Black Knight by Christopher Pike
Or else Cleo did before I was even brought here.
The tree line is a mile from the river. Reaching it, we find the jungle thick but not as impenetrable as in the valley where we landed. There are patches of open meadows and the trees themselves seem less tropical. I finally spot a few I’m able to identify: ferns, oaks, maples. I find it odd that the plant life should change so radically from one side of the river to the next.
We hike two miles down the sloping valley and are almost opposite our home base—which is high on the other side of the river—when I see two white flashes deep in the trees. They come from behind but in the blink of an eye they’re in front of us—moving faster than any witch I’ve ever seen, not making a sound.
Then they vanish, only to reappear as bobs of white even deeper in the jungle. As best I can tell, we’re seeing the heads of two albinos. Their white skin seems to react to the moonlight, creating an eerie aura.
Marc’s stunned. “How do they move so fast? They’re like ghosts.”
“They’re not ghosts,” Ora says solemnly, glancing at me. Marc notes how he keeps looking to me.
“Then what are they?” Marc demands.
“Quiet!” Shira warns. “They’re stalking us.”
“Then let’s stalk them,” Ora says, again looking to me for approval.
I nod. “Let’s give it a try.”
Ora lights his torch and we follow him as he plunges into the trees. The “ghosts” shift once more to our left, toward our original course, toward the sea. Suddenly there are three, instead of two, white bobbing orbs. They keep their distance but don’t dash away.
Yet they keep us running; we’re not given a chance to catch our breath. After fifteen minutes of chasing them, Marc signals he has to stop and rest. Shira, too, is winded; she sags against a tree. And the burning torch shows the sweat glistening on Ora’s strong face.
“We should stop,” Ora says.
“You’re the one who wanted to go after them,” Marc gasps.
“They’re playing with us,” Ora says. “Leading us.”
Shira is tense. “Into a trap?”
Ora nods and again looks to me. “What should we do?”
I point in the direction of the now four white heads that can be glimpsed through the woods. “They’re clearly waiting for us to follow them. It’s like they’re taunting us. It could be a trap, but we hiked all this way to learn something and so far . . .”
I let my voice trail off. The time has come, I realize. I can’t keep my secret hidden forever, not and protect the others. I say the words that I know I’ll never be able to take back.
“Let me go on alone,” I say.
Ora hesitates. “That might be best.”
“What?” Marc cries. “Are you insane? We don’t know a damn thing about who they are. For all we know they’re bloodsucking vampires. If they get their hands on you they could rip you to shreds.”
I put a hand on Marc’s shoulder and try to speak in a calm tone. “Trust me, it’s better if I go alone. I’ll be all right.”
Marc drops his spears and grabs my arm roughly and pulls me toward him. “No, no way! You’re losing it, Jessie.”
“For once I must agree with Marc,” Shira says.
I let Marc hold on to me but speak to both of them. “I haven’t been honest with you guys. I know more about this Field than I let on. I know why we’re here and I have an idea who organized it. But right now it will take too long to explain everything I want to. For now I need you to just accept that I can handle myself when it comes to these creatures. I’m faster than a normal person, stronger. Ora can vouch that I’m telling the truth.”
Ora nods. “I’ve seen what Jessie can do. We should let her go on ahead.”
Marc cannot take his eyes off me, or his hand. It’s like he’s seeing me for the first time and recognizing me from long ago—both at the same time.
“You really did see me in the trunk of Silvia’s car,” he gasps. “How?”
“I’m a witch,” I say.
“Huh?”
I lean over and kiss his cheek, carefully removing his fingers from my arm. “I’ll tell you everything before the night is through. I promise.”
That’s it—that’s all I tell him. Without another word, Ora hands me his torch and I set off after the four ghosts. My exit is abrupt, blindingly fast, enough to shock both Marc and Shira. I hear their startled gasps trail off behind me.
The forest—it now feels more like a forest than a jungle—suddenly thickens and the moonlight is largely smothered by the branches and leaves. I need the torch to keep from running into trees. It’s hard to hold on to it and the spears at the same time, and catch up with the damn ghosts.
My breath burns, my chest heaves. The tall grass is the worst obstacle. My soaked boots feel caught in quicksand and I imagine I’m running the wrong way up an escalator. My endurance is exceptional—my witch gene for speed and strength sees to that. But I’m still human, basically, I’m not a machine, and I suspect the ghosts are trying to wear me out.
Is it possible they’re not from our world?
Of course they can see me coming. My torch couldn’t be a more brazen beacon. Its flames whip around the branches and my trailing hair as I struggle to increase my pace. But the ghosts are monitoring me—running just fast enough to keep their distance. More and more I believe that I’m being led into a trap.
It comes in an unexpected form. In a ghastly vision.
One moment I’m racing through a tidal green wave and the next I emerge into a meadow. The grass is curiously low, the space is strangely circular; almost as if the area has been prepared ahead of time. Hell, it’s definitely been prepped. In the crackling light of my torch, I see red, red everywhere, a literal carpet of soaked blood and hacked flesh.
