There was a long moment of silence. So be it.
Dax didn’t give the Old One time to change his mind. He moved into the lava tube at the dragon’s urging. As Dax shifted into mist and sped away through the vents and fissures in the black volcanic rock, the dragon was there with him, part of him, a separate soul and consciousness sharing his body, his gifts. Together, yet still separate. More powerful together than either had been apart. Neither of them would ever be alone again. And both of them streaked through the volcano with one purpose foremost in their minds: to stop Mitro Daratrazanoff or die trying.
The tube was miles long, an old subterranean flow that had long since shifted, leaving a wide tunnel extending under the mountain. Dax had been in it often, following Mitro, knowing the vampire was up to something within the tube, but he’d never managed to catch him at anything. As mist, he could travel without giving away his presence if Mitro had set a trap for him, which he did habitually.
Wait. Here. He has not gone beyond this point.
Dax stopped moving instantly, the mist stretching out along with his senses, trying to reason out where Mitro could have gone. The stench of the undead permeated the tube, and he couldn’t feel or smell a difference, but he trusted the dragon’s instincts. The creature was a fierce hunter and well adapted to stalking in caves.
The tube didn’t have any tributaries, not any that Dax could see, or that he’d ever found, yet the dragon sensed that the vampire hadn’t continued along the tube, which meant he’d found another way through the mountain—or was disguised and lying in wait for his enemy.
Dax went still, reaching for his dragon senses. The undead was a repulsive, loathsome stench in the home of the Old One. The creature of myth and legend found the presence of a creature so against nature to be abhorrent. The fact that Mitro was in his home had the dragon outraged.
The stench was strongest to his right. Dax studied the rock outcropping. The wall was dark reds, yellow and deep brown. He could detect no hint of Mitro tampering with the wall itself. He experimented with moving slowly, inch by inch, his patience at odds with the dragon’s growing emotions of hostility toward the unwelcome abomination in his home.
The hunt took patience, something the dragon had never had to really develop. Dax skimmed along the rock wall, allowing the mist to touch the various colors and settle into the cracks, examining them to see if there was an opening too small to see. Nothing. He moved lower, taking in every inch of the wall. The tube sloped downward, coming to the floor in a relatively smooth overlap. Again there was no sign of Mitro, but he was beginning to feel a sense of urgency.
Dax knew from centuries of experience that when a hunter felt that sudden push, it meant his prey was close and up to no good. He waited a few heartbeats, going still again, getting a feel for the tube and anything that might be out of place. The overhead ceiling was mottled with grays, blues and deep rust colors. The floor was yellow and brown, chunks of rocks scattered everywhere. Small flecks of gray, blue and rust dusted the top of three of the rocks directly below him.
Dax turned his attention to the ceiling, the mist moving in close, pressing against the mottled rock. The surface was much smoother here, the tiny cracks and crevices harder to discern. As mist, he could seep into the little spaces, going as deep as possible before they dead-ended, and he could examine large portions of the ceiling at the same time.
Clever, clever Mitro. There was a pinhole, so small only a tiny bore worm would be able to insert itself into that dot, but the moment the mist touched it, Dax felt the familiar pull that told him he was not only on the trail, but was very close. He moved deeper inside that small opening and almost immediately it widened in circumference. The worm had grown to enormous proportions, burrowing through the rock and then pushing any flakes to the side. A few had escaped through that little pinhole and landed on the rocks below.
Many times over the centuries, Mitro had worked at finding his way out, burrowing close to the shield set in place by Arabejila so many years earlier. The vampire at times had managed to weaken the barrier when the women had become less powerful, but once the ritual was performed, that safeguard held. Clearly, now that the volcano was close to exploding, and the woman was late, Mitro was making another try.
With great stealth, Dax seeped through the ever-widening hole. The larger the bore worm, the more efficient and faster he could go through the rock. Mitro expanded his worm the moment he thought it safe to do so. It was a brilliant and cunning plan. Dax would never have found that tiny pinhole on his own. The stench of the vampire was too strong everywhere, especially in the lava tube. Mitro had made certain his presence was known in every corner and chamber underground. He knew it was his best defense.
