by AD Starrling
William Hartwell had backed up against the balustrade. Conrad froze and felt time slow down.
The young man tipped over the edge and fell from the terrace, dragging his three attackers with him. The woman leapt forward through the curtain of glittering rain, crystal drops crashing on her skin, her movements heavy and sluggish in that stolen moment of stillness. She leaned over the balcony, fingers clutching desperately at the figures plummeting toward the ground. Her hands closed on empty space.
The bodies struck the street three stories below with a dull thud.
Time unfroze in a cacophony of sounds and sensations. Thunder rumbled across the heavens, underscoring the battle cries around Conrad. Cold wetness drenched his hair and face, bringing the sharp scent of the storm to his nostrils and a tangy taste to his lips. Lightning tore a brilliant, jagged path across his vision and made him blink.
Heat suddenly erupted across his chest when a blade slashed his skin. Blood bloomed on his shirt. Conrad scowled and focused on his two remaining adversaries. By the time he had disposed of them, the woman had disappeared from the rooftop.
He looked at the other fighters around him and felt a rush of relief at the sight that met his eyes; despite the odds, his men were winning.
‘Go!’ yelled someone to his right. The red-haired figure who had spoken danced nimbly out of the way of a blade and stabbed his opponent savagely in the chest. Pale eyes glanced at him for a second. ‘We’ve got this, Greene!’
Conrad bobbed his head jerkily and twisted the ring that retracted the staff’s spear blades. He raced for the door that led inside the building.
By the time he reached the ground floor, the wound on his chest had stopped bleeding. He knew without looking that the skin beneath his torn shirt was once more unblemished.
He found the woman on her knees by the pile of bodies that lay in an awkward tangle of broken limbs at the north base of the Banqueting House. She was leaning over William Hartwell, sobs shuddering through her as she stroked his pale face with shaking fingers; blood from the wound in her arm mingled with his where it seeped from the irregular depression on his temple. Hartwell’s chest rose and fell shallowly with his breaths. He was unconscious.
The woman looked around at Conrad’s footsteps, her hazel eyes wild with anguish.
‘Do something, please!’ she begged.
Conrad sank to the ground next to her, his voice frozen in his throat. He placed his left hand on the young man’s head and closed his eyes.
A burst of energy flared inside his chest and pulsed down toward his elbow. It darted through the birthmark dancing along his forearm and flashed to the ends of his fingers. He inhaled deeply and guided the flow of his power inside the broken body of William Hartwell.
Bone popped beneath his hand. The young man’s flesh slowly began to knit together.
Sweat broke across Conrad’s brow. The battle had drained him of much of his strength; he could feel Hartwell’s torn tissues resisting his ability to heal them. He ground his teeth together and willed his exhausted body to cooperate.
‘What’s happening?’ said the woman. Panic raised the pitch of her voice. She grabbed Conrad’s shoulders and shook him, her fingers biting into his skin. ‘Why isn’t he waking up?’
Conrad sagged as he felt his own life force start to ebb; he was nearing the limits of his ability. He blinked and swayed. Dark blotches clouded his vision. The woman’s frantic words became a roar in his ears.
A moan suddenly broke through the rush of blood inside his head. He looked down and saw Hartwell’s eyes open. Within the dark pupils of the man he had come to know and love as a brother, Conrad Greene read the words he could no longer utter.
William Hartwell wanted to die. He also yearned for something else.
Conrad gasped and slowly pulled his power back inside his own body, his fingers trembling on the cooling skin of the dying man. Hartwell shivered beneath his touch.
‘Why are you stopping?’ yelled the woman. ‘Save him!’
Conrad knew there were only seconds left; he could feel Death’s shadow approaching through the thunderstorm raging across the city. He leaned down and brought his lips to Hartwell’s ear.
‘I forgive you,’ he whispered, his vision blurring with tears. He pulled back slightly and saw Hartwell blink once. The young man’s last breath left his mouth and caressed Conrad’s cheek.
William Hartwell stared unseeingly at the rain falling from the night sky, his face serene and his body relaxing in death.
