The Demon Crown

by James Rollins

  “Well?” she asked.

  He didn’t need any further direction and spoke without looking her way. “I just finished with Dr. Bennett. He’s agreed to join you two. He says he’ll need forty minutes to pack up all of Professor Matsui’s notes and meet you at the airport.”

  “Good.”

  For any hope of success, they would need to scramble every resource they could—which included bringing along their own entomologist. If there was some clue as to what held these wasps in check in the past, then Dr. Bennett’s expertise could prove invaluable at discovering it.

  “Have you heard any further word from Gray?” she asked.

  “No, not yet. The last update was that he and the others were following a lead on the swarm.” Without turning, he pointed an elbow at a tall Starbucks cup. “Vanilla latte. Double shot.”

  She crossed to it, both hands out. Her fingers curled around its welcoming warmth. “Only a double?”

  He eyed her sidelong. “Really?”

  She ignored him and took a sip to clear the cobwebs. “What about the attacker who ambushed Seichan and escaped by boat?”

  “Vanished. No telling where he might be now. But I’ve alerted intelligence agencies across the Pacific.”

  Kat clenched her jaw, running a thousand details through her head. She hated to abandon her station with everything up in the air. She was leaving Jason with a herculean task. Not only would he have to coordinate operations on two sides of the world, but he would need to keep Painter fully updated, so the director could orchestrate what had to be done both politically and possibly militarily.

  Let’s hope it doesn’t come to the latter.

  Jason turned to her, easily reading her. “Don’t worry, boss. I got this.”

  She nodded.

  Of course he did.

  Still, she went over some last details, making sure Jason had everything he needed. Once satisfied, she gave the room a final glance, then returned her attention to her second-in-command.

  “Okay, the shop’s all yours.” She pointed at him. “Just don’t break anything.”

  “Wow, I drop one coffee mug and you never let me forget it.”

  “It was my favorite,” she mumbled and headed out.

  As she crossed down the hall, she cradled the hot cup in her palms. She sensed she had forgotten something. Voices drew her ahead, toward Painter’s open office door.

  She entered without knocking—then stopped.

  Ah, that’s what I forgot . . .

  A stocky man leaned against Painter’s desk, grinning at something Elena had said. He was showing the librarian his prosthetic hand, demonstrating the latest in DARPA technology. He had disarticulated the hand from his wrist and was wiggling the disembodied fingers.

  Elena expressed amazement. “You can control it remotely.”

  “And it has a built-in camera under the thumbnail,” the owner said proudly. “There’s even a small packet of plastic explosives wired under the palm for those special occasions when a simple handshake won’t do.”

  “Monk?” Kat crossed farther into the room, flabbergasted at finding him standing there. “How . . . what are you doing here?”

  He straightened sheepishly. He was dressed in shorts and a hoodie that showed a pine tree and the words CAMP WOODCHUCK.

  “I figured you might need an extra hand.” He lifted his prosthetic, trying to make a joke. When she continued to frown, he snapped it back onto its titanium wrist sheath. “Plus, I figured this was the only way I’d get to spend any quality time with my wife.”

  “Where are the girls?”

  He swiped a palm over his shaved scalp. “I imagine terrorizing camp counselors about now. Which means they’re as happy as two hyperactive clams.”

  Kat turned to Painter, suspecting the director had a role in arranging all of this.

  He admitted as much. “Didn’t think you should be the only one chaperoning Dr. Delgado and Dr. Bennett to Estonia.”

  Monk grinned. “Think of it as an all-expense-paid European vacation.”

  Kat rolled her eyes.

  Only, in this case, the fate of the world was at stake.

  14

  May 7, 1:05 P.M. HST

  Hana, Island of Maui

  From the front passenger seat, Palu pointed ahead. “Take the next left.”

  “What left?” Gray leaned over the wheel, squinting at the wall of ferns and ironwood trees. Branches scraped both sides of the rental Jeep.

