Bridge: Bridge & Sword: Apocalypse (Bridge & Sword Series Book 7)

by JC Andrijeski

  Seeming to hear something in her tone, or maybe see it in her light, he glanced back at his own screen. Two keystrokes later, and he had up the same security grid she’d been looking at, down to the blinking red square in the corner.

  She didn’t wait for him to go through the same song and dance she had, but hit a few keys to pop the image on her screen over to his.

  The second she had, Vikram’s eyes widened.

  He jerked his feet off where they’d been resting on the terminal in front of him, nearly tipping himself over in his haste to get to the keyboard.

  Dante watched as he typed in a number of keys.

  Within seconds, a different image of the same woman Dante had been looking at solidified in front of him. Dante glanced back at her own screen, since they were linked, looking at a closer image, from a different angle.

  The woman wore a swank, red-leather business suit and high-heeled black leather boots. Dante watched her smile under an umbrella being held for her by what had to be a seer, given the dark purple eyes. He bowed to her obsequiously, hurrying to keep up with her long strides.

  The woman in red leather barely seemed to notice.

  She tossed her head back in slow motion, grinning at a handsome man on her other side with auburn hair wound in a clip and pale-colored eyes. He wore a more traditional black suit and bright red tie, and held his own umbrella. The woman’s hair hung long and loose, black down to its scarlet tips, which shone an even brighter red than the leather pants.

  Cassandra Jainkul.

  War, to the Myther junkies, which included most of Dante’s icer pals.

  Dante knew from the chick’s bio she was a bona fide American mutt, like Dante herself, but in the images she looked like she could be one hundred percent Thai, apart from her body type. Her height and breast size looked a lot more European or maybe African, at least compared to the Thais Dante knew from school.

  “Fucking Zeus,” Vikram said, imitating one of Dante’s curses.

  He swore again in a different language as he keyed through a few more screens, probably that seer language, Prexci, or Hindi, which seemed to be his two defaults before English.

  Dante watched the aleimic imprint come up under the video feed showing the facial and gait markers, which provided a third verification to the ID.

  Seeing the intensity rising to the East Indian seer’s violet eyes, even as he clicked his fingers at Anale and Declan, transferring the images to their screens as well, Dante frowned again.

  “The big boss’ll want to know, right?” she said.

  “Yes,” Vikram said, without looking up at her.

  More anger overlay his grim expression than Dante had ever seen on him. She could almost feel the rage building in the room, and not only from Vikram. All five seers had similar expressions on their faces, making them look positively warlike. The combined intensity of all of them brought a buzzing intensity to Dante’s body and even her mind.

  That intensity made her skin hot, her breath short.

  It made her angry, too. Angry for her friends.

  Angry for the Sword, even. Angry enough to grit her teeth.

  “He’ll come here, won’t he?” she said. “The Sword?”

  Anale looked over at that, her light, gold-rimmed eyes narrow in the overhead light.

  Again, Dante felt a shiver of heat warm her flesh at the female’s expression.

  “Yes, he will, my beautiful cousin,” Vikram muttered in reply, still staring intently at the screen. “I imagine the Sword will be coming here very soon indeed…”

  12

  BLACK SMOKE

  May 20, 1990

  Golden Gate Park, San Francisco

  I WRINKLE MY nose, pulling my own piece of pinkish-blue baloney off my mayonnaise-covered bread with delicate fingers. I lay it on the bark next to hers. Normally, the meat is my favorite part. But I want a puppy more. We need to save the meat for him.

  My wrinkled nose isn’t for the baloney, anyway.

  “You want a baby?” I say to Cassie, my best friend. “Eww. Why?”

  “They’re cute!” she declares, flipping back her long, black hair.

  I really, really wish her hair was mine. Cassie is so pretty, like someone in a storybook.

  “…And you can name them,” she declares. “And buy them clothes and dress them up. You can push them in carriages. And feed them stuff, and play with them.”