Dax wasn’t in the least surprised that Mitro had managed to bore a great distance through, up to the barrier itself. He was finding it hard going once he hit the shield. It may have weakened without the necessary reinforcement Arabejila’s kin would bring, but the safeguards were still powerful.
Dax crept up behind the great worm. The creature spun fast, turning over and over, a living drill, its head equipped with a diamond-hard bite while the tail acted like a rudder. Dax timed his moment, a hand reaching out of the mist, grasping the spinning tail, shackling it in a grip impossible to break. Immediately he reversed direction, backing up and dragging the worm with him.
Mitro thrashed and fought, but the hole was tight, preventing him from turning and sinking his teeth into Dax. He tried shifting, but Dax refused to relinquish his hold. Mitro couldn’t go forward or shift into insubstantial mist. As the hole began to narrow, he shifted just enough to use his diamond-hard nails on his feet like the claws of a dragon, cutting through the rock as if it didn’t exist. He widened the hole, maintaining his grip on the worm’s tail as he moved backward toward the lava tube.
The moment he felt the air sliding over him, he shifted again, back into his human form, dropping to the floor of the lava tube, dragging Mitro with him. The worm swung his head around, the massive drill bit driving at Dax’s body. Without letting go of the tail, Dax pulled his chest out of the way of that whirling diamond point.
The ground lurched, sending him sprawling against the tube. The worm went wild, slamming itself into the wall, trying to bank off the rocks to get at Dax. Deep inside the dragon roused, a blast of warning reverberating through Dax’s skull. Temperatures soared in the lava tube, and steam vented through several places in the floor. The ground shook a second time and molten rock burst through the openings. The floor crumbled and melted, dropping down into the lava flowing beneath the tube.
Dax gripped the struggling worm’s tail with both hands, determined they would both be destroyed in the magma rocketing into the tube. More and more geysers slung the melted rock high into the air so that it hit the ceiling and splattered in all directions. Desperate, Mitro reversed direction and slashed at Dax’s wrist, driving through flesh. The ground gave another lurch, and Dax sprawled onto the floor.
Beneath him the floor opened and magma shot through. He heard his own scream as the flesh of his legs burned away. He lost his grip on Mitro. For a moment it looked as if the molten rock had engulfed the vampire, but with the orange and red stream of magma rose a suspicious steam. Shrieks of pain and rage filled the tube.
Dax had no choice but to survive. Cutting off the excruciating pain was impossible, but he shifted, knowing it was the dragon’s scales that saved him. His flesh was burned away and he needed the healing earth immediately. Once again, fate had favored Mitro. The timing of the blast through the tube’s floor hadn’t been the vampire, but the volcano preparing for a major eruption. The body of the worm had saved Mitro, but he, too, would have to seek the healing soil. Neither had much time; the volcano wasn’t going to wait for them.
4
“Damn, I missed the entire thing,” Don Weston whispered overly loud to Dr. Henry Patton. “All those bats going up in flames and Raul losing his mind and wanting to machete someone. I
slept right through it. Next time, wake me up!”
Deliberately, he glanced over his shoulder at Annabel and Riley, pretending to be covert, as if his booming voice was so low in his pretend whisper that they couldn’t possibly overhear him or know he was talking about them as they trekked in single file through the narrow opening of brush on the small game trail.
Ahead of her, Annabel stiffened, but she didn’t turn around.
Riley pressed her lips together tightly. Weston was only making things worse. He wanted to stir up trouble because neither Riley nor her mother would give him the time of day and his ego was bruised. She sighed and wiped the sweat from her forehead. She couldn’t wait to make it to the base of the mountain and part company with the engineers, although Ben Charger had stayed true to his word and kept a close watch, along with Jubal Sanders and Gary Jansen.
Annabel reached her hand back and brushed Riley’s arm. The touch was featherlight, but Riley could feel her trembling. Her mother had gone very quiet, rarely speaking, her face pale and for the first time, lined a little with age. Riley tried not to feel panic, but she honestly felt as if her mother was retreating from her, slowing slipping away. Everyone had talked nonstop of the incidents in the middle of the night.
