Solomon's Seal

by Skyla Dawn Cameron

  But that was not today and I couldn’t entertain fantasies any longer. I pulled out another cam, reached over, and wedged it in place. I shifted my harness and the rope over, biting back a grunt of frustration as I unlatched one of my straps to lock onto the other—

  The cam slipped.

  I fell.

  13

  Into the Nest

  If Brandon jerked on the rope to draw me up again, he failed. My feet hit the ground first then I slipped, landing hard on my right side. My leg was bent over a tail, elbow propped against the ground to hold me up. My left hand darted out to press against the limestone floor and I glanced around.

  Don’t. Move.

  The light from my headlamp moved over the sleeping creatures, dark green-gray skin and diamond scale patterns. I held my breath, my throat closing to the size of a pinhole, heart hammering painfully hard against my ribcage, and waited there. I’d fallen nearly in the center of the room and I lifted my head, looking over the bodies, but not finding anywhere easy to step to.

  Shit. SHIT.

  I swallowed thickly and began to turn, careful not to knock the tail by my legs, and got my toes under me, readied to rise. Trembling fought to overtake me so I fell back on yoga, lining up breaths with my movements. Exhale—I rolled onto my stomach with both hands flat on the floor. Inhale—I lifted my head.

  And stared at blinking white eyes set in a huge snake-head inches away.

  It drew in a breath, slit-nostrils flaring. Then another. Its muscles tensed and I froze, like my body iced over and I couldn’t’ve moved if I wanted to.

  And I did want to. A lot.

  Don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t move... It might go back asleep. It might—

  Its mouth opened and fangs shone, glistening wetly as it hissed. Hot, putrid breath struck me in the face and its tongue darted out, licking the air and coming dangerously close to my cheek.

  I rolled, got onto my feet, but it was too late—the other creatures were rousing, tails flicking, nails scratching, shifting and ready to attack. I wasted no time and ran, leaping over one, avoiding a tail, running in the opposite direction as I’d been going because there were at least thirty of these fuckers and no way was I heading any deeper into the cave alone. We could head back to the sump and—

  Pain pinched my gut and I lurched to the side—something caught the rope attached to my harness. I slammed hard onto my hands and knees and twisted, fought, yanking at straps until I had the harness worked down to my thighs, over my guns. When a beast leapt for me, I rolled, tangling my legs in the rope and harness but at least missing its clawed front feet. Teeth veered toward me, fangs as thick as my daughter’s wrist.

  So many things coming at me, my brain shut off and body took over; I was untangled, on my feet, dodging without thinking and running without hesitation. When training kicks in, it’s all muscle memory, ducking and avoiding hits in a way that bordered on preternatural instincts. The doorway was my goal, where my companions no longer stood—beyond that, I’d figure something out, just so long as I was away from the nest I’d fallen in.

  A creature swung in front me, cementing itself between me and the door out. I thrust aside any idea of grabbing my guns and just ran—step, step, dodge, duck, step. When the obstacle in my path charged, I veered left and vaulted in the air. Right foot stepped down, touched its head to snap its mouth shut and give me extra height as I kicked off. Left foot hit the crumbling bricked wall beside me and I ran, two feet, three, moving in an arc, flying through the air, speed and momentum the only thing keeping gravity from taking hold. I narrowly missed the beasts charging me and near the end of the wall I jumped, landed both feet on the floor, and kept running even as impact shocks jolted my legs.

  Through the tunnel of knife-edged turns. Around the corner. My boot treads slammed limestone, crunched dirt, stones, and bone remnants. The ground thrummed under me, all those creatures at my heels. My right hand locked on my gun as I screamed a warning to the others, then I reached back and fired blindly. Limestone spat chunks and dust as bullets made impact.

  The others were scattered in the next room, the men all with guns and poor Laurel pressed back against the far wall in a pile of bones. The lights from their helmets bounced jarringly. My own helmet irritated me and I jerked at the strap with my free hand, casting it to the side so I could see and maneuver better.

  “The other room! The water!”

