A Plague of Shadows

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

THE GREY SHAPE, MORE a coalescence of shadows than a creature of flesh, clung to the wall. Hovering somewhere between solid and vapour, he flowed along, cloaking himself in the pools of darkness. Rain was not his friend. Despite being a ghost of his former self, the puddles betrayed his passing. The fat drops didn't know whether to swerve around the void he created in the night or to try to pass through it. If only he had his rightful strength, the weather would have done as he commanded.

Angelos had tried to order the raindrops away from him, but they hadn't listened. The voice he'd used to mesmerize the weak-minded Luca was abandoning him; already it was hoarse, little more than a whisper, and becoming more gravelly every passing hour. In his present state, he could barely charm a rat, let alone a gargoyle or a golem or a sacrificial lamb. He struggled to keep in check the various creatures he'd called upon in Night's name, and hadn't yet been able to claim a body for his own. How was he supposed to pursue the life and death task she'd set for him, without having her powers? A tingle of pain coursed through him at the thought of what failure would mean, threatening to dissipate his nebulous form into the night.

He let out a low growl. Words had power in and of themselves; they could be weapons. When he could speak the proper words, in the right intonation, people had no choice but to listen. He needed to act soon, before the voice Night had given him was gone completely, leaving him with little power and no chance of success.

Angelos snarled. He needed flesh, a physical form so the words would reverberate with power. Which meant he had to find both a voice to steal and a body to house it in.

He tested the edges of the shadows that enveloped him, probing them, pushing them outward ever so slightly until one ran into the next, allowing him to cross the chasm of light. Once across, he followed the shadows again, turning into an alley overhung with fire escapes and air conditioning units, creating a surfeit of shade from the taunting moonlight and judgmental stars.

He sighed, letting go of the tension caused by the insufferable light. A body would help protect him from that too.

He slid along the brick wall. As he approached the end, he realized that his path of shadows might have led him falsely. The alley opened onto a large square. Opposite, a church spire rose behind a cage of scaffolding.

The oppressive building was illuminated by an obnoxious number of lights, as was the square in front of it, even though it was empty at this time of night. He tried to warp the darkness around himself, hoping to ease his passage to the other side, and allow him to skirt the holy ground. Pulling the threads of his being together, he stepped one foot out of the alleyway.

"The Night comes."

Angelos froze. His gaze swivelled to his left, scanning for the source of the words. A pile of rags and newspapers, clumped against the wall beside him, shifted in the stillness.

"The Messenger heralds the Darkfall."

He turned full-on to the owner of the voice that spoke words so near the mark. The jumble papers morphed into a form: an old man swathed in tattered clothes under a blanket of cardboard and newspaper. Angelos held his breath as he appraised the man, pulling shadows to himself. The man smelled of stale sweat and must, the eternal scent of the homeless and destitute. He waved his hands, clad in a surprisingly decent pair of gloves, moving them through the air in random motions as he continued to mutter.

"Where's that darned cat?" The man moved his hands around, patting his pile of cardboard. "Ah, right, I told her to hunt. She's hungry, even though she doesn't complain." The homeless bum frowned. "I promised to take care of her, so I sent her away. No food today. And coffee's not for cats." The man glanced through the air, his eyes passing over the shadow. "And best she's not here when Night comes."

The man waved towards the church, its facade lit by floodlights. "And the night is not safe for man, but maybe for beast."

A crazy old man. Angelos sighed, releasing tension he hadn't realized he was holding. The man's gaze swivelled towards where he lurked, his nebulous form pressed against the wall.

"Night comes, but I can see shadows in the darkness. Night will fall, but not before her Messenger."

Angelos stiffened again, and took a silent, sidling step towards the man, ignoring the pain caused by the streetlight.

"The blade is found. The vault cracks. But Night is fickle," the man said, looking up at the silver and grey clouds. "She may find a new voice for a new world."

Angelos dared another step closer. The man stilled, then turned to dig around in a bag beside him, as if he had stopped ranting and was looking for something. But Angelos knew better.

"Are you crazy?" he said, his voice rasping in his ragged throat. "Or prescient?"

The man stopped digging in his bag and looked at a space a few inches in front of Angelos. "I hear the Herald, but I heed it not," the man said, returning his attention to his bag.

"But do you fear me?" Angelos asked. "As long as you fear me, I don't care if you listen."

The man stilled and looked forward. "It is a false instrument that Night plays falsely."

"What riddles do you speak, old man?"

"The vault of hell is cracked, but the gates are barred. The heart of the sun is hidden." The man shook his head. "Yet the message is heard by beast wide and far."

"Enough," Angelos hissed, taking another large step so he loomed over the man.

"Night falls, but the Herald's voice is weak." The man tilted his head up and looked right at where Angelos stood, but his eyes didn't focus. "Will the day break before the prison of Night is unlocked?"

Angelos looked down his nose at the old man. Under the dirty clothes and piles of newspaper, a strong heart still beat. He could see the young man that this old man used to be: broad shoulders, strong jaw, deep voice. He could steal that voice at least, if not the decrepit flesh.

"You're as good a sacrifice as any, I suppose." The grey ghost descended on the man, lacerating exposed flesh. The man barely had a chance to call out, a formless petition to life, and there was no one around to hear.

A slurping sound squelched out from the pair, then Angelos stood up. He felt a fullness, a flush. Looking at his hands, they were slightly more opaque, though he could still see the cobblestones through them. He tried a simple spell, to shatter the street light, but nothing happened. It was not enough. He needed to cloak himself in flesh to give his voice power, and this one life had not been enough. He was still a shadow of his former being. Not that he was entirely disappointed, looking down at the pale form of the old beggar man, whose wide, empty eyes stared back.

"I wouldn't have wanted to be you."

A clang sounded over his shoulder, and Angelos spun around, pressing himself against the wall beside the body.

"Hullo?" A man in a black shirt and white collar scanned the square from the doorway of a small building next to the church. But no hue and cry followed.

Angelos knew that all the man saw when his gaze swept over him was a pile of newspaper under an extra heavy overhang. A puddle of darkness in a pool of shadows.