‘No,’ mumbled the woman. ‘No, this isn’t happening!’ Her voice rose to a scream. ‘Why did you let him die? Why? Goddamn you—!’ Grief overwhelmed her and she wept brokenly.
Conrad’s heart shattered inside his chest as he looked at the woman he loved and saw hate dawn in the depths of her hazel eyes.
Chapter Two
October 2011. Amazon Rainforest. Brazil.
Mosquitoes buzzed above the swamp, the noise of their beating wings a dull drone that overlaid the heavy stillness of the sweltering afternoon. Here and there, a bubble of marsh gas broke through to the top of the pond. The sporadic squawks of macaws and toucans sounded from the neighboring trees, the sounds stifled in the sultry air.
A breeze drifted through a narrow inlet from the southeast. It rustled the leaves in the rainforest canopy and danced across the dark waters below. Ripples broke across the glassy surface and rocked the small, wooden raft nestled in the living carpet of giant water lilies that covered the swamp.
Something shifted in the stern of the canoe. It settled down again and panted loudly in the heat. A moment later, it huffed and let out a low whine.
From where he lay in the bow of the raft, Conrad Greene raised his hand and lazily adjusted the faded planter’s hat covering his face. He peeked out from under the chewed, frayed brim at the dog sitting at his feet.
‘What’s up, Rocky?’ he murmured.
The German Shepherd mongrel wrinkled his brow. He looked at Conrad anxiously before turning his head to peer at the trees crowding the north bank of the swamp.
Conrad followed the dog’s gaze to a black shape perched on the low-lying branch of a strangler fig some fifty feet away. The jaguar watched them unblinkingly, its golden irises shining eerily in the gloom under the canopy. The tip of its tail swung lazily from side to side in a hypnotic rhythm that swatted flies away from its lean, sinewy body.
The sudden lack of chatter from the boisterous group of squirrel monkeys who lived in the trees around the marsh should have alerted Conrad to the arrival of the predator. He observed the creature for silent seconds before acknowledging it with a brief nod. The jaguar’s tail froze for a moment before resuming its idle dance.
It was almost nine months to the day since the big cat had started hanging out on his land, deep in the floodplains northwest of the town of Alvarães, in the Brazilian state of Amazonas. Conrad could recall their first encounter with vivid clarity. It hadn’t gone so well.
During a stormy night in the rainy season, when lightning flashed across the skies and heavy squalls rattled the walls of his home, he had woken to Rocky’s whimpers under his bed and the growls of the jaguar as she prowled the deck of the wood cabin. For the first time in almost seventy years, Conrad had had to draw his staff to defend himself. It was either that or have his throat ripped open by the wounded and desperately hungry predator, who he suspected had been preying on Rocky, still a puppy at the time.
Once he defeated the injured big cat, Conrad had used his unearthly immortal power to restore her to health. His reward had been a hail of angry hisses and a collection of scratches intended to disembowel him. Still, the jaguar seemed to have formed an uneasy connection with the immortal since the incident and kept returning to the swamp.
When he recounted this tale to his closest neighbor during
one of their monthly drinking sessions, the old woman concluded the jaguar had a crush on him and burst out laughing until tears streamed down her tanned, leathery face. Conrad had to slap her on the back when her breath left her nicotine-stained lips in protracted wheezes. He decided to name the jaguar after her.
He turned to the dog. ‘It’s only Roxanne.’
Rocky whimpered, lowered his head on his forepaws, and hunched his shoulders. He had never forgotten the night the jaguar had intended to have him for dinner.
Conrad sighed. ‘Seriously, you need to grow some balls, you big wuss. You’re about ten times the size you were when you first met her. Where’s your wolf pride?’
The dog’s brown eyes drilled steadily into his face. The immortal resisted the soulful gaze for all of five seconds; he suspected a sheep lay somewhere in the dog’s distant ancestry.
‘All right. Let’s give it another half hour and see if anything bites,’ he muttered.