  We started in that direction but it was too late; Tucker in the lead was hit head-on, one of the beasts colliding with him. I skidded to a halt, swung away from its thrashing tail. My heart thumped hard and painful, pulse throbbing in my neck, and any exhaustion I’d felt dissipated under the flood of adrenaline. My left hand procured a grip on the knife sheathed at my belt, fingers tightening as I drew it out and slashed the snout of the nearest creature.

  A wail of a cry snapped my attention to the right where blood flew and a hunk of flesh was torn from Brandon’s thigh. He fired at the creature frantically when another latched onto his arm, severing it just below the elbow.

  I ran for the one that bit his leg, leapt on its back and buried the blade of my knife in its head. Brandon hit the ground, shuddering and bleeding profusely. The one who had a chunk of his arm spit the offending limb out and its tongue flicked towards me, bloody spittle flying.

  I scrambled back, firing until the last brass flew and the open slide reminded me to hurry the fuck up and reload. My feet darted back until I hit the pile of bones, which cracked and slid under the soles of my boots. I fumbled, reloading as quickly as I could, while the beast lumbered toward me.

  Bone gave under my left heel and I went down, striking the crumbling limestone brick before landing flat on my ass. Pain jolted through me and I yelped, abandoned reloading my right gun, and threw my knife at its head. The blade slashed over its eye but the throw was too wide, too weak; the weapon clattered on the ground. It was enough of a distraction, though, for me to reach for my left gun and fire. One bullet. Two. Three. Each ripped into its skull, its shoulder, taking chunks of flesh, but the 9mm bullets barely slowed it. I kicked at the bones, drawing my legs up—if this fucking thing was going to eat me, it would do it headfirst as I was not limping out of this goddamn cave. Terror gripped me as I reached the end of my other magazine and nothing had slowed it—

  Fresh shots fired, blasting through the space in rapid succession, spraying blood across the floor. The creature before me turned to the right just as I did.

  Figures in black—at least half a dozen of them—dotted the room with automatic weaponry in hand. Fifteen feet away stood one, the AR-15—with a light and scope—raised with the stock against his shoulder. The creature turned, charged, bleeding profusely and still pissed the fuck off, but the man didn’t move or flinch; when he reached the end of the magazine, he signaled over his shoulder and someone else took over, cutting through the creature until it slumped forward.

  A blast rocked the ground, dust spitting up across the room. I braced and waited for rock to fall, the sound of a concussion grenade unmistakable, but it never came. Another figure came through the manmade arched doorway, limestone dust whirling around him, and he didn’t seem the least bit worried about the creatures following.

  I glanced around. Brandon was bleeding and gasping in pain to my left; to my right Tucker was limping, arm holding the gun wavering. Laurel was in the corner whimpering, being helped to her feet by one of the men in black tactical gear, and Mr. Rolph stood alone, staring at the carnage and frowning.

  A magazine snapping into place in the AR-15 drew my attention and I glanced up, back to the guy who’d drawn the creature’s focus from me. The flashlights and headlamps on various people in the room brought a glow to the cavern, highlighting a familiar face.

  My dance partner from the gala, Mr. Cat and Mouse himself, stared down at me, his lips quirking into a grin. “If this is you playing solo, I think you might want a partner after all.”

  14

  Rescue
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  He started toward me—whether to help me rise or not, I didn’t know.

  Or care.

  I glanced down, got my feet under me, pressed my back to the wall, and stood stiffly. Still nothing broken but oh god, how I ached. I avoided his gaze for a moment while I reloaded my guns, prickling irritation rising. Why I was irritated, I couldn’t say, but something about him bothered me and I had a horrible suspicion he was another bounty hunter. Maybe Ashford hired two of us. Maybe—

  “We’ve got too many injuries,” Mr. Rolph said in a low voice. I glanced up again to see me forgotten, the head of the other team turned to face Mr. Rolph who stood near him. “And I don’t think it’s wise to split up—we should retreat.”

  Our guest nodded. “I know. We drilled through to a vertical pitch not far from here—easier than taking the long way around. We can come back more prepared in the morning.”

