Chapter XXXV

Iris crossed her arms, then let them fall by her side, then crossed them again. The beacon she had mad was sitting on the ground on the other side of the garage, and she was standing next to one of the doors.

It was opened, something that had taken her an embarrassingly long time to figure out. The door could be opened with a machine, but there were chains that could be cranked manually. She hadn’t liked doing that. Her hands felt a little gross covered in oil and grease and whatever else.

But it did allow her to set the pace on things the way she wanted, so there was that.

Iris shifted her weight from one leg to another. How long were those daemons going to take? She was burning magic here, waiting. And time. She had some things to study for, items to make and enchant. A large part of her wanted to be back home, microwaving lunch and wearing sweatpants instead of enough magical gear to lay waste to a city block.

A very small, humble city block. She wasn’t at the level of the old Ulvent warriors of the past, her ancestors. Not yet.

It irked her that she had met someone her own age who knew about magic for the first time, and that that same person was in some tiny ways better than her. Swearing an oath to magic, already? “Tsk,” she muttered.

She was so distracted by her own irritation that she almost jumped when there was motion just outside of the garage. Movement, visible through dirtied old windows. She moved slightly to the side, a hand rising up to the chain-wrapped crank holding the door in place. 

A shadow shifted, and there was a ruffle of feathers, then something large and avian moved into the entrance. She couldn’t quite see it well, but she did find herself tensing as its big head swayed from side to side. Had it caught the scent of her? Or was it simply looking for the beacon? 

The device was on the far end of the garage, left atop a folding step-stool she had discovered laying on the ground.

The daemon stepped into the room.

Iris punched.

Not at the daemon, but at the mechanism holding the door closed. Chains rattled as they loosened, and the daemon’s head whipped up the ceiling a moment before the garage door crashed down with a loud clanging, cutting off the mid-day breeze and much of the sunlight.

In her other hand, she held three small clay totems. She grabbed the magic in the air around her and pulled it into all three, dividing it as evenly as she could while she stepped to the side and away from the wall.

The daemon turned and glared at her. A vulture? It was tall, black feathered, with a skinny neck and long, cruel beak designed for ripping tough flesh from bone. “What is this?” the daemon hissed.

“A trap,” Iris replied.

She closed her hand around the totems, crushing the baked clay into dust. Three spells were instantly layered over her. Toughened Skin, Heightened Senses, Greater Strength. Basic ‘buffs’ but they’d help in any fight. 

“Did you want to exchange names, before we begin this?” she asked.

The vulture laughed, a cackling, disturbing sound that had the hairs on the back of her neck rising. “Daemon Art: Feather Strike.”

Iris only had a moment to think before she leapt to the side. Her martial arts practice came in clutch, letting her roll as her shoulder hit the ground so that she came up on her feet and adopted a fighting stance. “I suppose not, then,” she said. “Honourless, but not unexpected.”

She glanced back, just for a moment. There were a half-dozen holes punched into the far wall, each one with a blackened feather sticking out of it. The feathers were already fading, whatever magic created them wearing off.

The vulture cackled some more, then stretched out its wings. She noticed something. A large ‘2’ tattooed on the monster’s neck skin. 

So, not the strongest of the Master’s lieutenants, but not far from it. There was a kernel of something foul in her stomach at the thought. She crushed it, planted her feet, then pulled magic out of the air.

Half of that went into her costume, her raiment. She was wearing clothes over it, of course, but that didn’t prevent its magic from reinforcing the clothes and herself.

The rest went into her brass knuckles. 

“Oh, so you are a wizardling,” the vulture said.

“Tsk!” she hissed before launching herself across the room. She was a good runner, the distance wasn’t far, and the ground had this nice, slightly gritty, slightly sandy texture to it from all the wear and the dust. When she stopped, it was to skid forwards, which she turned into a spin, putting all of her weight into a powerful right hook.

The vulture brought a wing up. “Wing Shield!”

An incomplete casting! 

“Die!” she cried out. She didn’t need any casting. Hers was done over weeks and months, over days poured into carving and painting and filling her ulvex items with power. Her fist rocked out and crashed into the bird’s wing.

There was an instant response, her wrist and arm stinging from the impact even if her form was nearly perfect. 

The wing buckled. It was as though someone had just struck a thin sheet of tin with a baseball bat. 

The vulture daemon squawked as it was sent skidding back, taloned feet trying to find purchase on the concrete floor.

Iris knew that this fight was won she had to win quickly. If the third ranked lieutenant was an Avowed daemon, then this one was probably the same. Her power wasn’t one that would weaken over time, exactly. She wasn’t a wizard that would be spent after a few spells. But her gear would wear down. It could only channel so much. She was going to be running this near her maximum the entire time, but her buffs would run out.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a stack of playing tarot-like cards. Two dozen in all. Her thumb found its place in the centre of one of them. Magic filled the card, and she flicked it out with practiced expertise.

Her second punch connected with the card in mid-air, and the face of The Fool burned as the card was consumed. 

Her fist connected again, then she was sent flying back as the vulture swung his wing out, shoving her back with a following gust of wind that kicked up dust.

She coughed, then covered her mouth and blinked fast to keep her eyes on the enemy. 

Its wing now had a marking on it. A glowing imprint of The Fool. She grinned. “Like it?” she asked. “A few more, and you’ll be done for.”

“Fool,” the vulture said. It flapped its wings to gain some distance, then its eyes went wide and it shifted awkwardly as it suddenly found its weight thrown off. 

“A Fool is recklessly buoyant,” she replied. “Kind of like this one moron I’ve met recently, actually.”

“Deamon Art: Black Folds of the Death Seeker.”

She blinked. She had no idea what that could mean, but when she felt magic stirring behind her, she dodged it out of instinct.

That proved to be the right thing to do. The daemon came screaming out of the shadows of the ceiling, talons clawing at her back.

She winced as a single long furrow was dug into her upper shoulder, from nearly mid-back to clavicle. It didn’t cut all the way through her raiment, her top was magically reinforced, and she had put a lot of effort into crafting it.

It totally ruined her coat, however.

Turning, she glanced over at the daemon only to see the one she’d been staring at waver and disappear.

A clone? 

“Daemon Art: Caw of the Nearing Dead!”

The vulture was above, spinning across the small room. It opened its beak and let out a shriek that had her slapping her hands over her ears. 

Sure, it was loud, but she very quickly realized that it wasn’t the sound that was dangerous. It was the layers of magic woven into it. She almost let her arms fall, almost crouched down and slid out of her fighting stance.

What was the point, even? She’d never be able to fight a daemon this strong on her own. She hadn’t won against the last. 

Maybe she could run? But would she even make it out? Might as well lay down and let the thing take her. 

She shook her head. The thoughts weren’t her own. Or they were, but they were being amplified. She recognized the mind magic, if only tangentially. She had a few mental buffs that she may or may not have used on herself before some tests that felt similar. Similar in the way that a roaring fire felt like a candle.

“You’re starting to piss me off!” she shouted.

The culture’s cry was joined by a cackle.

When it passed overhead, she flung her arm out, and even as it tried to dodge, the too-small garage forced it to remain in the path of her next card. 

It touched it in the chest, and she grinned as the magic took hold. 

Those cards had taken days to paint, and each one burned away on use, but... well, it wasn’t all bad.

“The World. I hope you like that spell,” she said.

The vulture spun around on itself and crashed down in a rought landing just ahead of her, cawing the entire time as the card’s magic forced it to continue casting the same spell. 

It cut itself off suddenly, but she could tell that its voice was a little more hoarse as it cussed her out.

Good. she could win this! 

***