Hellbender (Fangborn Book 3)

by Dana Cameron

  No.

  She tried to stand up, reached for me. I hurried to support her, and she clamped on to my arm and stood up, with tottering difficulty. “Ouf . . . It takes me a long while for the joints to warm up in the morning.”

  My throat closed and I felt myself slump. I had to kill this old woman? I knew she’d fight to the death to protect her charge.

  “Come on, no point in waiting. Let’s get started.”

  I’d reached my limit. “No! This is enough. This is bullshit! I’m not going to do this. The other stuff . . . Buell? Turkey? I was trying to defend myself. I’m not going to do this.”

  “Zoe, you have to. It’s been written.”

  “Fuck written! I don’t buy written!”

  One disapproving look almost stopped me.

  “I won’t do it,” I insisted. But as soon as I said it, I knew how childish I sounded. “Fatima. I can’t.”

  “Zoe. You must.” She shook my arm. “We don’t have a lot of time. Help me through the door. I’ve been waiting for this, thinking about this, for a century. I knew it would come, someday. Please.”

  This was as fucked up as anything I could think of. After so much sacrifice, I had to—

  Fatima patted me on the arm, but that only made it worse.

  “You’re going to make me angry, Zoe,” Fatima said in a moment. “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

  She caught me in a hitching breath as I stared at her.

  “Yeah, I know Bruce Banner. I’ve been around since before comic books.” She gestured to a stack of DVDs and a player next to a screen and satellite equipment. “And I have a lot of time to watch movies. Let’s get this over with. Help me in.”

  I gave her my arm. What else could I do? My thoughts raced: Maybe I could keep her talking, slip some sleeping pills into her coffee? Maybe I didn’t have to—maybe I could just lock her in her room or something?

  She went to the kitchen, rummaged behind the cupboard, and I heard a switch click.

  “Okay, I’ve got the alarm off, and the traps have been disarmed. It’s out back.”

  “What?”

  “Walk about twenty steps directly back of the house. You’ll see what I mean.”

  Miserable, I nodded, still trying to find a way out of this. Though it was only October, it was very cold, and a few bitter flakes of snow contrasted with the tall dark trees, adding to my sense of desperation.

  I started counting, but just past a few low-hanging branches I saw what she meant. An old outhouse was back there, the door nailed shut and the little moon eaten away at the edges by wind and insects and weathering age. To one side, a nice shed with expensive equipment nearby; no one would go for the outhouse with that shed or electronics in the house so obviously sitting there.

  My nose wrinkling automatically, I slowed as I approached. My wolfy senses, however, told me there was no odor. I unknotted the twine with the sign that said “Caution” and saw the boards across the door only appeared to be nailed down. I pulled on the rope handle, and the door swung open, cosmetic barriers and all.

  Still, I hesitated. My eyes adjusted to the light gradually, and while there was an even layer of dirt and cobwebs over everything, I realized the bench that had once housed a seat was made of much newer wood than the rest of the structure. I bent over and shoved it, feeling it solid until I pressed a knot in the panel. A click, and the panel slid around, revealing a space. The front of the bench had been made of three planks meticulously cut into panels. It rolled like it was on bearings, and when I slid the panel frame back, I saw what I’d come for.

  I was not expecting the crude glass case. The glass was dark blue, barely translucent, and the waviness—it was remarkably free of bubbles—suggested that it was made in the sixteen hundreds, carefully crafted to protect what was inside. My bracelet flared, filling the small chamber with golden light. I knew I had to have whatever was in the box.

  Moving as smoothly as I could, I pulled the case loose. The morning light showed another puzzle: inside the glass box, a rounded oblong about a foot long, were several glass pillars, filled with a dark liquid. In the center of the case, the most clear panels revealed the contents, which I knew was what I was after. It was a scrap of paper, the ink faint and illegible but still visible.

