calmly, the masked man sent a mental order, and an additional tendril emanated from each canister, and they both quickly embedded themselves in the ground. Another command, and the original set began to shrink as the new one enlarged, only stopping once they were the same length. A third order caused the masked man to rotate forward until it was his feet and not his back that were facing the ground.

  "Ta-da," the masked man exclaimed, punctuating his words with some jazz hands for good measure. "So… You do think it's cool, right? Just an itsy bitsy bit?"

  The bearded man waved his staff again, bellowing a mighty shout. This time, however, his aether was bound not with the stone below his feet, but with the air around him, which tore and ripped all around them, forming over a dozen clouds of vacuum, which closed in on the masked man like a swarm of piranhas. On the surface of each 'cloud' was a thin sheen of roiling, super-compressed air that was trying to fill in the unnatural, aether-sustained vacuum, as the laws of fluid mechanics dictated. Each speck of that air was churning so violently that it would cut anything it touched molecule by molecule. A human body would become a pink mist in less than a second.

  With another sigh, the masked man made a sweeping motion, and two additional tendrils sprouted from the two canisters. In these, he charged another aspect of the Abyss; the essence of wrath filled the two appendages, giving them strength in exchange for a rapid, rot-like deterioration and loss of control. Another order caused the limbs to strike forward in mirroring sweeping motions.

  They rent through the air like lightning, and they split the vacuum clouds in half, causing them to implode before even getting close to him.

  "Can do this the entire…" The masked man checked the top of each canister. "Next five minutes! What about you?"

  Anderson snarled with contempt. "Barely used up a fifth of my aether," he said as he brandished his staff and conjured a fireball atop it.

  "Which, given that you are telling me, your enemy, probably means you have barely used a tenth or so…" The masked man brought his hand to his chin, or rather his mask's chin, and began stroking it in thought. "Geez, you really are a bit too much for us, uh? I guess that the Order of Saint Jerome's founder is no pushover."

  The fireball shot forward from Anderson's staff, colliding against one of the frontal tendrils in a blast of heat and light, causing the affected section to boil away. It had not been an intentional attack but rather the consequence of his will slipping due to the shock.

  "You…" Anderson snarled, forming an even bigger fireball. "Who are you? Who are you?!"

  The masked man chuckled. "Just a man with a knack for knowing stuff he should not," he said. "No need to worry, though. I have no interest in a small order made up of children. Even I am not that evil. No, I just wanted to do a little spying on what the DSP would be sending, which seems fair enough after the spying they did on us, wouldn't you agree?" Without awaiting an answer, the masked man looked over at the horizon. "Well, I think this was enough fighting to do by myself. I'm going back to my hideout. You are free to follow me if you want to check how we have prepared for you."

  The three remaining tendrils tensed and immediately began striding away into the distance.

  The bearded sorcerer did not pursue; instead, he went for his cellphone. Without having to look, he selected his contact at the DSP, one of only three he had, alongside Blair's and Enola's, and made a call that was answered immediately.

  "Calum?" came a female voice. "Did you find it?"

  "No," the man said, shaking his head. "There's been a problem, Barbara. They have rendered my tracking method useless, and… they were expecting me."

  "Expecting you?" Barbara asked after a moment of silence. "How so?"

  "The man who intercepted me knew about my order, name, and everything. And he knew that the DSP sent me here and about our deal."

  Another moment of silence, broken by a tired groan. "Then these guys have become a priority. A very big fucking priority. We have to go with plan B."

  Calum's eyes shot open. "No," he said. "Barbara, I cannot send one of my children to pursue these guys when they know they are being pursued. I would be exposing them to…"

  "Unspeakable danger, I know. Look, I'm not telling you to send a team to crack down on them, just a team to locate them. The fae girl and the kid with the blue aura, plus one other for extra protection. Just tell them to get close enough to them, as in in the same city, and then call you. They won't even see the guys."

  "Barbara, I can't…"

  "It is the only way, Calum," the woman cut in. "Look, that girl and that boy might be the only reliable way to locate those bastards we have, and we have to take them down if they have a way to get info from us… info about your order. That guy knew your order's name and our land-lending deal. What tells you he doesn't know where it is?"

  A feeling like needles poking out his gut overtook the sorcerer, who had to lean forward to try to alleviate it. "I'll… go back to the order," he said. "Make a team; tell them to locate the Aura. You prepare every contact in your list."

  "I will, Calum," Barbara said. "Good luck."

  "Thanks," he answered detachedly, before hanging up.

  As he made his way back to the street, he thought about Barbara's words.

  The fae girl and the kid with the blue aura, plus one other for extra protection.

  In his mind, that 'other' could only be one. His order didn't exactly have a surplus of warriors, being essentially an orphanage, so his options were limited. But, even if every member had been a competent fighter in their own right, his choice still wouldn't change, as he couldn't picture any ordinary warrior matching the raw zeal of Kurt. Or Kurt letting Mila go on a potentially dangerous cross-country quest without him to protect her.

  Well, Calum thought as he walked, at least I'll be giving him a good birthday surprise