Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  Unless Bellamy missed his guess, the changes meant that the reality of the Tempest was locking down, claiming Natchez for all time. He seethed with impatience. His Shadow cackled and danced.

  At last, his wizened, painted face as weary-looking as Bellamy had ever seen it, Titus pointed to the north. "That way."

  Montrose frowned. "Perhaps."

  Antoine hissed and jabbed his snout toward an alley that snaked off to the east. Titus turned toward Marilyn.

  "I'm sorry," the Arcanist said. "I can't tell one way or the other."

  "Nor can I, really," Montrose said. "Prudence's psychic footprints were clear to me a hundred yards back, but here—"

  The gator seized the hem of the Stygian's ink-black cloak in his jaws and dragged him toward the alley.

  "All right, Antoine," said Titus. "If you're that certain, we'll go your way."

  But should wel Bellamy wondered. Antoine hadn't been able to track Dunn away from the site of the bombing, and that had been before the gator's brain had started turning to mush. Yet he couldn't bring himself to express his doubts. Not when Antoine was his only true friend among the dead, and was risking everything to help. Frowning, he stalked on into the narrow passage with his allies.

  A pair of skull-faced harpies swooped out of the darkness, keening. "J heir cry flooded Bellamy's mind with an irrational panic, but, shaking, he managed to stand his ground and shoot one anyway, while one of Marie's warriors put a crossbow bolt through the other. A minute later, the gale gusted, and the lean, long-legged body of another African began to disperse as if it were made of smoke. He dropped his assegai, bellowed a war cry, and clutched at the raised, ritual scars decorating his face. His form solidified again.

  After three blocks, Titus moved to Montrose's side. Bellamy hurried close enough to eavesdrop on their exchange. "I'm still not picking her up," the old man murmured.

  "Nor am I," the Anacreon replied. "How certain were you that we ought to go the other way?"

  Titus grimaced. "Not sure at all."

  "Antoine is sure. Let's give him a few more yards, and then I'll fly up for another look around. Perhaps eventually I'll spot something significant from the air."

  Perhaps? Eventually? Furious, certain they were going the wrong way, Bellamy opened his mouth to demand that they backtrack immediately. At that moment, a long, ululating howl echoed from the darkness ahead. Though the shrieking of the wind nearly masked it, it was still recognizably a wolfman's chilling cry. Bellamy's shadowself writhed in disappointment.

  The FBI agent strode to the head of the column. "That's them," he said.

  "I've never encountered a werewolf myself," Montrose answered, "but I assumed as much." He checked his AK-47 and loosened his rapier and dagger in their scabbards. "All right, everyone. Let's advance silently for as long as we possibly can."

  They skulked on to the point where the alley opened onto the next street. On the other side, a road led into what appeared to be a dilapidated industrial park, a warren of ugly, hulking, brick and cement-block buildings. Antoine poked his nose at the entrance. Montrose nodded, indicating that he'd picked up the trail again as well.

  As the expedition glided between the gateposts, Bellamy glimpsed motion from the corner of his eye. He turned, and a two-headed Spectre charged him, clawed hands raised, crocodilian jaws gaping. Mindful that he and his allies were supposed to proceed silently, he raised his gleaming black shortsword, but never got a chance to use it. A stone whizzed up from the ground, struck the Sinkinda in the head, and shot on through. But the split second of contact had been enough to stagger the Spectre, and Louise sprang in and decapitated it with a sweep of her saber.

  Bellamy turned. His companions were battling other sentries, and holding their own by the looks of it. But beyond the periphery of the struggle, a two-headed doomshade sprinted away into the gloom.

  The FBI agent had no doubt that the creature was running to warn its fellows. He gave chase, and Louise hurtled after him. In a matter of seconds, they had left their allies behind.

  Two more doomshades surged from the shadows, obsidian-studded swords whirling in their taloned hands. Louise whirled to face them, her feet settling into a cat stance and the saber swinging into a high guard. "Keep going!" she said.

  Bellamy hesitated for an instant, then ran on. Ahead of him his quarry, evidently deciding it couldn't outdistance him, turned and wove its hands in a mystic pattern. Its claws struck sparks of bluish phosphorescence from the night.

