MudMan (The Golem Chronicles Book 1)

by James Hunter

  “I assume you’re going to come for the girl, or perhaps you’d just like more answers. Either way, that’s where you can find me. You have until the equinox—midnight, two days hence—before she is dead and my Lord walks the world once more. But please, Levi Adams, feel free to stop by whenever you’d like.”

  Levi looked up, hate dashing across his features, turning his broad face even uglier. “You know I’m going to stop you.” He caught Ryder’s eye. “I’ll come for you. I swear to God, I’ll come. Just keep fighting.”

  “I’m expecting you to try, golem—how could you do anything else, but what’s in your nature?” He turned toward his thugs. “Come, our business is finished here and we have work to do yet.” With that, the man turned his back toward Levi, dismissing him as a threat, and made for a doorway set into the far side of the room: the exit the professor had told Levi about.

  The Mudman didn’t try to stop him. Couldn’t stop him. After a long while he picked up the card, turning it over in charred fingers, black grease smudging the surface. On the front, in matte black lettering, was a name: “Doctor Arlen Hogg, Geneticist.” On the back was a hastily scrawled address—someplace in Nevada.

  TWENTY-FIVE:

  Clay Pots

  Levi leaned against the bloodstone in his yard, back pressed up against its cool, smooth surface, legs sprawled in the grass before him, while he gazed at the stars overhead. Pinpricks of stabbing light reminded him of that night so long ago when he first looked upon the world with new eyes. It’d been raining then, not clear like tonight, and the moon hadn’t been so full as the ball of light hanging above. A gleaming layer of slip covered every inch of his body. The goopy substance reminded him of the thick mud from the grave, and his nostrils still held the scent of burnt death, which conjured images of the bodies stacked up next to him, covered in slaked lime.

  To think the heart beating in his chest was the by-product of those deaths, the culmination of a lifetime of murder and horrendous experimentation. And his soul? A Frankenstein monster, stitched together from the tattered remains of other souls. A tapestry of vengeful specters shoved into a crude body of muck and mud.

  “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened.” Words from the Good Book, delivered directly from the mouth of Jesus. Levi hadn’t so much knocked as he had smashed the door from its hinges, but now he wished he could pick up the shattered remnants of the door and shoved them back into place. Except sometimes once a thing is done, once a thing is learned, it can’t be undone or unlearned.

  He was an abomination, he now knew, and nothing he did could ever change that. For the first time in his life all he wanted was death. No, even that wasn’t right. He wanted to cease to exist. He wished he had never existed. All the AA meetings, the church services, the good works—feeding the hungry, protecting the homeless, caring for the widow and the orphan—they meant nothing. Nothing. He knew in his mind that salvation was by grace through faith that no man should boast, but there was nothing in him to save. No goodness. No redeeming grace. No light.

  He was a monster.

  He was death and darkness, vengeance and hate.

  He would never overcome that, would never be anything else.

  And, if he couldn’t rise above that nature, he didn’t want to live. Once he saved Ryder and killed Hogg, he would find a way to end it. He touched the brand on his chest. Yes, he would end it, but not until he saw this thing through—and there was work left to be done if he wanted to finish this race well. So much to do and so little time to do it.

  He held up his left hand, examining the damage. He had fingers again and all his limbs were now in working order, but he still hurt from head to toe: muscles ached, skin taut and tender from the burns, while a head-splitting migraine hammered away inside his skull.

  It didn’t help that he was bloodletting at the same instant: A plastic length of tube—dipping into one arm and running to a mop bucket beside him—dribbled out splashes of liquid gold. There was nothing to do for it, though. The Mudman needed to heal, but he also needed an edge if he had any hope of getting Ryder and the professor back whole and hale. The Mudman was well versed in the art of the kill, but fighting against a fortified enemy with a far larger force—not to mention ancient magics, dark alchemy, and access to a murder god—was well beyond his skill set. Levi reckoned the extra ichor might help.

  Disposable ichor, to be precise.

  Levi’s most spectacular abilities—rending the earth, manifesting javelins of obsidian, even his shapeshifting and healing—were all tied to the ichor, but the more ichor he burned, the weaker he became. If, however, he had a reservoir to work with? Well, that might shift the odds in his favor, if only marginally. All things considered, his condition was a vast improvement over the night before. In another two days he’d be good as he always was.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t have two days to spare—he had a handful of hours left before the equinox, and even that was cutting it awfully close.

  He’d had two days from the time Hogg had captured Ryder, but he’d wasted a day and a half trekking back to the Hub from that damned temple with Chuck. Judging by the heat radiating from the ground, he could put the time at just after 10:00 PM, which meant he had three hours and change before the dark-heart of the equinox. Three hours wasn’t much time, not considering all he had to do in preparation for the battle. He shook his head at the thought of wading into this fight so ill-prepared and ill-equipped.

  Even with the reserve of ichor he was far outclassed, and knew it.

  Levi had one other surprise, a nuclear failsafe of sorts, that might turn the tide and give him a leg up on Hogg and Cain, but he really hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He’d swiped something from the ancient Atlantean temple—something powerful and insanely dangerous—which was now sitting in his basement, locked away in a silver-lined box inscribed with powerful containment runes. If everything went wrong, unraveled at the seams, Levi could always open the box and pray for the best, though he hoped to God above things wouldn’t come to that … unleashing the Atlantean weapon could be nearly as bad as setting Cain loose on the world.