  They had been crawling and bouncing along a series of mud tracks that constituted a road through an unmapped section of the Hana Forest Reserve. They had left the highway’s blacktop nearly an hour ago, taking a detour off of Mill Place near the Hasegawa General Store. From there they had been forced to dodge stray cattle and skirt around taro fields.

  Gray had wanted to cut straight across those fields, but Palu had shaken his head, deeming it pō‘ino, or bad luck: “Taro come from the body of the Father Sky and Mother Earth’s first son. It gives life.”

  So Gray had taken the recommended detour, not wanting to tempt fate.

  “How much farther?” Kowalski complained. His large frame was folded into the backseat next to Professor Matsui, who was otherwise alone.

  Aiko Higashi had stayed behind at the cottage to coordinate with Kat on some new details regarding this threat, a connection going back to World War II, one possibly involving the Guild.

  Gray’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror. Seichan trailed behind them on one of the motorbikes. They might need such a nimble vehicle for the rugged terrain ahead. After learning of a potential Guild connection in all of this, she had gone unusually quiet. Then again, she had become more reticent of late. Something was clearly bothering her, but he knew her well enough to give her the space she needed to work through it.

  After consulting a compass, Palu called back to answer Kowalski’s question. “Another mile . . . maybe two, brah. That’s if the road’s not washed out from last week’s rain.”

  Kowalski groaned, voicing Gray’s own concern.

  Palu shoved an arm across the dashboard. “There’s the turn.”

  Gray spotted it at the last second. He yanked the wheel hard, forcing the SUV into a sharp skid to enter the break in the forest. An even narrower track led ahead from here.

  A glance behind revealed Seichan had managed the same turn. The cycle expertly swung onto the path, the rider hunkered low over the handlebars.

  As he forged ahead, the windows to either side were swiped by massive fronds of tree ferns, known as hapu’u. It was as if they were driving through a prehistoric car wash. And maybe they were. The forest here looked untouched, with some of the huge trees likely thousands of years old.

  A lacy frond smacked the front windshield as if warning them away.

  Palu noted the affront and grinned. “Forest don’t like you haole. Only kama’aina know where I take you.”

  Gray took him at his word. While tourism was a major source of income for the islands, the native-born Hawaiians still carved out places exclusively for themselves and defended them diligently. Like how the multimillion-dollar construction of a new telescope atop Mauna Kea was being held up by protests due to the site’s sacred history.

  Across the islands, lines were literally being drawn in the sand.

  Gray understood the local’s concern. After three months here, he recognized the deep bond between the island and its people. Their history was imbued into every rock, animal, and plant.

  As if reading his thoughts, Palu stared out at the forest of tree ferns. “We use the golden hair—the pulu of the hapu’u—for stuffing pillows and mattresses. You can even eat the leaves and core.” He glanced over and grimaced. “Not good, though. Tastes bad.”

  Gray wondered if Palu’s ongoing discourse about life here was more than nervous chatter, but rather an attempt to share with them what was at stake. If they didn’t stop the scourge unleashed on these islands, everything could be lost—not just the land, b
ut its very history.

  Knowing he couldn’t let that happen, Gray drove deeper into the forest. As they climbed the rugged flank of Mount Haleakala, the canopy grew higher. Occasional breaks allowed glimpses to the coastline behind them. From this height, the commotion around Hana was muted, the chaos muffled by both distance and the looming countenance of the mountain ahead.

  As they gained elevation, the mists trapped beneath the canopy grew denser, wet enough to occasionally require a swipe of the vehicle’s wipers. Around them, the forest took on a ghostly character.

  Professor Matsui spoke from the back, his voice hushed, perhaps overwhelmed by a sense of reverence. “Are those koa trees?”

  He pointed toward a grove of tall hardwoods, the branches tipped with yellow flowers.

  Palu smiled. “Yah, brah. Once, all of Haleakala was covered in koa forests. Only patches remain. Like this one.” He glanced back to the others. “It’s another reason we don’t tell haole about this place.”

  Ken leaned forward. “Still, where we’re headed now—the collection of old lava tubes you described—such a place would be just what the Odokuro need. A perfect place to establish a lek.” He looked out the window. “They’d want a deep central burrow, shaded by a canopy, with an ample water source. And look at all the nectar-rich flowers around here.”