  The industrial buildings vanished. In their place was the parking lot of a seedy motel. Next door, a pink neon woman on the roof of a topless bar winked over and over again. Car exhaust stung Bellamy's eyes.

  He felt a heart thumping in his chest, and the warmth of life glowing in his flesh. It looked as if he'd just emerged from one of the motel rooms with fat, drunken, frightened Milo Waxman in tow.

  To all appearances, he'd traveled back in time and space to his rendezvous with the psychic in East St. Louis. To the moment that had set him on the road to his own death.

  He told himself it could only be an illusion. Still, he began to shudder, because he knew that Dunn, in his wolfman form, was about to rise from behind the rented Camry. And the Quick Frank Bellamy had never seen such a werewolf before, had never had a chance to get over the overwhelming terror the monsters inspired in ordinary people.

  A huge, black shape reared up from behind the car. Waxman gaped at it, whimpered, clutched at his chest, and collapsed. Bellamy felt his mind crumbling as it had before.

  Dropping his shortsword, he fumbled the Ruger up to his shoulder, and remembered that that wasn't right. He'd only had his Browning before. Somehow that one bit of reality, bleeding into the nightmare, blunted the edge of his panic.

  It isn't real, he told himself. Charge the Spectre. It's right in front of you, even if you can't see it.

  Dunn bounded lightly over the Camry. His lantern eyes shone, and a viscous strand of saliva oozed from his jaws. Bellamy smelled the werewolfs characteristic scent, a foul, zoo-cage stench mingled with the odor of tobacco.

  What if it wasn't all an illusion? What if the wolfman was really there, gliding toward his prey this instant?

  Bellamy insisted to himself that it didn't matter. Dunn had already stolen his life. He was a ghost now, a dweller on the dark side of the Shroud, and as long as he stayed there, the wolfman couldn't hurt him anymore.

  Sobbing, he drove himself forward.

  Dunn sidestepped, placing himself directly in his path. The huge, clawed, black- furred hands shot out to snatch him up. Bellamy involuntarily shut his eyes.

  Dunn's claws ripped into his shoulders. But only for a split second, and then the sensation disappeared. Nor did the abambo plow into the towering creature's body.

  Bellamy opened his eyes. The landscape had shifted back to its original form, and the Aztec doomshade stood a few yards in front of him. Evidently, by refusing to behave as he had the first time, he'd shattered the phantasm conjured from his memory.

  Still dry-mouthed and shaky with the residue of his terror, he lifted the rifle to club his tormentor. Then something slammed into his ribs.

  The blow threw him off his feet and sent the Ruger flying from his hands. The creature which had blindsided him resembled a faceless statue assembled trom chunks of stone, then covered with gleaming brown leather. Judging from its appearance, it wasn't an Aztec, but one of the other horrors of the Tempest which had begun to rally to their banner. Still dazed from the illusion, Bellamy had missed seeing it rush in from the side.

  Spasming with shock and pain, he tried to scramble after his gun. The leather- and-rock creature threw itself on top of him and pinned him. Its four eyes blazing, the Aztec doomshade dropped to its knees beside the other wraiths, fangs bared and talons raised.

  Bellamy struggled desperately, but couldn't break free. He tried to project himself to safety across the Shroud, but his Proctor powers responded sluggishly—too sluggishly to keep the Sp
ectre from ripping him apart.

  A long, low form raced out of the darkness.

  For an instant, Antoine faded and became translucent, as he had in the Governor's Citadel, but he seemed solid enough when he seized the two-headed Sinkinda from behind. His jaws nearly snapped the monster in two, yet it didn't perish. It turned and starting rending its attacker. Intertwined, the two combatants thrashed about on the ground.

  Bellamy's captor turned its eyeless head toward the fight. His strength returning, the FBI agent took advantage of its distraction and wrenched one arm free of its grasp. He flung out his hand and managed to grab the Ruger.

  The creature drew its massive fist back for a punch that could doubtless crush his head. If he wanted to survive, Bellamy couldn't avoid the noise of gunfire anymore. He frantically whipped the automatic rifle around, got his finger on the trigger, and sprayed darksteel bullets into his assailant's head and chest. The monster dissolved in a rippling curtain of black fire.