  “Aren’t they smelly?” My six-year-old nose scrunches up more. “Our neighbor has a baby, and she smells like poo.” I giggle, watching Cassie frown at me. “Just like poo. She makes funny noises… and cries. She cries a lot.”

  “Well, I would be older,” Cassie explains in her best grown-up voice, her face showing she is older than me already. She smacks my arm. “And my baby won’t smell like poo.”

  “Not me,” I say, deciding I need to make my my own declaration. “I want to be a space pirate. Like Roger Derm on Space Wars. You can’t have babies in space. They explode.”

  Cassie smacks my arm again. “They do not explode.”

  “Yes, they do. My dad said so.”

  I try to think if he really said that.

  I think he did. I remember something about people exploding in space. For now, my words stump Cassie, though, who thinks my dad is the coolest dad ever.

  Which he is.

  I look down from our perch in the tree… and laugh.

  Jon stands below us, his thin legs planted a few feet apart where he glares at me from the forest floor. Red-faced and sweaty, he looks about a mile away. Under his feet, the ground is covered in pine needles and crunchy oak leaves, but I can still see the edge of the grass lawn.

  Cassie and me sit astride a big branch coming out of the trunk of the old oak tree, the highest one we could reach by climbing in our sneakers. Both of us wear dresses, too, so the bark is kind of itchy under my butt, but otherwise, I feel great.

  “We saw the sunrise!” I crow at him happily. “You should have come with us, Jon!”

  “Get down from there!” he snaps at me, gesturing sharply towards the dirt. “Right now!”

  “Are you coming with us?” I say, clapping my hands. “You can be Cassie’s husband!”

  Cassie smacks my bare leg with a fist, but giggles.

  She likes Jon. She probably does want him to be her husband. Maybe they’ll get married and have babies when they get older, then we can all live in the same house with Mom and Dad and have lots and lots of puppies. And a horse.

  Jon shoves the glasses back on his freckled nose, scowling up at me in that way only he has. His thin, pale arms stick out of a blue and yellow striped T-shirt over too-baggy jeans, like he always wears. He is eleven, and even now, he manages to have a book in his hand. Knowing him, it’s probably something “useful,” as he says, like one of Dad’s field and stream books so he could find us, or maybe something about how to climb trees.

  “You are in so much trouble!” he shouts at me. “Just wait until you get down here! Mom and Dad have been looking for you everywhere!”

  “Come with us, Jon!” I call out. “We’re going to run away,” I add, in case he hasn’t figured out that part yet.

  “And get a dog!” Cassie adds gleefully. She points to the section of branch where we’ve pulled the baloney out of our sandwiches.

  “We’ll live on the beach!” I tell him.

  “And have husbands and babies!” Cassie says.

  “And be space pirates!” I say, not to be outdone.

  Red-faced, sweaty, and now maybe as mad as I’ve ever seen him, Jon glares up at us––well, really, at me, his hands on his hips.

  “They called Cassie’s parents,” he says, his voice cold.

  There is a second of quiet as this sinks in.

  “No!” Cassie wails. “No! Why? Why?”

  Jon glares only at me. “You’re lucky. They almost called the cops.”

  I stare down at him, feeling my hands turn cold where I grip the branch of a tree in Golden G
ate Park. My tummy hurts now, I feel scared, but I can only look at my best friend, Cassie. Cassie is crying, giving great big sniffs as tears run down her round face. She has dirt on her nose and cheek from where she’d wiped it after gripping the branch.

  I just sit there, watching her.

  We were having so much fun.

  We were going to get a puppy.

  “Why?” I say to Jon, angrily, whirling on him. “Why would they do that? They know Cassie’s dad is mean! Why would they call him?”

  “They had to, Al!” Jon snaps. “You should have known they would have to call them, when you two go missing in the middle of the night! What were you thinking, taking her out here? What were you thinking, Al? Whatever happens to Cass now, it’s all your fault––”

  JON JERKED AWAKE.

  Fear hit him first. He struggled to breathe, to move his lungs, his throat.