The dog lifted his head, bushy tail thumping the bottom of the canoe. Conrad adjusted the fishing rod on his lap, lay back down, and moved the hat over his face. Silence descended on the swamp once more.
Five minutes later, the raft rocked violently in the water.
‘What the—?’ started Conrad, jerking upright.
Rocky was up on all fours in the stern of the canoe. Head held high and ears pricked forward, he stared intently past Conrad at the sky to the west. A low hiss erupted from the branch of the strangler fig. The jaguar disappeared into the forest in a rustle of leaves.
Conrad inspected the patch of blue rising above the green rim of the canopy. Bar some popcorn-shaped clouds high up in the atmosphere, it was empty.
‘What is it, boy?’ he said, frowning at the dog. A soft growl rose from the throat of the German Shepherd mongrel.
As the agitated squeals and calls of monkeys erupted from the branches of giant mahogany and kapok trees around the swamp, Conrad finally heard the sound that had unnerved the dog and the jaguar. It was the faint buzz of an aircraft.
He put the fishing rod down and rose carefully to his feet. The raft swayed beneath him. He removed his hat and shaded his eyes as he gazed at the heavens.
There was an airport in Tefé, a city on the banks of the Rio Solimoes, just over ten miles south of Alvarães. Although the sight and sound of a plane were not exactly rare in the rainforest, Conrad knew his land did not lie below any direct flight paths. Which meant that the aircraft had to be a private charter.
The noise grew closer, the buzz changing into a stuttering, high-pitched whir. Conrad stiffened. There was something wrong with the plane’s engine.
Rocky’s growl grew louder. The dog let out a bark and jumped on his hind legs. The canoe lurched precariously beneath them. Conrad staggered sideways and almost fell overboard.
‘Goddammit, Rocky, will you cut it—!’ he snapped. It was as far as he got.
A growing shape blotted out the sun and darkened the sky. Trailing smoke and flames from its left wing, a twin-engine Cessna arrowed down toward him in a deafening roar that shook the canopy and eclipsed the dog’s wild barks.
Conrad twisted on his heels, dove for the German Shepherd, and carried him over the gunwale of the canoe. The downdraft from the Cessna washed over them as they plunged beneath the cool surface of the swamp, engulfed in fleeting twilight by the shadow of the plane.
An explosion rocked the air. The pressure waves from the blast shook the floating water lilies and overturned the canoe. Conrad emerged from the water with a gasp. He coughed and wiped wet hair from his eyes while he looked around.
Rocky paddled the surface of the pond several feet away. The dog’s ears flattened against his skull as he gazed despondently at the southeast bank of the swamp. A whimper escaped his jaws.
Conrad followed his line of sight and froze. ‘You have got to be kidding me,’ he muttered dully.
The space where his home had stood for sixty-five years was now occupied by a giant ball of fire. The Cessna had crashed into his cabin.
Conrad swore and started for the shore, his strokes carving the water deftly. Rocky followed, the planter hat clamped firmly in his jaws. The dog’s forepaws scrabbled onto the pitted, scarred surface of the wooden jetty abutting the bank seconds before the immortal pulled himself out of the water.
Rocky climbed onto the rickety pier, dropped the hat, and shook himself energetically. Conrad barely noticed the spray of cool drops that splashed him from head to toe as he watched the conflagration some fifty feet away. Heat from the raging flames washed over him in waves that started to dry the moisture on his skin. The stench of kerosene was overwhelming. He headed toward the fire.
The Cessna’s aft fuselage and tail were the only visible parts of the plane that had remained intact after the crash; rising from the center of the wreckage, they angled awkwardly toward the sky, silent witnesses to the wake of explosive destruction around them.
Conrad stopped and observed the burning debris that dotted the landscape. There were no signs of the flames threatening to spread to the shrubs and trees next to the swamp, a fact that was aided by the heavy humidity and waterlogged land.
A frown dawned on his face as he slowly circumnavigated the remains of the aircraft and the ruins of his dwelling. He knew the chances of finding any survivors were remote at best. He soon spotted the body of the pilot.
