The five investigators watched as the black bag was secured to the stretcher and hauled into the waiting maw of the ambulance; the spinning red and blue lights atop the vehicle danced along the graffitied walls of the alleyway. Trace Evidence sighed and shook his head.

“Geases. That's another wrinkle in the whole thing."

“Maybe Zecora here could whistle up her ghost, see if she’s willing to talk,” Red commented, giving the zebra a sidelong glance. Zecora returned with a glare that could have curdled milk and sourly muttered something in her native language.

“What’d she say?” Red asked.

“You don’t want to know,” Daring said as the ambulance pulled away. The crowd of onlookers blocking the alleyway mouth reluctantly parted to allow the vehicle to pass, then immediately swarmed in to close the hole as it left, the grim voyeurs craning their necks over one another to try to get a glimpse of the blood painted across the asphalt.

“So we’re back to square one, right?” Red said. “Our one lead is dead and we still don’t know where the fuck Brew is.”

“No,” Daring answered. “She told us where it was going.”

“Come again?” Red asked. “All I heard was a bunch of mumbo jumbo about finding a place for them to worship him.”

“No,” Daring answered. “It wanted to find a place of great power. One that belonged to its father, and it would take its altar for itself.”

“Okay…care to tell us plebians what that means?” Red asked.

“Sunken Church,” Phillip said, his voice cold and flat as a frozen lake. “He’s going to the Sunken Church.”

From a distance, the Church of the Seven Pillars sitting in the small artificial plain with the early afternoon sun shining overhead provided a picturesque scene. But looking closer dispelled the illusion and revealed the truth of the decay. The windows of the stone cottage where the sexton had once lived were broken or coated with dust and weeds were swarming over the grounds. The stained glass window that had once born the welcoming image of Faust with her wings spread open was shattered.

Pasted to the front doors was a paper sign: NO TRESPASSING. Ponyville City Property.

“I didn’t know the place was abandoned,” Red commented.

“The city took over the church last fall as an archaeological site,” Daring explained. “The congregation decided to move to other churches; from what I heard, the Reverend moved to Trottingham. Now it’s tied up in city council.”

Trace pulled up behind them in his car, with Phillip on his bike right after him. As he dismounted and pulled off his helmet, he exchanged a significant look with Daring. Daring’s own heart twisted as flashes of the first time they were here raced across her mind: tracks in the woods where Professor Tree’s car had lain, the blood on the stone stairs, the masked Emissary whispering an incantation that made the darkness of the crypt writhe.

“Right, here’s the deal,” Trace said, drawing his .45 Colt Commander from a holster and securing the straps of the sleeve around his foreleg. “The Agents will do their jobs and sweep the area. The civilians will wait outside until we make sure that it’s all clear.”

“Got ‘roos loose in the top paddock if you think–” Phillip started to protest.

“We brought you and your friends along because you’re a consultant and out of grudging respect for your abilities,” Trace replied evenly, making sure that the magazine was secured to his weapon. “You’re not an agent anymore, and you’re not going in, especially after you’re still healing. Get me?”

Phillip glared at Trace but grunted in acquiescence.

“But–” Zecora started to protest, but Trace silenced her with a look.

“Hey, it’s fine with me if he wants to come with,” Red stated, checking the cylinder of his Colt Police Griffon Special to make sure it spun freely. “We could use him as a shield.”

“At the very least, take one of these,” Zecora urged, giving each of the agents one of the torches. “It will put us all at ease.”

Trace and Red glanced at one another, sighed, and then each took one of the torches and placed it in the pocket of their RBI vests. “Thank you,” Trace said. “Now please, just do us a favor and stay out here.”

Both agents then headed for the door, their guns ready. With a shared nod, they opened up the door and stepped inside.

The internal lobby was bare, long stripped of any of the decorations and educational materials that had once greeted visitors. The sanctuary was still occupied by the pews and the altar, though the altar was bare; a light square on the back wall was the only remnant of the tapestry of the three Alicorns, and the only congregants were some leftover bottles and other litter. The stained glass windows of the Seven Pillars remained whole and unbroken, though long dirty; they watched the agents with benevolent gazes as they proceeded through the sanctuary into the back rooms.

