Ex-Communication by Peter Clines (love story books to read .txt) 📕

The huge officer was a step behind her. “I’m sorry, ma’am, what was that?”

“You heard me, Captain. Zzzap?”

His voice echoed back over their radios. “What’s up?”

“We are switching to battery power. Meet me on the South Wall at Larchmont in nine minutes.”

“Got it.”

Her pace increased. Freedom found himself shifting to a slight jog to keep up with the woman. “Madelyn,” she said, “I believe we will have use of your abilities. Under no circumstances are you to hand the sword to anyone until I tell you otherwise. Guard it with your life.”

“Okay.”

“Ma’am,” said Freedom. “What’s going on?”

Stealth stopped and spun on her heel. “Maxwell’s illogical statements about magic and an afterlife distracted me from a clear line of reasoning. Once I accepted them as fact, his lie was obvious.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Maxwell claims he has been here for just under a year and a half as a spirit,” said the cloaked woman. “Long enough to say he has seen every tattoo on every resident of the Mount.”

Freedom glanced at Madelyn. “You think she’s right about the sword?

“Not the sword,” said Stealth. Her masked face turned to him inside the hood. “After eighteen months, how could he not have known Regenerator was our prisoner?”

St. George leaped forward, his weapon raised. He’d never used a sword before, but he figured between the cutting edge and his strength he could do a fair amount of damage with one.

He’d forgotten how fast the demon was. It had been fast as an ex. It was a blur now. The sword came down and Cairax was three yards away.

The monster’s tail lashed out and parried the blade, almost knocking it out of his hand. St. George tightened his grip and felt the hilt crumple under his fingertips. He swung again, but the sword sliced air. The demon was behind him.

It laughed.

St. George spun and let the weapon swing wide. Cairax sidestepped, this time moving slow enough for him to see how easy it was. The demon glared down at him and its tail shot forward like a striking rattlesnake. It shot past his guard to punch him in the chest. The world blurred and the last panes of the pet store’s plate glass exploded against his back. He managed to hold on to the sword.

Behind the demon, Max leaped from the rooftop and drifted toward the ground. Clouds of light billowed off his hands like steam. His lips were moving, but St. George couldn’t hear the words.

Cairax Murrain stalked forward and St. George threw himself at it. He thought of every Conan and Beastmaster movie he’d watched as a teenager and brought the sword down with a roar. The demon put up its arm and the blade bit into the flesh. It felt like cutting into a tire. The hero pulled back and swung the blade again. It cut into the meat of Cairax’s forearm and hit a bone that could’ve been solid rock.

Something snapped in the sword’s handle. St. George felt the twang of breaking metal and the blade rattled against the guard. He pulled his arm back and the sword fell apart in his hands. The pommel and guard dropped away. The blade tipped and fell back over his shoulder. They all clattered on the pavement.

He stood there for a moment holding the hollow hilt.

The demon let out a deep laugh. “You face me with toys, little hero?” it rumbled. “You dishonor your namesake.”

There was a blur of motion, a hot rush of pain, and St. George was hurtling through the pet store. He shredded his way through two sets of shelves, smashed some glass terrariums, and plowed into a checkout counter. He hit the wall, felt the cinder blocks crack, and dropped to the floor. His chest was wet, and a few spots of blood spread across his tattered shirt.

The floor was trembling, like a low-level earthquake, and by the time he recognized the rhythmic tremor as footsteps Cairax had grabbed him by the head and hurled him back out into the street. He struck the rear of a car. The bumper wrapped around him, the trunk collapsed, glass shattered, and St. George found himself in the backseat.

The ground shook again. He pushed himself free of the wreckage. He grabbed the loose bumper and swung it like a bat. It hit Cairax in the side of the head with a shriek of metal on bone, tore in half, and sent the demon stumbling back. St. George leaped into the air, pulled back his fist—

—and plunged back to the ground. He hit hard, and the confusion of it dropped him to his knees. He tried to push off, to get himself moving again, and the ground pressed up against him. His body was too heavy to move. His head settled against the ground and he heard Cairax Murrain moving behind him. It was chuckling.

Max stepped into his line of sight. The sorcerer pressed his palms hard against each other, his fingers tickling his wrists. A crackle of static surrounded his hands, like the St. Elmo’s fire that marked doomed ships.

“Told you to watch your back,” said Max. He walked over to stand by the demon. “You’re not going to believe me, but I’m really sorry it had to go down like this.”

MY FIRST THOUGHT is “No.”

Just “No” over and over again. I end up shouting it. Not that anyone can hear me. When you’re dead, people tend to ignore you.

Of course, I’m not really thinking or shouting. I have no language in this state. Barely have consciousness. Just enough to know how screwed I am. The image of Burgess Meredith with broken glasses appears and vanishes before I can understand why it’s relevant.

This can’t be happening. It’s stupid. It’s ridiculously stupid. I planned for everything. Broken wards. Magical interference. Demonic vassals. I even took precautions against my death. Only an amateur wouldn’t.

I didn’t think about undeath, though. I mean, why would