“Shit! Bloody hell!” Sir Henry swore angrily when the flames reached his fingers, burning him. He flung the blazing satchel to the street. It landed with a metallic clatter. The pewter tankard that had been inside the satchel clattered onto the cobblestones. Henry risked burnt fingers to snatch it out of the flames. He was about to hide the tankard beneath his greatcoat, then realized it was on fire.
Tearing off the great coat, Henry looked up at the top of the warehouse and saw what appeared to be two fiends from Hell staring down at him. “Demons with glowing orange eyes shooting balls of green fire.” Sir Henry muttered an apology to Mr. Sloan for not believing him as he searched for cover. Of course, there was none. Not a barrel, not a recessed doorway, nothing. Eiddwen had chosen the site for the ambush well. Henry drew his pistol. Beside him, Father Jacob was waving his hands, surrounding himself with blue light.
“Here! With me!” Father Jacob shouted, motioning to Sir Henry.
If there was one man Sir Henry was glad to have at his back during a fight with the forces of Hell, it would be Jacob Northrup. Henry had gone up against the priest enough times to know his worth. Keeping hold of the pewter tankard, Henry dove behind the protective shield of the blue light as another blast of green fire flew from the rooftop.
The fireball hit the blue glowing shield with a concussive force that left Henry half-blind, dazed, with ears ringing, but otherwise not injured. The same could not be said of Father Jacob. He was doubled over, gasping in pain. Henry noted that the blue light no longer glowed quite as brightly.
“Who are these fiends?” Henry demanded.
“I was going to ask you the same question,” Father Jacob gasped.
Henry grunted. “So that is why you saved my life?”
“All life is precious in the eyes of God,” said Father Jacob and he added, with the hint of a smile, “Even that of the snake.”
Sir Henry drew his pistol and searched for a target on the rooftop, but the demons were well out of range. He could see them at work up there, perhaps reloading their infernal weapon.
“I’m going to try to reach Sir Ander,” said Father Jacob, straightening. “I must counteract the wraith’s spell, or she will kill him.”
“I’ll cover you,” Henry offered.
Father Jacob gave a grim chuckle. “How many times have you tried to kill me? I lost count at six.”
“The enemy of my enemy… all that rot,” said Sir Henry.
Father Jacob shook his head, still skeptical, but he didn’t have much choice if he wanted to save the knight. As the priest prepared to make a run for the spellbound knight, Henry was at his back.
“Wait!” Henry yelled.
Another fireball sizzled down from the roof and slanted off the blue glowing shield. The blast shook the ground, cracking the paving stones. Father Jacob cried out, staggered and almost fell. Henry steadied the priest with his hand. The blue glow was definitely fading.
“How long can you keep this up?” Henry asked.
“Not long, I’m afraid,” said Father Jacob, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his cassock.
“That last blast took out the wraith, at least,” Sir Henry observed.
“So it did,” said Father Jacob with interest. “Though I don’t think it was meant to.”
The wraith had vanished. Henry glanced at the Warlock. The young man had emerged from the corner of the building and was shouting angrily at those on the roof.
The two demons behind their cannon paid no heed. They were taking aim, and Henry braced himself for the next attack. Green fire burst on the blue shield. The blue light vanished. Father Jacob cried out, fell to the street, and lay there, moaning.
The blast knocked Henry off his feet and left him with an unpleasant buzzing sound in his ears. His knees were bruised and bleeding. He had dropped the tankard, but he was still clutching the pistol. His hand was covered in blood where a sharp edge on the trigger had cut deeply into the fleshy part of his palm. He looked over at the priest. Father Jacob lay unmoving, either unconscious or dead.
“Thank you for saving my life, Jacob,” Henry said, rising to his feet. “Sorry I can’t return the favor.”
He grabbed the pewter tankard, cast a glance at the rooftop, and began running.
The Warlock was still standing at the end of the street, peering out from behind the corner of a building with some intention of attempting to recast his spell. Tendrils of energy curled from his hands, sparking and shining. But the tendrils were going nowhere and he was growing frustrated. Engrossed in his magic, he did not see Sir Henry. The Warlock’s two demon bodyguards saw him, however. They stepped out from behind the building.
Henry swore and skidded to a halt and raised his hands-one holding the tankard, the other the pistol. This was his first close look at the demons. Sir Henry stared entranced at their hideous faces, the orange-glowing eyes, the leather armor that covered them from head to toe. He had to use all his considerable self-control to drag his attention back to the Warlock.
“I need to talk to Eiddwen!” Henry called. “I have vital information! Tell these fiends to let me pass.”
“Eiddwen would like to talk to you,” the Warlock said. He was obviously frustrated, unable to understand why his magic wasn’t working. He glanced at the demons. “Seize him. Take him alive.”
The two demons had other ideas, apparently. They lifted some sort of cannon-type weapons and aimed them at Henry. Henry hurled the tankard at one demon and shot the other. One demon went down. The other demon fired. The green blast hit the tankard and seemed to evaporate. The demon began to reload.
“Duck, sir!” a deep voice shouted from behind.
Henry dropped to the ground and hugged the cobblestones. He heard a boom and the hiss of a bullet whizzing past. The demon toppled over backward, half its head blown off. Henry glanced around to see a big man dressed like a mercenary lowering a smoking musket.
Henry did not stop to thank his benefactor. He was on his feet before the echoes of the blast had faded away, grabbing the tankard that had save his life, and leaving the useless pistol in the street. Drawing the stowaway gun he had stashed in his belt, he aimed it at the young man.
The Warlock smiled, almost laughing. He wiggled his blood-covered fingers. His lips moved. Tendrils of magic snaked out toward Henry. He was going to become the victim of another wraith unless he acted quickly.
The Warlock wore a long blue leather coat that covered him from head to toe and fairly crackled with magical energy. His head was protected by a wide-brimmed leather hat, adorned with intertwining sigils. Bullets fired at him from the small gun did little damage. The Warlock was amused, confident, looking forward to watching his wraith envelop Henry in her lethal grip.
“Balls!” said Henry, and he shot the young man in the foot.
The magical tendrils disappeared. The wraith wavered and dissolved. The young man stared in disbelief at the blood seeping out from his boot onto the pavement.
“Next time, fool, remember to protect your boots,” Henry said.
He drew his last pistol, another stowaway gun, snatched off the Warlock’s protective hat, and placed the barrel on the young man’s temple.
The Warlock’s face flushed an ugly red spotted with white. He was quivering, not with fear, but with constrained fury. On the ground behind the Warlock was a body of a young woman. Her throat had been slit from ear to ear. Her mouth gaped, her eyes stared at nothing. Henry recognized her-the wraith. She had been the blood sacrifice. He was thankful he was carrying the gun.
Henry heard more explosions and saw flashes of green fire. Smoke filled the street and he could not see what had become of his old foe, Jacob Northrop. Henry assumed the priest was dead, but he didn’t count on it. Father Northrop had a most annoying habit of coming back from the grave.