  It was in very good shape, and I knew that if I could get this into the hands of an expert, we’d get a rare and valuable glimpse into the Fangborn past. The liquidity of the ink in the pillars, the fineness of the glass, and the preservation of the paper were all so improbable that I knew some mastery approaching magic had created this.

  The burning need became even stronger, and the urge to hold the paper, to smell it, to feel the ink strokes on the rough surface of the paper—papyrus?—was irresistible. I could not wait for experts. It did not matter that I could not read the text. I needed it.

  My pulse was pounding as if the bracelet was communicating its desire for the paper directly into my heart. I was sweating in the cold air as I tried to figure out what to do. If I broke the glass, the ink would splash the text, making it illegible. If I didn’t open it, I’d go mad.

  The glass began to dissolve, and when the glass began to flake away, disintegrating before my eyes, I saw the aqua glow of a light inside that reminded me of Claros.

  It was either use my powers or lose the gift of Naserian.

  I half-Changed and pushed my hand through the glass without shattering it. Again, I was reminded of the rubbery resistance of the “stone” at Claros and even more of my use of the artifact catalog in the lab bench. As my fingertips brushed the uneven edge of the papyrus, the outhouse disappeared.

  Chapter Seven

  A whoosh, a roaring in my ears, and the sense of vertigo that accompanied many of my visions or transportation to some . . . otherwhere. This had happened since the bracelet had claimed me, and I was getting used to the disembodiment, the confusion. I was getting better at these transitions—whether they were in my head or some alternate universe—less panicky in the experience and stronger in my recovery. They were a part of my life now.

  So I was unsurprised when I found myself in the middle of a vast space, clutching the fragment.

  I hastily uncurled my hand, carefully smoothing out the piece without rubbing it. I heard the shuffling of human feet, the small noises of people standing quietly nearby, and saw that I was in a short line. I craned around and saw that there was a desk with several people ahead of me.

  The space around me flickered and changed. At first, I thought I saw marble and sandstone columns, with racks of baskets in niches on the walls, filled with scrolls. Another flicker, and then it was as though I was in a busy newsroom, filled with blinking screens, the light reflecting from the readers’ faces like the glow from a microfiche reader. But the “screens” were actually bright columns of text in midair, and there were no visible computers or keyboards. I hadn’t had time to try to analyze the language on the screens when the scene shifted again. This time, I found myself in a library, like that of a university or research center. The other patrons were dressed in clothing similar to me. I could have been on any campus in the United States.

  I get it, I thought. It was another attempt to communicate with what was familiar to me. The librarian sat at a wooden desk with a lovely modern computer. She wore a blue sweater, jean skirt, and glasses; she had the cliché of her hair in a bun.

  I saw the librarian’s lips move and heard the sound of her voice speaking in twenty different languages inside my head.

  “Uh . . . come again?”

  “American English?” she said with some amusement. “I said, ‘May I have your credentials please?’ ”

  I thought rapidly and handed her the papyrus fragment.

  She took it, glanced at it, and nodded brusquely. “Yes, yes, perhaps. But I must have your bona fides first. A request like this . . .” She r
aised her eyebrows to indicate the fragment. “It requires quite specific credentials to access this.”

  I was pretty sure she didn’t mean my Boston Public Library card, or my BU alumni card. I needed desperately to see whatever that papyrus got me. Now that I knew it led to something else, my desire turned toward the unknown thing it might bring.

  I wanted it so badly that my instincts gave me inspiration. I had something that the other patrons might have, or they might not; as far as I knew, it was my only currency in this meta-realm. Remembering the trick I learned in the bath, I dimmed the camouflage that concealed the jewels and armor I’d acquired from the artifacts.

  I flashed them once, very bright. I figured, if they meant anything to the librarian, she’d get it all at once. If not, maybe I’d dazzle her into giving me what I craved.

  She blinked, a little surprised perhaps. “Very well. Forgive me for asking, but you will appreciate our need to check. We can’t let just anyone ask for anything in here.”