Past the hallway with the eerily empty kitchen and the abandoned playroom, Trace and Red reached the door at the end, Trace shining his horn down the stairs.

Red took a breath. “Well, I’ve never seen a cursed temple before,” he admitted. “This should be fun.”

“Red,” Trace said quietly. “You sure that this guy’s just another crook?”

“Is this really the time for this, Trace?” Red said. “Let’s just get this guy and get out of here.”

With the griffon in the lead, the duo proceeded down the uneven stone steps into the basement, shivering in the heavy, cold air. The pathway that led into the Sunken Church itself was open, revealing the roughly cut stones descending deep into the ground.

“You hear that?” Red whispered, holding up a claw.

Trace strained his ears and the sound filtered up from below: a rolling susurrus of voices, chanting in a language that he did not recognize, every harsh, unnatural syllable rolling down his ears like cold oil and making him shudder.

“You sure that you don’t want Phil’s help?” Red asked.

“Let’s take a look and see if we can get backup,” Trace whispered, leading the way down the steps with his flashlight spell illuminating the stones. Red sighed and followed behind, his gun lowered but held ready.

The whispering chanting became louder as they slowly descended, taking every step with care. At the very bottom of the steps, they reached the doorway that led into the crypt proper. They paused to gather themselves, then stepped forward.

Twelve eyeless skulls embedded into the wall stared at the intruders as if judging their worth. The sarcophagi had long been emptied of their contents, but they still stood scattered about the cavern, the tops yawning open as if hungry for more corpses to contain. Trace’s spell illuminated the silvery metal of the statue of the Ahuizotl, teeth bared in a cruel smile, jeweled eyes glittering in pleasure as more flies stepped into its parlor.

Beneath each of the skulls knelt a figure, swaying in time to the rise and fall of the chanting. Their eyes reflected the magical light like dull mirrors, staring into nothingness; stooping close to a dirt-coated unicorn near the door, Trace observed the distinct purple dust clinging to her nostrils.

Standing in front of the statue of the Ahuizotl, glaring up at the jeweled eyes, was a purple unicorn. No…a dark blue unicorn with ugly purple coloration spread across his back, a sickly sweet odor of rot wafting from his pale skin.

Trace and Red exchanged glances, evaluating the situation in a heartbeat, then made their decision.

“Dusk Brew, RBI!” Red Herring barked, his pistol trained on the unicorn standing before the monstrous statue.

The figure did not react, nor did the kneeling aspirants encircling the room, one beneath each of the marked skulls embedded into the stone walls.

“Did you hear me?” Red shouted, he and Trace splitting up to cover the room.

“Dusk Brew is dead.”

Red and Trace both cringed at the grating, bubbling sound that emitted from the stallion’s throat. The adherents bowed low at their master's voice, pressing their foreheads to the stone floor.

“His name shall be exalted forevermore, for his sacrifice, his blood, was what freed us,” the voice continued. “We took his flesh, that we may be free.”

“And now you’re going back in a cell,” Red Herring growled.

“Lie facedown on the ground and place your hooves on your head,” Trace ordered.

“We were imprisoned once,” the pony said, turning about to glare at the two agents, his tri-lobed pupils shining in the darkness. “We offered Thicket security, power, an unbeatable weapon. And they betrayed us. Locked us away. Tried to forget about us.”

The world warped and twisted around the unicorn, shadows convulsing and forming into claws, reaching out for them. Red and Trace both staggered as though the tomb was the pitching deck of a ship on a storm, eyes bulging, their guns faltering.

“NEVER. AGAIN!”

“Fuck!” Red shouted, desperately slapping the trigger of his sidearm. Every gunshot echoed like a hammer blow against his ears in the close cavern, every explosion almost blindingly bright. Sparks danced from the walls and the silver statue of the Ahuizotl as every shot missed; Red tried to convince himself that he did not see the bullets impossibly slowing and arcing around the twisted space.