  Staggering to his feet, Bellamy tried to aim the Ruger at the other doomshade, but found that he didn't dare shoot. The way the Aztec and Antoine were locked together, he might just as easily hit the gator.

  Suddenly Antoine heaved and broke the Spectre's hold on him. With a crunch, his jaws bit down on both the creature's heads, and then he bucked and wrenched them off. The Sinkinda dissolved.

  Antoine crumpled to the ground. His scaly hide hung in tatters, and ripples of shadow washed through his body, which repeatedly faded in and out of view.

  "Are you going to be all right?" Bellamy asked.

  The gator seemed to grin. "Stupid question, warmblood," he croaked, and then shadowy flames burned him away. Only his zebra-striped kerchief remained.

  Bellamy's eyes throbbed as if they could still shed tears. Haltingly, he stooped, picked up the scarf, and then stood staring at it until Louise ran out of the darkness a few moments later.

  The Sister of Athena's jeans were torn, but she seemed unharmed. "I heard shooting," she said. "Did you stop the other Spectre?"

  "Antoine did," Bellamy said. "But..." He showed her the neckerchief.

  Beneath her battered golden mask, the blond woman's mouth softened with compassion. "I'm sorry. I only just met you both, but I could tell you were friends."

  "We were, but tonight, I doubted him. I was afraid the storm had turned him into some stupid animal. I didn't even try to talk to him as we were hiking along. I wish..." He shrugged.

  "For what it's worth," Louise said gently, "I don't believe he could perish fighting to protect Creation, and to help a friend, and then fall into Oblivion. I think he Transcended, He's in a better place now."

  Bellamy tried to derive some comfort from the idea, but he couldn't. It was too abstract, and too much at odds with the bleak, cold realities of the afterlife as he'd experienced it.

  But gradually, something else ameliorated his grief. He pictured Waxman's fatal heart attack, and his own electrocution. R. J. Keene's death at the hands of the animated statue. The possessed man killing the Arcanists in their Chapter House. Marilyn's mutilation. The dangers which had repeatedly threatened Astarte.

  He thought of the Atheist murders and the other massacres the conspiracy had engineered. The innumerable atrocities occurring up and down the river even now.

  And his sorrow gave way to a rage like cold iron.

  "Come on," he said, moving to pick up his sword. "Let's rejoin the others, and finish this."

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Senses straining, spying for signs of an ambush, Montrose led his companions skulking forward. As far as he knew, none of the Spectre guards had escaped to warn their fellow doomshades. And he hoped that the Aztecs hadn't taken alarm at the single burst from Bellamy's rifle. Even if the enemy had heard it, people were discharging guns all over Natchez tonight. Still, it was wise to be wary.

  He peeked around a corner. The lane running off to the side contained a number of parked cars. With his wraith senses, he could feel that some of their engines were still warm, just as he could hear the metal ticking.

  As the column prowled on, deeper into the complex, they found many more vehicles, including a number of vans and ambulances. "Scythe and lamp," whispered one of the Black Hawks who'd joined the expedition at the Citadel, "if the Spectres used all these cars to gather together, we haven't got near enough men to take them out."

  Montrose wheeled to face his companions. "Yes, we do, Legionnaire. We simply have to hit hard. You can see that our comrades from New Orleans aren't afraid to go forward, nor are the Grim Riders. Are the men of the Fifth any less brave?"

  The Black Hawk swallowed. "No, sir. We're with you."

  Montrose smiled. "Good. I was sure you would be. I wore the black bird myself, for centuries, and the Fifth never turned tail in my day. Forward, then. The Hierarchy and the Restless of New Orleans—and Creation itself, for that matter—are all depending on us. Let's win them a victory that the world will remember until the end of time."

  The column prowled on. Bellamy made his way to Montrose's side. "I'm worried that the cars don't all belong to Sinkinda and wolfmen," he murmured grimly.

  The Scot cocked his head. "What do you mean?"

  "All along, their scheme has involved murdering the Quick. Maybe the grand finale requires the biggest massacre of all."

  Montrose nodded somberly. "That's not a bad inference. It grieves me that, given the circumstances, I have no choice but to hope you're correct."