  “Not to mention, plenty of hosts,” Gray added.

  The rain forest around them teemed with life: birds, mammals, other insects.

  Ken nodded soberly and settled back to his seat.

  Gray tried to picture their destination. Three weeks ago, he and Seichan had visited Ka’eleku Cave on the northern outskirts of Hana. The touristy cave was a large and easily accessible lava tube, decorated with stalactites and chocolate-colored formations. Skylights—sections that had collapsed and were open to the blue sky—helped illuminate the long cavernous tunnel. It was a popular tourist attraction, reminding visitors of Haleakala’s fiery past, when flows of basaltic lava—both surface a’a and subterranean pāhoehoe—had formed Maui.

  Many other lava tubes wormed throughout the flanks of Haleakala, most hidden by dense forest, their locations known only to the locals. Palu was taking them toward where a braided knot of tubes had collapsed long ago, opening a maze of tunnels, shafts, and caves. If the swarm had journeyed inland along the route of last night’s trade winds, this spot would be in their direct path.

  On the ride up here, Gray had watched for any sign of the wasps, but so far, nothing. It was as if the entire mass had vanished, perhaps swept out to sea.

  If only we could be so lucky . . .

  Palu pointed ahead. “End of the road. Have to hike from here.”

  That was obvious. The pair of rutted tracks ended at a sprawling banyan tree. Its crown rose seventy feet high and spread fifty yards wide. It was all draped and supported by hundreds of aerial roots, forming a woody curtain under the leafy bower.

  “That can’t be good,” Kowalski said.

  Gray recognized the same.

  An old VW van sat parked alongside the tree.

  “Somebody’s already up here,” Gray mumbled.

  Palu scowled. “That’s Emmet Lloyd’s camper. Runs a tour company out of Makawao. Takes tourists on overnights. That kanapapiki should know better than to bring anyone up here.”

  Gray stared beyond the banyan at the mist-shrouded forests.

  Especially now.

  1:31 P.M.

  Emmet hollered at his trio of charges. “Not so fast!”

  He clambered down the slippery volcanic rock, grabbing at the towering poles of bamboo on either side to keep his footing. After packing their campsite higher up the flank of Haleakala, he had set a hard pace. All night long, a slew of helicopters had winged across the mountaintop. With no cell service, they were in the dark as to the situation, but something was definitely wrong. Whatever was going on was more than an ordinary search-and-rescue operation.

  But at least we’re not far from where I parked.

  Maybe another mile or so.

  He used this small chunk of bamboo forest as a trail marker. It was not as extensive as the growth found to the southeast, but that area of Haleakala was trafficked by lots of day hikers. Such a place certainly didn’t match his tour company’s motto, which was painted on the side of his van.

  To truly get off . . . get off the beaten track.

  He half-slid down a mud-slick section of the trail, balancing on his feet, reminding him of his former glory as a surfer. He had been a champion in his heyday, but that had been a lifetime ago. Still, at fifty-two, he refused to give up his passion, financing his life on Maui by taking tourists—those with a more rough-and-ready bent—on camping trips deep into the forests around Haleakala.

  He had spent three nights with his current group, a husband and wife, along with their eleven-year-old son, Benjamin.

  “Slow it down, Benjie!” Paul Simmons warned, breathing hard, trying to match his son’s goatlike nimbleness.

  The Simmonses owned a tech start-up out of San Rafael. Both parents were gym-fit. The husband was a CrossFit addict; the wife, Rachel, practiced yoga daily. Emmet had enjoyed watching her go through her poses the first night at the edge of a moonlit pool, the surface dappled by a thin waterfall. Her body was lithe; her long auburn hair, tied in a tail, swished with her every transition. When she bent backward, propped on her hands and feet, her breast pointing high . . .

  He smiled at the memory.

  Not a bad perk of the job.

  He finally reached the parents, while their son raced ahead with the boundless energy of youth. Benjie vanished around a bend in the bamboo forest.