Half the camp regarded Raul as if he suddenly had become a serial killer. He didn’t seem to remember much, just kept repeating it was a nightmare he’d been caught up in and how sorry he was. To be strictly honest, Riley felt terrible for him. She was still afraid of him, but she couldn’t help but see the misery in his eyes—and he had tried to resist that continual pressure and command in his mind. She’d seen him two or three times trying to go back to the fire, to stop moving forward toward her mother’s hammock.
Annabel hadn’t made a single comment, not even when Riley had explained she’d been the intended target. She’d just looked at Riley with hopeless eyes—almost with that same defeated look Raul had—and shook her head. She’d hardly eaten anything before they’d started out again. The guides were hoping to get to the base of the mountain by nightfall. From there, each group would go their own way. Riley had to admit, she wasn’t as eager to part company with Gary and Jubal as much as she’d thought she’d be. There was something very reassuring about both of them.
“I wish he’d stop talking,” Annabel said suddenly. She rubbed her temples as if she had a headache.
Riley realized Weston was still going on about the snake attack days earlier in the boat and how he wanted to barbecue vampire bats. His voice droned on and on, almost as endless as the drone of insects.
“He’s a moron, Mom,” Riley said, trying to keep humor in her voice. “He likes to hear himself talk.”
“He’s afraid,” Annabel replied, her voice low. “And he should be.”
Her voice was low and ominous, sending a shiver down Riley’s spine. Walking through the jungle wasn’t easy. They weren’t in the area where the trees grew so high that light couldn’t filter through, negating ground cover. This was hard going—miles of thick, dense foliage that covered every possible trail almost as fast as it was hacked out. This was the type of terrain that was extremely dangerous. One wrong turn, one loss of sight of the person in front of you and a person could be lost completely.
Riley knew to watch her hands and feet, to try not to brush up against plants and trees. Most were benign, but the hostile ones were extremely hazardous. She found it difficult to identify a tree that was safe to touch versus one that was poisonous and would cause an instant skin reaction. Most appeared the same to her, and yet her mother knew almost instinctively.
Plants, for Riley, were equally difficult to distinguish no matter how many times the guide pointed them out to her. She knew by looking at the bright colors of the frogs and lizards which were hazardous to her health, and tarantulas the size of dinner plates could be obvious, along with every snake she encountered, but insects were too plentiful for her to remember which were extremely venomous.
Her mother stumbled and Riley caught her to keep her from falling. In the rain forest, her mother never tripped over roots. She’d always been sure-footed and moved easily among the plants and foliage.
Annabel tightened her hand around Riley’s arm, glanced over her shoulder at the porter, Raul’s brother, Capa, following close behind. “The moment we get to the base of the mountain, even if it’s already night, we have to keep moving with our guide and a couple of porters. No matter how much they protest, we have to get up the mountain tonight,” Annabel insisted, her voice so low Riley could barely catch the sound. “Something is really wrong, and I fear we’re too late. This is my fault, honey. I should have set out earlier on this journey.”
“Dad had a heart attack, Mom,” Riley defended, but her sinking heart knew her mother was right. Something was wrong, but rushing up the mountain in the middle of the night wasn’t going to solve the problem. “What were you supposed to do? Dash off and leave him there alone in the hospital? We came the moment we could.”
Annabel swallowed hard, blinking back tears. She had slept in the hospital bed with her husband and held him in her arms when he died. He’d lingered two weeks before his heart succumbed to the disease he’d fought most of his life. Riley knew her parents were inseparable and that her mother mourned her husband every single moment of every day. Annabel had always been alive and vibrant but since her husband’s death, she seemed far more subdued and distant. The truth was, Riley stuck to her side, afraid of losing her mother to pure sorrow.
Dressed in boots, with jeans tucked in to prevent insect bites and scratches from hostile foliage, both women knew what it took for a prolonged trek through the jungle, but the going was difficult. As a rule, Annabel seemed to have an innate sense of direction, where Riley was completely turned around within moments of stepping off the boat and into the dimly lit interior.