Click.

The horrible sound of the hammer striking a spent cartridge sounded like a death knell. Dusk Brew’s face twisted into a smirk like a gash in the world as a shadowy claw reached out for Red.

Blue-green light filled the catacomb. The thing let out a screech of agony and the shadowy claws retreated, pain and shock flashing across the dead pony’s face.

Trace waved the torch at the beast, glaring at it out of the corner of his eye. “Red, the torch!” he shouted.

Red dropped the pistol and fumbled to get his torch out. Trace ignited it with a spark from his horn and more blue-green light filled the catacombs, chasing away the shadows. Dusk Brew retreated, letting out a pained keening that no mortal throat could have produced. The drugged followers all drew away from the agents, wailing in shock and disbelief at the sight of their god being defied.

“SEIZE THEM!” Dusk Brew shrieked, thrusting a hoof at the two agents. Recovering their strength, the dozen adherents rose to their hooves, furious eyes fixing upon the blasphemers that intruded upon their territory.

“Oh, shit,” Trace muttered, turning to face his attackers, thrusting the torch at Dusk Brew with one hoof while aiming his pistol with the other. Red dove for his revolver, but an adherent kicked it out of his reach, sending the lifeline skittering across the stone and careening off a sarcophagus. The thestral lunged for Red, saliva dripping from his fangs, aimed directly at his throat.

Crack!

The thestral reeled away with a shriek, clutching his bloodied face.

A whistling sound filled the still air of the tomb. One after another, three adherents grunted and collapsed as the spinning boomerang ricocheted off their heads.

“HE-YAH!” Zecora roared, leaping into the room with her staff whirling, followed by Phillip Finder and Daring Do. Hooves and weapons crashed against bones and flesh, sending cultists sprawling to the floor.

“Of course you followed us,” Trace growled at Phillip as the latter swept the legs out from a yelping earth pony and struck her across the jaw with his waddy.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Phillip answered through rapid, heavy breaths as he pulled out another torch.

“Watch out!” Daring shouted.

The darkness rushed at the newcomers, the world twisting like a dark funhouse mirror.

And then light pushed it back, the blue-green aura bright as the sun. The thing retreated, hissing, as Zecora thrust her lit torch at the demon.

“Circle it!” Zecora ordered as Daring and Phillip both lit their own torches from Trace’s.

The five heroes encircled Dusk Brew, thrusting their torches at the twisted thing coiled about the dead pony. He glared and snarled at them, tri-lobed eyes burning with a mixture of hatred and fear; the shadowy warping about their body seemed to retreat from the torchlight, the glow of the enchanted flames seemingly forcing the world to make sense once more.

“Okay, anyone want to slap the cuffs on him?” Red asked, squinting into the twisted shadows.

Zecora pulled a jar from her saddlebag and walked in a circle about the writhing thing, pouring a circle of salt around it. This completed, she dropped the salt jar, then bit her hoof, wincing as she drew blood. She slapped her hoof down on the salt. There was a crackle of energy and the monster shrieked in fury. The claws and tendrils flailed at the perimeter of the circle, but could not penetrate the invisible, impenetrable wall of energy.

“Tzacctlatl!” Zecora shouted, spreading her forelegs wide. There was a rush of wind and the salt on the ground rose up in a whirlwind, swirling around the trapped monster.

“NO!” the monster snarled, slamming its limbs ineffectually against the circle.

“You are not welcome in this world, and I banish you from it!” Zecora shouted, glaring into the impossible pupils with a hoof extended. At her command, the wind intensified, the salt spinning even faster; Daring felt energy surging from Zecora like heat from the sun upon her wings, filling the circle with her will.

“Tzacctlatl!” Zecora repeated and the trapped beast flinched at the sound of its name, sinking towards the ground. “Begone from this world! Return to the shadows from whence you came!”

