C1 The Evil powers

The Evil powers

Michelle Kirkland recited the ancient words revealed to her in her vision, her voice a hushed, frantic whisper as she leaned over the sick girl who was tossed restlessly in the throes of a raging fever. Not that Mishella had to bother to speak the words aloud. She needed only to think of them to serve her purpose. But speaking each powerful phrase, feeling each syllable on her lips, straightened her in a small way, and she needed strength if she intended to see Stacey, her stepsister, survive.

She rested her hand on Stacey's forehead. A blazing heat singed her fingers. With every word Michelle murmured, the sensation intensified, until she felt the bumbling of skin at her fingertips and the almost unbearable throbbing.

Please! She screamed silently, the agony rushing up her arm, surging through her body, expanding in her chest until each breath took great effort.

She concentrated on speaking the words, which caught in her throat until she felt herself choking. Pull away, a voice commanded, only she knew she couldn't. Not until the sun vanished over the horizon. Then and only then would the second touch be complete.

Determined, she fixed her teary gaze on the window. Staring past the trees and overgrown pasture, she concentrated on the orange blaze that lingered in the distance.

Hurry! As if sensing her haste, the fiery ball inched lower, but not quickly enough.

She heard the slam of the front door first, like a loud clap of thunder breaking open the still quiet of dusk. Then each door throughout the house opened and closed in succession, the loud bang causing her to flinch as they moved closer, down the hall towards her.

Closer... Closer...

The bedroom door crashed open, and Mishella shut her eyes to the sight. Then she tried to shut her mind to the present.

Over and over, she recited the words, pain, and fear be damned, as she battled for power-the power of life.

If only she wasn't a novice with the special powers that had been born to her. The visions showed her when and how to administer the touch, yet she still didn't fully understand the power. All she knew was a terrifying dread that felt clear to her bones since the moment she dared to use it.

Evil. The power came from an evil she didn't know how to fight. An evil she hadn't wanted to rouse in the first place, but she had little choice. And now that evil had finally come to take his power back. Only she couldn't let him have it. Not yet.

A frigid draft of air surrounded Mishella. Icy fingers played up her spine, down her arms and legs, until goosebumps covered her from head to toe, except her right hand. Had she opened her eyes, she knew she would have seen smoke rising from the point where her palm contacted the sick girl. The smell burned her nostrils and throat. Tears seeped past her clamped eyelids to slide down her face.

Her stepsister's faint, fever-induced cries now mingled with demonic growls, low, throaty animal sounds which taunted Mishella, eager to break her concentration and force her to lose the touch.

No! You can't. She has only you, Michelle. You are her only hope. Her only chance to live.

Michelle squeezed her eyes tighter and recited the ancient prayers again.

Against the backdrop of her closed eyelids, she saw a spark. A split second later, fiery flames lit the blackness. An agonized scream pierced her ears. Her voice? It couldn't be. She still mouthed the prayer, her lips forming each word with a steady rhythm that remained unbroken.

Amid the blaze, a woman's writing form materialized. Her body was scorched from the fire, her expression anguished. Only her eyes remained distinct, the rest of her consumed by the flames.

"Michelle!" She cried, her blue eyes wide, pleading.

"Remember, Michelle. Three times to touch, to heal, to live.

You must touch her three different times, each of the exact moments that the sun touches the west. Three moons... Three touches." As she spoke, three bloody gashes appeared on her cheek. Three. "Remember, Michelle. Remember and beware!"

Then the blue-eyed woman dissolved and another form appeared. A man, also bearing three gashes on his face. The fire licked at his dark features, searing his flesh, but he didn't scream or beg. He seemed to delight in the blaze. The brilliant glow of his eyes, intense like the flames surrounding him, didn't fade. The fire seemed to fuel its potency. The more he burned, the brighter his gaze glowed.

"Michelle," he called, his voice low, beckoning, tormenting. "You will not escape me. You will burn with me, for its writing. Now that you have used your power, I will find you. I have found you." He laughed, his face distorted of flames and melting flesh.

"No!" She whispered urgently, willing the vision away. The flames dissipated. The man vanished, yet the coldness remained, and she knew that whether or not she could see him, he remained-The embodiment of evil. The demon set on seeking and destroying her.

She recited the words again. "Darkness awaits, beckoning to me -"

"Traitor!" his voice growled in her ears. A rush cold of air lashed at her.

"I must resist, no darkness can dwell."

The window shattered as if hit by a giant fist. Shards of glass flew at her. She lowered her head to protect her face. Grabbing Stacey's hand, she leaned closer to form a shield with her body. Pieces of glass rained down on her, pricking at her flesh through her thick sweater.

"Be gone," She commanded, the drawing starting from the knowledge that she had to save the frail girl. That was why she'd broken her vow, used her power, and unleashed the darkness. Only to secure an innocent life. "Gone, gone, gone."

Suddenly the cold air warmed. The door creaked shut. Silence ensued, interrupted only by the pounding of Mishella's own heart and her rapid breathing. She slumped forward, resting her cheek against the woolen blanket that covered Stacey. For a brief moment, she wondered if she had won.

"Michelle?"

Michelle heard the faint murmur of her name and glanced up into the glistening eyes of her fourteen-year-old stepsister.

"It's all right, Mishella," Stacey whispered through cracked lips. She touched a weak hand to Mishella's tear-streaked face.

"How do you feel?" Michelle asked, placing her hand over her stepsister's and entwining their fingers.

"Cooler," the girl whispered, the corners of her mouth hinting at a smile. "You?"

"Don't worry about me," Michelle replied. She glanced at the angry red flesh of her right palm. Careful not to let Stacey see it, Mishella slipped her hand beneath the edge of the blanket.

Stacey had no memory of the first touch, and Mishella was sure she would be spared any recollection of this one, as well. The fever heightened during the touch, rendering Stacey unconscious for the few moments that Mishella used the power.

Michelle took a deep breath, her hand throbbing, her back stinging. She knew that when she lifted her sweater, she would find endless scrapes and cuts from the glass. But the suffering was a small price to pay when Stacey's life hung in the balance.