  “They’re dead!” Laurel spoke up, her voice fraying as swiftly as her sanity seemed to be. “Jesus, West, can’t a bunch of you just go and get what you came for now and—”

  “The trouble there, is...” As if on cue, nails scraped on rock in the distance, and fresh fear rolled down my spine. But while those around me froze, he didn’t, instead grinning wider as he met my gaze. “These were just the babies and you’ve woken Momma.”

  Son of a bitch.

  He gestured at his team to see to Brandon first, and they looped a tourniquet around the injured merc’s thigh to stop the bleeding and bound his remaining wounds, though he still seeped blood. Two of them lifted him and started for a plain, unadorned archway off to the side. Tucker followed, silent and seething, while Laurel swiftly moved at his heels, eager to get out.

  The leader watched as his remaining men followed before starting after them.

  I blinked. Was I the only one still wondering what was going on? “And who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m the rescue team, Talbot.” He threw a look over his shoulder, unsmiling, intense, and chilling me through. Whoever the hell he was, he radiated power that had my inner alarms shrilling. “You’re welcome.”

  Something about this man brought out the urge to shoot him in the back of the head, but I grit my teeth, scooped up my fallen helmet and clipped it on my belt, and followed next to Mr. Rolph.

  “That’s Dale West,” he said in a low voice. “Mr. Ashford’s right hand.”

  His ‘right hand’? Perhaps I’m with security, tasked to keep scandals to a minimum. Security indeed. If Ashford had this guy, why the hell did he have to hire me and some shitty mercenaries for?

  Precisely what ‘right hand’ entailed, I had no idea...or if I wanted to know. But both Laurel and Mr. Rolph seemed to know him; Laurel, I could understand as she worked for Ashford, but Rolph was supposed to be new on this mission like me.

  Questions would have to come later—for now, I just wanted to get out of the goddamn caves.

  Around the next corner I recognized Moti, whose gaze was on the ground as he gestured at one of the dead creatures. West walked straight past him but Moti kept up, ranting up a storm in his native language, and while I couldn’t particularly follow it, I figured it could be translated as: “OMGWTFBBQ THOSE ARE MONSTERS WTF??”

  Approximately.

  West tossed a few words in reply, then continued on. Moti stopped, staring wide-eyed, whatever West had said apparently not being the answer he wanted. Instead of following immediately, he turned to Mr. Rolph, where several more words were exchanged, before Moti took off after the others again.

  “I really should’ve learned the local dialects,” I said in a low voice.

  “Oromo,” Mr. Rolph replied. “The gist is that he isn’t pleased as no one signed him up for demon monsters.”

  “Well, we all have that in common.”

  His lips twisted in a wry smile, but he said nothing.

  Mr. Rolph and I kept up with our patrons. I glanced back frequently, checking over my shoulder but seeing nothing pursuing. Still, relief never came, never eased the tension in my shoulders or the flood of adrenaline in my veins. I held my tongue as we trekked back the way the other men had came—down a limestone hall, around a few bends, in an awkward spot we had to crouch to wiggle through, and the up the odd slope with the assistance of ropes already rigged up. Travel was painstakingly slow moving not just a severely injured man, but with Tucker as well who could only navigate ropes with one hand. Exhaustion gripped my original team as well, as we’d been down here longer, which made for a slow trek back through the cave.

  It might’ve been half an hour or so later when we reached a massive, rounded cavern with vaulted ceiling. Mr. Rolph mumbled something about recognizing it, though he stared upward with a frown. The space was black around the edges; above, white light shone through a long vertical pitch with a single rope hanging through—a lifeline promising safety. It seemed far too late for daylight but I’d been underground for what felt like a week so I had no idea of the time.

  The members of my “team” mostly no longer had proper harnesses, including me. One of West’s men went up first, while two others set about strapping Brandon down to the travel stretcher retrieved from a bag. His periodical moans and whimpers confirmed he lived, though how much longer, I couldn’t say.

  A second rope rolled down and the team tied the gurney to the end so they could hoist him up. Those two men followed and next went Mr. Rolph, then Tucker with his broken hand dangling uselessly at his side.

  West went next, but paused at the bottom of the rope, predatory gaze scanning the area. His eyes moved to mine. “Keep up.”