  I was about to say, “But isn’t that what libraries are for?” but didn’t. This felt more like an academic library than a public library. “Thank you.”

  “Do you require a translation?”

  “A translation from what?”

  She sighed heavily. “A translation to . . . whatever language will be most . . . accessible to you?”

  “Um, yes, please?”

  “The trade-off is that it will be approximate. You’ll understand the gist of it but will lose a lot of subtle resolution.”

  I figured, better to get some straight answers and lose the subtlety, just this once. “Let’s go with the translation.”

  She flickered in and out and said, “You may look at it in the last cubicle on the left.”

  I followed her directions and pulled back a curtain. I didn’t see a carrel, as I expected. It was more like the rooms where you open a safe-deposit box. I saw a very plain bent metal chair and industrial desk. There was a box on top.

  “Okay, okay,” I muttered. “What happened to the ‘I caught it, I got it’ school of artifact assault, when the power came automatically and became another part of the armor and bracelet? What’s with all the boxes and chits and credentials?”

  I opened the box and a gray mist filled the cubicle.

  I found myself in my mind-lab.

  “Sean!” I hollered. “What’s going on?”

  If the last time I’d been in the lab I’d thought it crowded, now it was barely possible to move through it. The spaces around the benches, in the hallways, and on the counters were filled with the artifact boxes from the Museum of Salem and the ceremonial mask I’d taken from Porter just before Toshi had killed him at the Battle of Boston. On top of these were more boxes from the artifact onslaught in Kanazawa. Now books bound in ancient, deteriorating leather were stacked next to my computer.

  “Zoe, we got another upload of data,” he said, mopping his brow. He edged sideways through the labyrinth of boxes, barely able to squeeze his big frame through. His sandy-reddish hair, Van Dyke beard, T-shirt, and jeans were all smeared with sweat and dust. “The undergrads and interns? You know, the imaginary students we cobbled up to sort all these artifacts? They and I are on it, but we’ll never get through it all and make sense unless we get more resources—time, bodies, money.”

  All of which I knew was a metaphor, but I got what he was saying. We needed to spend some energy focusing on these additions with our full attention. “Okay, okay, I’ll see what I can do about getting in here to help you. But it’s got to be later.”

  A burning smell, a crash, and shouts from the coffee room. The door to the lab slammed open; a tall, dark-skinned black man with a graying beard, glasses, and a tweed jacket and corduroys stood there. I’d never seen him before.

  “Who are you?” we asked at the same time.

  “I’m Dr. Geoffrey Osborne,” he said. His voice reminded me of London, educated, but overlying something else. Like when my friend Jenny got mad and her posh accent slipped. “What are you doing here?” He looked around. “What am I doing here? Where is here? You really must tell me what’s going on.”

  “Well . . .” I decided it was better to rip the bandage off quickly. “Generally, everyone in here is dead. Those guys you just surprised in the coffee room? Most of them are mercenaries who were working for Dmitri Parshin when I killed them, but some of them worked for the Order, maybe a couple of government agencies, and some are just generally bad people. Sean here was—is—my friend, and he died in my arms.

  Sean nodded. “I did. I am dead.”

  “So for the most part, folks who died near me. But you? Best I can think of, you came in with the information I had from the librarian. She had offered me a translation, so maybe she meant you’d be here to help me out.”

  “So . . . that’s it. I’m dead.” He sunk down. “That explains a lot.”

  “I’m sorry. Yes, that’s how everyone gets here. Do you remember anything?”

  “The last thing I remember . . . I was doing some work on understanding the physics of Fang—” He looked at me suddenly. “Ah . . . you wouldn’t happen to be Family, would you?”

  “If you’re talking fangs and fur and not Cosa Nostra, then yeah. You can speak freely with me.” I glanced at Sean. “With anyone here.”