  Something heavy, full of smoke, weighed him down. Tar. Oil. Smoke. Charred wood. Burnt chalk. Whatever his mind tried to come up with wasn’t right… or enough. It coated his nose, mouth, lungs. He wanted to choke on it, but he couldn’t move, could scarcely breathe through his nose or parted lips.

  He could only lay there, unsure if he’d really woken up at all.

  His mind urged movement. Screamed for it.

  He was dying. He had to move, raise his head.

  He had to get up.

  He fought to pull himself up, out of that heaviness. He fought to breathe, to be awake, to get out of bed altogether so he could find a toilet… but no amount of pleading with his body worked. His head wouldn’t rise from the pillow. His arms wouldn’t move. His legs were like dead pieces of wood. His chest felt constricted by metal bands. If he moved he would feel worse.

  He was still lying there, fighting to breathe, when he realized something else.

  Another light was there, with him.

  That light felt so familiar, it brought a sharp pain to the middle of Jon’s chest, making his lungs hurt worse.

  “No.” The word startled him. It came from his own lips. The other light grew stronger as Jon shook his head, fighting to push it away.

  “No… go away. Please…” he panted. “Please.”

  He felt pain, maybe from the other man, but he couldn’t hold onto that, either. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t bear the thought of him being there, lost in this shit and filth with him. He didn’t want him here. He wanted him to go away. Forever.

  He wanted him to never come back.

  Fingers grasped his arm, painfully tight.

  “Fuck you, little brother,” a voice said, thick and low. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Jon blinked against the swinging light, nauseous, his head exploding in pain. But the other seer wouldn’t leave, not even when Jon shoved at his arm.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” that voice murmured, right in his ear. “I’m not going anywhere, little brother, so just let go. Let me take care of you.”

  Jon fought a sob, still trying to move his limbs. He heard another voice, then another. Their words filled his head, echoing there, and Jon felt a shiver of terror when he realized he recognized most of those voices, as well.

  “How is he?” Revik said, his voice quieter, somehow more audible than the rest. “Is he conscious, Wreg?”

  “Just enough to tell me to piss off,” the familiar voice muttered.

  “Stay with him,” Revik said.

  “Fuck off,” the familiar voice said, his voice coarse with anger. “…Sir.”

  “Stay with him, brother… please. Whatever he says.”

  Unlike Wreg, Revik didn’t sound angry.

  His words also didn’t sound like a request.

  Jon tried to hold onto that faint whisper of understanding. It was too much, too many words, too many thoughts. The things that formed in his mind were more than he could pass through his deadened lips. He couldn’t see through that sheen of light and morphing dark, didn’t know he was crying until he blinked and felt the tears running down the skin of his face.

  Those hurt, too, burning hot trails through his flesh.

  They wanted him dead. They all wanted him dead.

  Before he could see them, before he could make sense of the faces of his accusers, the black smoke filled his head, dragging Jon back to a tar-filled grave.

  “JON.” THE VOICE sharpened, tugging at his light, pulling on him. “Jon,” it repeated. “You’re going to eat now. Do you hear me? You’re going to wake up and eat.”

  Jon fought with his eyes.

  The light seared his corneas, as soon as he opened his eyelids even a crack.

  He tried to answer, but could only let out a moan. He threw up a hand, fighting to ward off the blow he half-expected to follow. The pain in his gut worsened, even as gentle fingers brushed his face, making him wince and flinch, cowering more.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, goddamn it,” the voice said.

  That voice rumbled against Jon’s back, rising up from a muscular chest. Jon realized he was leaning against the other man, so far into his light that he was having trouble seeing through it. The pain worsened as he felt skin against his bare sides and arms, along with muscles and bone, clothing and hair. The man’s thighs flexed as he twisted his upper body, reaching sideways to grab something from a table––the same table where the light originated.

  Pain blinded him. Pain that nearly made him groan.

  “Fuck.” His voice came out involuntarily, dense-sounding, hoarse.

  “Not right now, brother,” the other man muttered, a faint attempt at humor.

  Jon lay there, gasping, confused at first. Then he realized some part of him wanted that. He wanted sex. He wanted the other man to fuck him.