  Another howl quavered through the night. Employing his Harbinger senses, Montrose made sure the company was still on Mother Prudence's trail, then pressed on. The scent of blood floated on the hot, stinging wind.

  A huge, dark warehouse emerged from the gloom ahead. A hint of sound leaked through its walls. Two living figures stood by the doorway. Their auras were murky clouds of red, purple, brown, and black, the streaks of color rippling and swirling hypnotically. Montrose assumed they were werewolves in human form. In any case, it was obvious from the patterns of light that they were both violent and insane.

  The Scot gestured for Louise, Bellamy, and Titus to accompany him, and signaled the rest of his allies to remain where they were. The four wraiths crept forward.

  When they were four yards away from the doorkeepers, the one on the left suddenly hunched forward, peering. "Ghosts!" he said. "I mean, enemy ghosts! I see them!"

  Titus gestured. The doorkeeper doubled over as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Bellamy leaped across the Shroud and darted in to stab him. The werewolf straightened up, his hands now twice their former size, covered with charcoal-colored fur and sporting hooked yellow claws. He lashed out at the FBI agent's face. Bellamy ducked the stroke and rammed his shortsword into his opponent's abdomen.

  Meanwhile, the other shapeshifter reached inside his nylon windbreaker and drew a deep breath to shout. His throat indented as Louise seized it in a crushing telekinetic grip, locking the cry inside him. He fumbled out his revolver, but Montrose projected himself into the Skinlands, then drove his rapier into the werewolf s heart before the creature could fire a warning shot.

  The doorkeepers collapsed, and Montrose and Bellamy allowed death to draw them back into the Underworld. The Scot beckoned to the rest of his troops, and they trotted up to join him.

  Louise stared intently at the door, and it opened a hair. Montrose realized she was making sure that Marilyn and Astarte would be able to pass through without difficulty.

  The Scot, Bellamy, and Titus led the company inside. Despite the excruciating tension of the moment, Montrose fleetingly noticed just how good it felt to escape the punishing gale.

  Beyond the entrance was a makeshift corridor constructed of planks, sheets of plywood, and soundproofing, which dulled and jumbled the noises coming from the far end. The stink of blood was stronger, and mingled with the aroma of sawdust and a rank, bestial odor.

  Bellamy looked sick. "It's a chute," he whispered. "Like in a slaughterhouse. Something to keep the victims from see
ing what's waiting for them until it's too late to run."

  They came to a right-angle turn. Montrose saw little point in proceeding on to the door at the end of the passage. Instead, he simply slipped his face through the wall in front of him.

  Bloody corpses littered the floor. All bore the mark of enormous claws and fangs, and many lay in several pieces. Werewolves, some in human form, others, towering beast-men, and still others, entirely lupine, prowled among the carnage, feasting, their mouths encrusted with gore and their bellies distended.

  It was a ghastly spectacle, but the cavernous room held worse. The werewolves were only killing and devouring adults.

  In the center of the warehouse rose a stepped pyramid of black stone. At the base of it stood a number of mortals clad in loincloths, headdresses fashioned from feathers or the bones, teeth, and pelts of animals, and streaks of paint. In their auras writhed veins of black, and in many cases, their hands were torn and raw. Evidently they were possessed, and, heedless of injuries to their borrowed bodies, the Spectres had driven them hard to construct their temple.

  With a brutal efficiency that nonetheless had the cadenced, repetitive quality of ritual, the doomshades were binding, stripping, and painting the bodies of the screaming, struggling children they'd somehow drawn to their lair. Then, one by one, they were dragging the youngsters to the top of the pyramid, where another trio of possessed mortals wearing far more elaborate regalia awaited them. An infant lay on the altar even now. A priest in a jaguar-skin cape and cowl brandished a gleaming obsidian dagger, then ripped open the baby's torso.

  "Enough of this shit," growled Fink. Startled, Montrose turned, and saw that his friend had moved up to find out what the wraiths in the front rank were gawking at. Shotgun at the ready, the keelboatman strode boldly through the wall. Glaring arcs of electricity crackled and danced across the floor. Caught in the effect, two werewolves—one wearing the form of a true beast, with wormy sores covering much of its left flank, the other a lopsided, bipedal thing with the tusks and snout of a boar—shuddered and jerked, their flesh frying.