  Emmet grew concerned, knowing how treacherous this particular terrain could be. This area was riddled with mossy holes and fern-covered drop-offs.

  He pointed ahead. “Hey, you’d better rein your kid in.”

  Paul suddenly yelped and swatted at his neck.

  His wife turned, more exhausted than concerned. “Jesus, Paul. What’s the matter?”

  Paul waved at something in front of his face—then his shoulders jerked to his ears, a gasp turned into a cry of pain. He fell to his knees, both palms clasping his neck.

  Rachel grabbed his arm. “Paul!”

  Emmet backed a step and searched around. Normally this bamboo forest had a magical quality to it, with its endless march of stout green poles, umbrellas of dripping foliage, all woven together by snaking threads of heavy mist. But now the place seemed suddenly eerie, a foreign landscape where they were unwanted intruders.

  This sense of dread was enhanced by a low hum, one he hadn’t noted before because of his own panting. Now with his breath held, he heard it more clearly.

  What is that?

  He turned in a circle as Rachel got her husband back on his feet.

  All around, sections of the mists stirred, swirled by some invisible force. The infernal humming set his hairs on end. He had never heard such a sound. Then he made out small black shapes buzzing through the mists, coming from all directions, heading for them.

  “Run!” he warned.

  He didn’t know the exact nature of the threat, but he knew they were in danger.

  Rachel’s attention was on her trembling husband, who looked unsteady on his feet. “W-what?”

  Emmet shoved past them and continued down the trail. Something smacked into his arm, landing on the long sleeve of his shirt. He gawked at the sight. A giant wasp or hornet sat there, wings vibrating. Shocked, he swung his arm against a bamboo trunk and knocked the creature off.

  Fuuuuck . . .

  “Wait!” Rachel cried after him as he fled. “Help me!”

  Then Paul screamed again—and a moment later, a wail from Rachel.

  Despite appearances, he wasn’t abandoning them. They were adults and knew the way down. They’d have to fare as best they could.

  Instead, he ran toward his other responsibility.

  Benjie.

  He skidded around a bend in the trail
, coming close to flying headlong over a short cliff. He regained his balance, relying on muscle memory from his surfing days, and sped down the trail.

  Where the hell is this kid?

  He cupped a hand to his mouth. “Benjie!”

  Then he spotted the boy—not on the trail but in the woods to the left. Either the kid had lost the path or something had drawn him astray.

  Either way . . .

  “Get back over here,” he yelled.

  Benjie looked scared, frozen in place. He must have heard his parents’ cries. He stared at Emmet, clearly hesitant to trust this near-stranger.

  “C’mon, kid! We need to get off this mountain!” Emmet forced his voice away from its edge of panic. “Your mom and dad are right behind me. So how about you get back on the trail.”

  Benjie’s gaze flicked all around. Finally he sagged and hurried toward the path.

  Good going, kid.

  Then on his third step, the boy vanished, swallowed up by the ground.

  A cry of surprise burst from Emmet’s lips, echoed in a higher octave by the boy.

  Panicked, Emmet shoved toward the spot. He crashed between teetering poles of bamboo, setting their lengths to swinging. They knocked hollowly all around him.

  Like the rattle of so many bones.

  EGG-BEARER

  After feasting on the males, she waited in the cool darkness. She reserved every motion after breeding, her entire being centered on her laden abdomen. Her antennae were curled atop her head, her four wings folded along her back.

  Satiated, her senses had dulled.

  Her large eyes remained unblinking.

  The swarm had found refuge earlier and led her to this spot with trails of pheromones. She had settled into the welcoming darkness with those like her. As she readied herself, her legs tasted the water dripping over the rock wall. She sucked at the moisture occasionally.

  It was all she needed for now.

  Ganglions behind her eyes responded to the change of light—from brightness to complete blackness. Hormones surged through her, letting her know it was safe. She responded in kind and fertilized her thousand eggs with subtle contractions of her oviducts. The cells inside divided and divided again, packing each egg to bursting.