The meadow is filled with bodies.
Five bodies. Severed arms, legs, and heads.
“Oh God,” I whisper, and it is a prayer. For those who lie scattered at my feet, for what they’ve suffered, and for my own sake, that I don’t soon join them.
Three of the dead wear brown uniforms, with brown bracelets on their wrists—at least on the two guys whose hands and arms are still attached. Their partner was a girl, with short red hair, freckles, and cute dimples. Her lonely head lies near my foot. None could have been older than myself.
Another body belonged to a girl wearing a dull red uniform with a bright red bracelet. She’s been hacked far beyond death; her killer was clearly a sadist.
Or else he was bent on sending a message.
The fifth body is the least damaged—a blond girl, no more than sixteen, dressed in dark blue. She has only a single chest wound and almost looks as if she’s sleeping. But dead is dead.
The bracelet of the red-haired girl—it’s fallen from her severed arm and I pick it up and examine it, specifically the inside, which I’ve been unable to see on my own bracelet because it’s on so tight. On the portion that would have pressed against her veins, the inside of her wrist, is a narrow oblong shape filled with a smooth dark stone.
I have to assume my own bracelet has the same material inside it. The bracelet is heavier than it should be, and stronger. Setting down my torch and spears, using both hands, I try as hard as I can to break the bracelet. But it remains intact.
What the hell are these bracelets made of?
I still think we’ve been forced to wear them as a form of ID. But I suspect the dark stone, set so close to the veins and blood that flow in and out of our hands, has another purpose. The stone, when I touch it with my fingertips, feels strange. It gives me a chill despite the fact that it isn’t cold.
“Jessica Ralle,” a husky voice says.
He’s just there, no warning, standing in the center of the meadow, dressed in dark blue pants, his chest bare, like his feet, a long bloody stick that re
I don’t need special genes to know he murdered several of those who lie dead at our feet, and the fact that he’s heard my name means he must be a witch. Yet it’s my intuition that warns me of his enormous physical strength and tremendous speed. I feel his power with an unseen sense—it pours off him like invisible radiation.
Yet something in his expression confuses me. He’s no ordinary psychopath. He doesn’t smile and he doesn’t gloat. Perhaps it’s his blue eyes—the centers appear frozen, fixed on a goal only he can comprehend.
He’s a handsome hulk, as tall and muscled as Ora, but tan, with long, curly blond hair that reaches past his shoulders. From his accent, the way he said my name, I can tell he was born in a Scandinavian country. He looks older than me—twenty, maybe twenty-one.
He seems to read my mind. He nods.
“I am called Nordra,” he says.
I pick up my spears and stab the nonburning end of my torch into the ground and leave it there. The moon pours its light into the red-streaked meadow; I can see more than I want or need to see without assistance.
I hear movement behind me; two guys approaching. And behind Nordra, in the trees, I see the silhouettes of two girls. All dressed in dark blue, all carrying machetes, clearly all members of the same team. They come only so close, remaining outside the bloody meadow.
“How do you know my name?” I demand.
“Who has not heard of the witch who slew Syn?” Nordra asks, taking a step closer, his bare foot stepping on a mutilated hand. “Although I must admit I’m surprised. I mean no offense, but I heard so many stories, I expected more.”
The two guys behind me continue to move; they’re obviously positioning themselves. I know they have machetes but what else do they carry? It would be politically correct to let them make the first move, but the blood dripping off Nordra’s machete screams out what a fool’s move that would be. The truth is to fight this monster I need a machete of my own.
Whirling, tossing a single spear from the bundle in my left hand into my free right hand, I take aim and let fly at the guy nearest to me. I don’t aim for his heart but lower, six inches beneath his sternum, and put a ton of velocity on my stick.
The spear pierces him like a hot knife going through a warm loaf of bread and pins him to a tree. Before his buddy can react I strike again, hitting the second guy in the same spot, the tip of the spear once again sinking into the trunk of a tree behind him.
My entire offensive takes a grand total of three seconds, and I’m left with two pinned male butterflies screaming in agony just beyond the edge of the meadow.
I don’t know whether to cringe or celebrate.
I do neither. I don’t have time to be human.
My victims drop their machetes and I hurry and pick up the one closest to me. Turning back to Nordra, I expect to catch him leaping toward me. To my amazement he hasn’t moved an inch, nor has his expression changed. However, his two female helpers have backed up.
The first part of my plan has worked. I have a machete; it feels good in my hand. It reminds me of the staff Syn gave me when I fought Russ. The wood is heavy and hard enough to be petrified.
Just as important—two of Nordra’s people are dying and their cries are scaring the shit out of the rest of his team. If Nordra himself didn’t appear so damn inscrutable I’d feel a whole lot better.
He adds, obviously impressed with my swift work, “But maybe you will deliver,” he says.
“These people you killed, they weren’t witches,” I say, trying to make it sound like a statement of fact, when in reality I’m looking for facts.
“You must know there’s only one in each group.”