Dusk Brew was trembling on the ground, as though a boulder was pinning him to the ground. The salt, carried by the energy of Zecora’s spell, swirled about him like a snowstorm, trapping the demon within its funnel.

Zecora raised her staff with imperial power. “Tzacc–”

“Anyanwụ.”

Zecora froze, her eyes wide in horror, and her staff tumbled from her grasp. The swirling salt collapsed in on itself, the circle barely holding. Dusk Brew stood back up, the tri-lobed eyes fixed upon Zecora in a triumphant glower.

“Zecora, what’s wrong?!” Trace shouted, thrusting his guttering torch at the beast.

“Anyanwụ, we see your heart and it is ours,” Tzacctlatl hissed, glaring at Zecora, who was now trembling like a tree in a storm, seemingly frozen in place. “A fool as a child. A fool now, to think you can defeat us.”

“Zecora, focus!” Daring shouted, but Zecora now seemed deaf to their calls; she could only focus upon the monster grinning at her, one foreleg raised as if to beckon her. Zecora took a trembling step forward, sweat running down her face.

Red and Trace were glancing from each other to Zecora, the panic in their faces underlined by the guttering light of their torches. Phillip’s eyes were locked on the monster, his face a thin line, his eyes wide; his nostrils flared with every heavy breath and the torch trembled in his grasp.

“TZACCTLATL!”

The Name flew from Daring’s lips before she could think. The thing twisted to face her, narrow eyes fixing upon her face. Daring’s heart skipped a beat as a crushing weight fell upon her; the alien will pressed through her skull and gripped her heart, ground against her mind, and constricted her soul. Daring pushed against the invasion, but her buckling knees bent and yielded like rotten trees before a storm, and the world began to fade save for the slithering darkness…

“TZACCTLATL!”

Phil’s voice was loud, a thunderclap of force. The face twisted to face him; his face was pale in the glow of his torch and his panting increased, but he glared back even as the foreleg shook, threatening to drop his sole defense.

The pounding attack against Daring’s mind withdrew and she stood up tall, pausing solely enough to gasp in a breath before thrusting her torch at the exposed back of what had been Dusk Brew. The Tzacctlatl shrieked at the touch of the enchanted flames and withdrew from her, pressing against the other edge of the circle. Beneath the tendrils of darkness, Daring saw the dead pony’s face twisted into an expression that sent fire through her veins.

Fear. The demon was afraid.

“TZACCTLATL!”

“TZACCTLATL!”

Trace, then Red shouted the Name as well, adding their wills to the fight. The demon twisted from one of its attackers to the other, shrinking from each of them as four wills defiantly pushed against its. It crouched like a trapped animal in the center of the circles, hissing and snarling at its tormentors, but the light from the torches, now bright as spotlights, illuminated the naked terror in those tri-lobed eyes.

“Tzacctlatl!”

The monster whirled around to face Zecora, who had risen back to her hooves, her staff raised.

“Thrice I have bid thee! Thrice I command thee! Thrice said and done! Begone, begone, BEGONE!”

She slammed the staff down onto the ground and Dusk Brew writhed, howling in agony. The writhing cloak of shadows spasmed violently, twisting within the circle. Then, with a rush of wind and a drawn-out scream of rage and pain, the shadows were pulled from the corpse and were pulled into the ground, like water being sucked down a drain.

With the last of the shadows vanishing, the wind died down, and Dusk Brew’s corpse collapsed to the ground, bereft of its puppeteer. The five investigators were left gasping for air, their faces pale and shimmering with sweat beneath the torchlight.

After a few moments of silence, Red looked around at the still unconscious or disabled cultists. “Trace,” he finally said. “I’m gonna let you write the report on this one.”

Author's Note

That final sequence took a couple rewrites to get right. This version tried to capture the terror and pressure of fighting an alien will, which is what I imagine was part of a banishment. Despite Daring's lack of knowledge and practice in this kind of magic, what mattered here was the strength of her will and the will of her team.