  The pain in the other man’s light worsened sharply, enough that Jon gasped.

  He struggled, trying to get away from that light, but a hand gripped his arm, even as a warning pulse entered his skin.

  He felt it almost as a threat, but it made that other pain worse too, confusing him. Adrenaline shot into his blood. The sickness worsened, and he was coughing then, coughing hard enough that it worsened the pain, bringing a deadened feeling to his chest.

  “God.” He leaned over one of those muscular legs, coughing harder. He felt a hand on his back, massaging him there, and choked. “Stop. Stop it…”

  The man ignored him, sending more light through his fingers.

  Jon hacked for a few minutes more. He didn’t have the strength to fight him. He hung over the other man’s leg, groaning between coughs, feeling like he was going to die.

  “You’re not fucking dying,” the voice said, angry that time. “It’s light poisoning, brother. It’s better if you cough. It’s better if you get it out, any way you can.”

  Tears filled Jon’s eyes. He could feel the sickness in the other man’s light, the dense, dark cloud he’d already spewed all over him.

  He’d hurt him, coated his light in shit.

  “I can take it, brother,” the voice said.

  Jon heard more than anger in the other man’s words that time. Hurt. A denser grief. Maybe even tears. He can’t bear to look at that face. He knows who it is, but he won’t confirm it. He won’t fucking confirm it; he can’t take it right now.

  “What if we brought her in here?” another voice asked.

  Jon flinched, cowering against the muscular body. He’d thought they were alone. He didn’t know someone else was in there, watching the two of them. He couldn’t stand the thought of others here, watching Jon hurt the other man, poisoning him with his light.

  Killing him. Gods, he was killing Wreg.

  Strong fingers gripped his hair, tightening until they hurt. The other man was massaging Jon’s back then, using strong, skilled fingers. He worked over the back of Jon’s heart, the back of his chest, until Jon couldn’t help it, he started coughing again, hacking each breath.

  “This is taking too long,” Wreg muttered. “Would he allow it, do you think? Nenz?”

 
“I think he’d do just about anything to help brother Jon right now,” the other man said. “I’ll ask him, brother. Wait here.”

  “Like I’m going anywhere,” Wreg muttered.

  Jon knew that other voice. He knew it.

  He squinted at the shadow by the door, wincing from the lamp that wanted to burn his eyes out. He glimpsed dark chestnut hair, streaked gray at the temples, a muscular frame, gray eyes.

  “Balidor,” he managed.

  Wreg let out an irritated snort. “Your name, he knows.”

  The man at the door only smiled, then left, closing the door quietly behind him.

  “Wreg,” Jon managed. “Wreg. Does he still want to kill me?”

  Wreg’s hands tightened, massaging his shoulders, his arms. It hurt, but something about the pain felt so good, Jon couldn’t bear to ask him to stop.

  “No one wants to kill you, little brother,” Wreg said, gruff.

  His light pulled on Jon’s, gently that time, but Jon immediately started coughing. It hurt so badly he thought he really would die, that the coughing alone would crack his spine. He realized a bucket of some kind sat by the bed, right under where he coughed.

  When he tried to focus on what was inside it, he groaned.

  “Gods,” he said. “Blood.”

  “Yes, brother,” Wreg said grimly. “That’s blood.”

  “Mine?”

  “Yes.” Wreg’s hands held him tighter. Jon felt a shiver of fear off the other man, a worry intense enough, he couldn’t think past it. “…and if you don’t mind, I’d prefer if there wasn’t any more of that,” Wreg added.

  Jon nodded, closing his eyes against another wave of nausea.

  He leaned deeper into the curve of Wreg’s body and fought to breathe, even as Wreg continued to pull on his light, hard enough that time that Wreg started coughing, too. Thick, wracking coughs, like he was trying to expel something from deep inside his lungs.

  “No,” Jon said, groaning. “No. Don’t… please, Wreg. Please.”

  “Shut up,” the seer snapped. “Gods damn it, Jon, stop fighting me. Let me help you!”