  “To quote my six-year-old, duh, Mr. West.”

  He held my gaze past the point of comfort before reaching for the rope, swinging his gun strap over his shoulder, and climbing up after the others. He moved swiftly and with ease, the black clothes doing nothing to disguise the muscles working in his arms—he didn’t even bother with a harness. His job for Ashford likely involved punching people, by the look of it. Laurel still fought with her harness, so once his feet disappeared, I went after him.

  The light brought a measure of comfort, even if part of my brain didn’t want to believe it. It was white and crisp, bright enough I had to blink after hours of dimness and tip my head down to avoid the strain. Once I dangled in the air and reached the actual pitch, I braced my feet on the rock on either side of me as I went, glad for my gloves holding the rope so I didn’t damage any more of my flesh. I heard Laurel grunting in frustration below me but she made it, hauling herself in the harness up the rope. Her borrowed coveralls were all but dry now, though where her own stuff had gone, I didn’t know. Regardless, I didn’t think she’d come back with us on the second trip.

  I can’t believe I am either. But then I needed to get paid and I did, grudgingly, feel that much more secure with others there, even if I didn’t trust their leader. At least on the next excursion, we’d know what to expect.

  I had another six feet before the top and shadows played overhead, faces I couldn’t make out periodically peering down at me.

  The man still waiting at the bottom screamed.

  I froze, as did Laurel beneath me. The rope I clung to swayed, anchor above creaking under our combined weight; I braced either foot on the walls around me to hold still and looked down, tried to glance past her. The passage was roughly four feet wide, and I angled myself to the side so I could see. Light traveled past our figures to hit the floor—there was no sign of the guy, but something dark streaked over the rock.

  They found us.

  “Move!” West barked before I could, and I set aside my irritation to start climbing again.

  A squeal of fear and the clicking of nails on limestone drew my attention again—it was another of the reptilian-snake things, this one having made its way into the pitch we followed, half slithering, half crawling its way up toward us.

  And it was bigger.

  Limestone chunks fell under its feet as it lumbered forward and the mouth that opened to hiss�
��god, that mouth could swallow a linebacker whole, maybe without even unhinging its jaw first. The pitch was barely wide enough to accommodate its girth and I could no longer see anything below, like the ground had opened up and a lizard from hell appeared to devour us.

  These were just the babies and you’ve woken Momma.

  Wonderful.

  Laurel scrambled but she wasn’t fast enough, fumbling to get herself up. A frantic cry left her parted lips—it would catch her and she knew it.

  Goddamn it...

  “Talbot,” West warned as I stopped climbing.

  I continued looking down at Laurel. “Stop and lean back,” I ordered her.

  She glanced up, still moving. “What!”

  “Talbot.” West’s voice was edged in irritation.

  “I’m busy.” My focus remained on Laurel, despite him grating on my nerves. “Brace your shoulders against the walls and make yourself flat, goddamn it, or I’ll leave you here.”

  She didn’t argue and the rope shifted with her movement.

  “Talbot!” West shouted above me, making it extremely difficult to concentrate. “Fucking hell, get up—”

  But I ignored him.

  Both hands on the rope, I couldn’t shoot. Take one hand off the rope and I just had one to support my weight—and I was tired. Too tired.

  When Laurel was as flat as she could make herself, I took a deep breath and let go.

  I plunged down, struggling to keep my body straight even as my shoulder clipped the rough limestone. Plummeting, I had no time to hear the shouts above me or glimpse Laurel’s expression as I flew past her; feet held flat rather than pointed, and my braid whipped above my head.

  The soles of my boots collided with the snout of the creature below and the impact jarred my stance. I careened to the side as I fell, scraping my bare flesh and knocking my skull against stone.

  The pair of us—beast and I—fell, it under me and cushioning my fall as we landed. My helmet, still dangling from my belt, cracked on the ground and the light went out. I rolled onto my knees, drawing my guns, and fired, both barrels aimed at its head. I had eighteen rounds in each gun; that might be enough to cause some serious brain damage if I kept both trained between his eyes. Or I might fail—perhaps trying to kill things without a playlist was messing with my mind and I wasn’t thinking clearly.