  Professor Osborne gave me a sour look. “Fangs and fur—figures. The bitey ones always seem to forget about those of us with the sight. Well, I’m an oracle. My work was finding an explanation in advanced physics for Fangborn abilities. The last thing I remember was a lot of shouting, a lot of hard men in black uniforms raiding my lab . . .” He trailed off. “And a lot of pain. Then . . . nothing. I need to . . . Where’s my wife?”

  “I don’t know. If you tell me her name, I’ll try and find out. She thinks you’re dead?”

  “Well, I expect since I am dead, she knows about it if she isn’t dead herself. But I’d like to let her know I’m . . . okay.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. But for now . . .” I gestured around the lab. “This is my place.”

  His eyebrows were raised and furrowed at the same time. “It’s a bit of a tip, isn’t it?”

  “It’s an archaeology lab. Not an operating theater.” I frowned. It looked pretty damn tidy for an archaeology lab. Which I suppose meant that it looked pretty grubby if you were used to environments with no dust, highly sensitive scientific equipment, clean suits, that kind of thing. Still, it stung, and I made a note to get the undergrads on it. Wouldn’t hurt to push a broom around the place, run a cloth over the counters now and then, once we got them cleared off. “A lot’s been going on. And I’m new to all this, so it’s taking me even longer to get used to it than you might expect.”

  “Wait . . . are you still alive?”

  “Yep.”

  It took fully five beats for him to realize that meant he was inside my consciousness . . . or somewhere not . . . exactly normal. I had a hard enough time figuring out the mind-lab for myself, never mind explaining it to someone else.

  “Okay. Okay. Okay, I’m going to need some space . . . a little time.” Hysterical laughter went on a little too long for me but seemed cathartic for him. “We need to work together on this, you and I, correct? If there’s a corner I could have to do some work, and computers . . .”

  He stopped, suddenly wondering how that might be possible.

  “Think about your lab,” I said suddenly. “Or your favorite classroom or your study or whatever. Think about it hard.”

  “All right.”

  I felt an itch at the edge of my consciousness; a space had come with his memory. A bit of discomfort—I was doing a lot weirder, more complex stunts without really knowing all the ramifications. It was getting easier and easier to control, though. “Okay, down the hall is . . . let’s make it a pedestrian walkway. It leads to your lab. You need any more space, resources
, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “My lab.”

  I reached out to see what I’d reeled in. Looked like an academic office. Lots of books, lots of whiteboards, lots of computers. It wasn’t so much cleaner than mine, but the equipment room next door certainly was spotless. “I think so. Go have a look.”

  He ran down the hallway and came walking back, looking stunned, a few moments later. “How did you . . . maybe I . . . I need to sit down.”

  “Okay, you take a minute, collect yourself. Sean, do we have any coffee—oh, great, thanks.” I handed it to Dr. Osborne. “Sean will look after you. I have to pop out for a bit, but I’ll check in later.”

  “Wait! Wait!” Geoffrey Osborne was out of his chair, clutching my arm. “What if . . . what if when you go, I go? I mean, I’d rather not . . . if I am dead, I wouldn’t mind working out a few problems I never had the chance to address. It’ll be . . . quiet.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. But tell you what—I’ll go out, then pop back. You tell me what happens.”

  Before he could protest, or I could second-guess myself that I was about to kill him even deader than he was, I slipped back to the here and now and the outhouse.

  Then back to the lab.

  All was well. Geoffrey Osborne hadn’t seemed to move since I left. “What did you see?”

  “You . . . flickered. Just a few . . . you . . . wavered.” He sat down, heavily, staring at me. “Bloody hell. A parallel universe?”

  I shrugged. “All I know is, my lab, my rules. So make yourself at home, collect yourself, and I’ll see you later.” A thought struck me. “Here. Could you have a look at the papyrus while I’m gone? Do something . . . physics-y with it, find out what makes it special?”

  “I don’t do work on anything big enough to see with an SEM,” he said, somewhat huffily. Then the idea seemed to strike him. “Why not? It’ll let me test out the equipment in the other lab.”