The head and shoulders of the burning corpse could be seen sticking out from the rubble of what had once been his bedroom. If not at the moment of the collision, the man would have died during the explosion that followed.
Conrad grimaced. If the crash had happened at night, he and the dog would have been toast. His eyes followed the black fumes spiraling sluggishly toward the sky. It would only be a matter of minutes before someone in Alvarães spotted the smoke trail. Fear of a forest fire would have the authorities on his doorstep by the afternoon.
He turned and started to negotiate the area around the blast zone. Tail tucked firmly between his hind legs, Rocky padded silently next to him.
It was the dog who found the second body. About thirty feet south of the point of impact, at the end of a trail of flattened orchids and heliconias, a figure lay jammed between the buttress roots of a young kapok tree.
Conrad squatted and inspected the still shape held at an awkward angle in the timber embrace of the rainforest. The scent of the crushed flowers was at odds with the stench of burnt flesh rising from the dead man in the suit. The tilt of his head and legs indicated a broken back and neck.
Rocky whimpered and lowered his nose to the ground. He leaned forward cautiously and sniffed the area next to the body before rising with his forepaws against the buttress roots. He let out a sharp bark.
Conrad followed the dog’s excited gaze to a branch some forty feet above the ground.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he muttered.
Caught on the hanging vines dripping from the moss-covered bough was a slim, metal briefcase. The immortal studied the line of Bala ants marching up the trunk of the tree. Climbing to retrieve the case was not an option; he had been stung by the giant ants too many times to even think about risking their painful wrath. After a moment’s contemplation, he stood up, reached behind his back, and retrieved the gilded staff tucked in the waistband of his trousers.
‘What d’you reckon?’ he asked the dog, spinning the rod between his fingers. Rocky huffed approvingly.
Conrad twisted the second ring on the shaft and pulled on the ends of the weapon. The staff came apart to reveal a pair of gleaming short swords. The dog jumped back at the slick, metallic noise, a low whine escaping his jaws.
Conrad lifted his right arm behind his head and threw the blade in his hand. The sword cartwheeled in the air with a faint hum and sliced neatly through the creepers holding the briefcase prisoner. It fell to th
e fern-covered ground. The sword thudded into the earth next to it, gilded end vibrating to a slow stop.
The immortal bent and retrieved the case. Bar some superficial scratches, it was intact. He turned it and stared at the combination lock on the front. His gaze shifted to the dead man. He placed the briefcase on a giant root, walked over to the body, and patted it down under Rocky’s anxious stare. His fingers closed on a wallet in the inside pocket of the suit jacket. He stood and flicked it open.
The dead man’s surname was McPherson. He couldn’t make out the rest of the details of the California driving license tucked inside the front holder; the wallet was heavily scorched. He raised an eyebrow when he found the burnt remains of a dozen hundred-dollar bills and a half-melted Amex card. The rest of the wallet was empty. There was no sign of a code for the combination lock.
Conrad turned and considered the briefcase. If the plane was indeed a charter as he suspected, a flight plan should have been filed with the airport where it took off. There would, however, have been no legal requirement on the part of the pilot to include the name of his passenger. The contents of the case might reveal the identity of the dead man.
He eyed the dog questioningly. Rocky barked once, his tail spinning furiously from side to side. Taking that as a sign of the canine’s approval, Conrad wedged the briefcase between the roots of the kapok tree, raised a sword, and jabbed sharply at the combination lock. It broke after three blows.
He sheathed the twin blades, tucked the short staff inside his waistband, and picked up the case. Rocky trotted beside him as he headed for an open area of land away from the trees. He knelt down in the dirt, placed the briefcase on the ground, and unfastened the clasps. The dog’s hot pants washed over his neck as he lifted the lid. His hands stilled on the metal.
The case contained two items. The first one was a thick envelope; the second was a 9mm semiautomatic Colt pistol lying atop it. Rocky lowered his head and sniffed at the gun. Conrad pushed the dog’s muzzle aside and carefully picked up the weapon. He checked the chamber. It was loaded.