Her mother had always had such an affinity with the land, especially here in the rain forest, almost as if she had a built-in compass. Right now, she showed signs of distraction and anxiety, so rare in Annabel that Riley’s alarm for her increased. That along with the occasional stumble told Riley her mother was pulling even further away.
She let her breath out slowly as she dropped back to step closely in her mother’s footsteps. She’d learned, even as a young child, the safest place in the jungle was directly behind her mother. The plants protected her rather than attacked her. Everywhere her mother stepped, plants grew as she passed over the thin trail. Fronds unfolded and vines untangled. Flowers sometimes dropped around her. As long as she walked in her mother’s footprints no thorn or spiny-leafed plant would harm her.
They walked for what seemed like hours. The heat was oppressing in the stillness beneath the thick canopy. At times the ground beneath their feet was open and it became easy to walk, and then suddenly they would once again be in thick foliage, nearly impossible to penetrate. Riley kept a very close eye on her mother as they trekked, noting she began to lag behind more and more.
Both Jubal and Gary slowed their pace, obviously keeping an eye on Annabel. Riley took her pack. It was significant that Annabel made no protest when Riley shouldered her mother’s pack with her own. After half an hour, Ben Charger dropped back and took the pack. The three men took turns carrying it. Annabel never looked up. Her shoulders became slumped, weighed down, the closer they got to the base of the mountain. Her footsteps dragged, as if she waded through quicksand and every step was a terrible effort. Even her breathing became labored.
It was clear the guides were rushing the sun, trying to make the base of the mountain before nightfall, which suited Riley, but her mother wasn’t going to make it. She’d fallen silent, watching Jubal’s back to stay in line, but she swayed with weariness and her clothes and hair were damp with sweat. They had to stop and rest.
Fortunately, Weston complained bitterly. “Are we in some kind of race?” he demanded. His voice rose with every step.
“Miguel.” Jubal’s voice carried authority as he spoke to the gu
ide in Miguel’s native language. “We have to stop and rest. Half an hour. No more and we’ll start out again. Let them rest and get a drink. They’ll move faster for you.”
Miguel glanced up at the sky, looking very apprehensive, but he nodded abruptly and found a tiny clearing with a few rocks for them to sit on. Riley nodded to Jubal in thanks as she took her mother’s pack from him and moved to the edge of the trees to give her mother some privacy. She was grateful more attention hadn’t been drawn to her.
“We can’t stop,” Annabel whispered the moment they were alone. “We have to hurry.”
“You need rest, Mom,” Riley protested. “Here, drink this.” She handed her water pack to her mother.
Annabel shook her head. “You’ll have to leave me if I can’t make it.”
“Mom.” Riley forced herself to be firm. Annabel looked so exhausted and pale she just wanted to wrap her in her arms and hold her protectively. “You have to tell me what’s going on. What are we facing up there on that mountain? I can’t be kept in the dark anymore.”
Annabel looked around for a place to sit, found a small boulder nestled between two trees and sank down onto it. Her hands trembled as she folded them carefully into her lap. “All those stories you were told as a little girl about the mountain and the Cloud Warriors, those weren’t scary stories, Riley. They were the truth. The history of our people.”
Riley swallowed hard. Those “stories” were the thing of nightmares. A terrible evil preying on the greatest warriors, tearing out their throats, drinking blood, demanding human sacrifices, children, young women, yet nothing appeased the demon. “Mom, the Incas conquered the Cloud People …”
“They were able to because,” Annabel interrupted, “their best warriors had already been killed. The people were living in fear.” Her eyes met Riley’s. “The Incas were strong, with fierce warriors as well. They took some of the Cloud women as wives. Including your ancestor, a woman named Arabejila. She was the one who handed down the truth—as well as her gifts—to her daughter. The evil continued for years and years, killing the warriors of the Incas just as it had those of the Cloud People. No one seemed able to defeat such a bloodthirsty demon.”
Dark Storm ('Dark' Carpathian Series) Page 7