I shift to his right, the cries of my victims beginning to die down as they choke on their own blood. The pitiful sounds continue to work their sick magic on Nordra’s backup. His girls keep retreating deeper and deeper into the trees.
“Then why bother with the humans?” I say, taking a casual dip to untie my boots. Slowly, while I circle, I work free of them and kick them off, along with my socks. Barefoot may not be best while hiking miles in the woods, but when it comes to a hand-to-hand fight in a meadow, the extra traction of feeling every blade of grass can make the difference between life and death.
“Why did you kill the two behind you?” he asks.
“They were sneaking up on me.”
Nordra gestures to the bodies. “These ones were in my way.”
“What about me?” I ask.
He speaks seriously and for all the world he sounds sincere. “You and I, we can work together. Dispose of the deadweight assigned to us and then go after the others. It would be faster that way.”
By “others” he means other witches. The deadweight are those who aren’t connected, people like Marc and Ora. Normally I’d think how tragic it is how little regard Nordra has for human life, but from where I’m standing, only a few feet in front of him, his remarks seem perfectly natural. He’s a throwback to a Viking warrior, who lives to kill, nothing else.
“You must know only one can survive,” I say, testing to see whether he’s read the same plaque.
Nordra nods. “In the end there would be only the two of us. Then, and only then, would we fight.”
“Why should I trust you to let it go that far?”
He gestures over his bulky shoulder. “As a sign of good faith I’ll slay what’s left of my group. You will do likewise.” He pauses. “I know you have brought three of them with you.”
“Your offer is tempting. It would simplify matters. But what do you need with me? You’re obviously very strong.”
For once he appears troubled. “The other witches on this island—their powers are strange and unpredictable.”
“How so?”
He shakes his head. “Join me and I’ll tell you what I have seen. Otherwise, we fight, we fight now.”
“Like I said, I’m interested. But I don’t know you.”
He grows impatient. “Surely you’ve heard of Nordra. My word is my bond. Ask any witch, Tar or Lapra.”
“Which are you, Tar or Lapra?”
“I am my own person. But enough talk. Decide.”
“Give me a minute to think.”
For the first time he acts concerned. “There is no time. Viper hunts nearby. I have seen her handiwork and smelled her trail. It will take the two of us to stop her.” He pauses. “Surely you have heard of her?”
“I know Viper. And I’ll help you fight her. But leave the other members of my group out of this.”
“No!” Nordra says viciously. “Humans cannot help. Dispose of yours and you will have my trust. That’s my final offer.”
“Very well,” I reply, sliding the tip of my machete into the ground and transferring a spear into my right hand. “My answer is no.”
Nordra nods. “So be it.”
He attacks; he comes straight at me with his machete raised. I barely have time to get off my spear. He’s ten yards away. I aim for the center of his bare chest and let it fly with six times the speed of the finest fastball in Major League Baseball. In other words, almost as fast as a speeding bullet.
He swats the spear away as if it were a fly.
I reach for my machete; he knows I will reach for it. But it’s a feint. He’s coming too fast. I’ll have time to grab the weapon but not enough time to raise it and block his initial blow. So I let it be and instead rise up on the balls of my feet, spinning like a cyclone on the big toe of my left foot and suddenly lashing out with my right foot. It’s a move Herme, the son of Syn and Kendor, taught me, and it can be devastating if it’s not expected.
Nordra did not expect it.
My heel crashes into his sternum and shatters it.
He staggers ba
Yet somehow, in the space of seconds, Nordra transforms from a pale dying Viking back to a tan Nordic god. He sucks in a deep shuddering breath and I hear his sternum crack—his healed sternum. I finally realize what I’m facing. A witch who doesn’t merely possess the healing gene, but one who can almost instantly heal himself.
I drop my spears and grab the machete. The only reason I was able to plant my foot on his chest is because I fooled him. Already I can see he’s not only stronger than me, he’s faster. Never mind that he’s an experienced killer when I’m just a month free of high school. True, Herme has tutored me on how to defend myself, and Kendor—despite his denial to the contrary—taught Herme, but I’m still a beginner when it comes to fighting other witches.
Nordra knows that. He smiles as he watches me resume my circling. “You should have struck immediately after your kick. That was your chance. You won’t get another.”
“Syn felt the same way,” I taunt.
“Kendor was with you when you faced her.”
“True. But Kendor was dead when I killed her.”
Nordra nods as if he’s going to continue to talk but then he leaps toward me, rising five feet off the ground. Ducking, I do the ridiculous, the least expected. I run under him, slicing at his left knee. My machete makes contact but it’s not a true sword. It’s not sharp enough. I bruise him, badly, but I don’t take off his leg.
Yet I remember his own advice. He heals too fast. I can’t take even a one-second break between blows. Our backs are to each other when I whirl and try to take off his head. But he ducks, I miss him, and my momentum sends me into an out-of-control spin.
I’m too close to him, I know the danger. Yet I have no time to regain my balance. I catch a blurred image of him raising his machete. He’s obviously a master at decapitation and he’s going to take off my head. I can’t get my machete up in time to block the blow. I can’t duck. I can’t do anything !