  No. It wouldn’t come to that.

  Chuck would come through with reinforcements. He wouldn’t run off with the eight hundred thousand dollars in untraceable gold bullion Levi had given to him for the express purpose of securing a personal army of mercenaries. He’ll come through, the Mudman reassured himself for what seemed like the thousandth time.

  For one, Levi had told Chuck in no uncertain terms what would happen if he ran with the gold. He wouldn’t murder him, of course—Chuck may have been a lot of things, but a cold-blooded killer, he wasn’t—but death wasn’t always the worst fate possible. Not even close. And Chuck knew Levi could deliver on his promise. After all, he’d watched firsthand as Levi, burning like the sun, leapt into the jaws of what amounted to a plant-god and walked away.

  Fear like that could be a powerful motivator.

  Plus, Levi had promised him another eight hundred thousand dollars upon completion. Even if fear of bodily dismemberment wasn’t motivation enough, greed would bring Chuck back. True, the gold Chuck already had was enough to set him up for life, but the man was a huckster always working an angle; a man like that couldn’t possibly pass up a chance at such a payday. Like a Vegas gambler on a hot streak, Chuck would let it all ride at a shot for more, even if it meant he might lose big in the long run. Or so Levi hoped.

  Chuck would come through. He had to.

  The thought of all that gold flowing into the world set Levi’s teeth on edge and got his head to pounding anew. He wasn’t worried about the money—he had simple, inexpensive tastes and could always produce more—but, in time, that gold would be traced back to him, and that was cause for concern. The Mudman was a cautious sort and took great pains to exchange gold for cash only
in minuscule increments, and he never used the same face twice. And even with his precautions, rumors still sprouted up around him like weeds he couldn’t choke out.

  A million and a half in gold flooding the market, however, would make more than rumors, it’d make waves. Big waves, even in the Hub.

  Sooner or later those waves would lead to Chuck—because he was an idiot and could keep a secret about as well as a gossip rag—which would, in turn, lead to Levi, the source responsible for those ripples. Then … well then the monsters would come for him. For his gold. He took his free hand, unrestricted by the tube, and rubbed at his head, trying to massage the unpleasant thoughts away. So many things to worry about and nothing he could do about any of them.

  What was done, was done, and he couldn’t change a thing. He’d just have to deal with the fallout from all this—assuming he lived through it.

  Much as he might like to, he couldn’t afford to mope around and count the minutes as they ticked by, marching onward toward Ryder’s death and the resurrection of a godling.

  Carefully, he removed the plastic tubing from the crook of his arm, then pressed a thick thumb over the wound to stop the trickle of ichor. Every drop was important now. He glanced down and surveyed the bucket: three gallons, maybe. Almost as much as his body could naturally hold. He could do a lot of damage with three gallons. First, though, he needed to devise some sort of delivery system. Couldn’t very well march into battle with a mop bucket full of golden-blood at his side.

  But he had an idea for that, too.

  He reluctantly crawled to his feet, grabbed up the bucket, and headed into the house, bound for the basement.

  What he needed sat on the metal cooling shelf, just to the right of the brick kiln: ten circular pots, each the size of a baseball and each decorated in a multitude of hues and textures. The pots were nothing extraordinary—the kind of thing any beginning potter might throw—though still beautiful. Test pieces he’d made to try some new glazes on. For what he had in mind, however, they would work perfectly. He shuffled over to the rack with the bucket in hand and began filling each pot to the brim with golden ichor. Once each jar was full, he tore a small strip of flesh from his side and secured it over the top like a lid. A dash of ichor transformed the malleable clay lid into a rock-hard seal.

  The process wasn’t difficult, but Levi took his time since any mistake could be costly. After a half hour, the task was done. The ten pots were now makeshift ichor grenades, each capable of untold amounts of damage in the right hands. Levi’s hands.

  With an effort of will, Levi redirected the ichor flowing through him, channeling it away from his formidable barrel gut: he forced open a cavity in his belly, a strip running across his front from love handle to love handle, long but shallow. He sucked in a deep breath and held it before taking the pots, one by one, and placing them in intervals throughout the cavity, wriggling them into his wet clay center. Once he had all ten pots properly positioned, he let out the pent-up breath and pushed flows of ichor to his stomach. Clay-flesh surged around the homemade grenades, covering them completely, leaving behind an unmarked belly.

  Safe, secure, and handy when the time came to use them.

  All that remained to do now was grab the rest of Chuck’s gold and head over to the Hub.

  He picked his way toward the office, but stopped midstride as Jacob-Francis strode into his path, yellow eyes glaring up while his tail swished in agitation. He didn’t meow—that was beneath him. Rather he stared at Levi with a look that said, feed me now, servant, or suffer unimaginable consequences. Levi crouched down and ran a hand along the cat’s back; the furry beast arched into his palm and offered a slow, pleased blink. Not much time, but time enough to say goodbye to the miserable creature and ensure he would have enough food and water for several weeks. He patted the cat, then went over to his bowl in the corner, topped it off, then set out a second bowl, which he also filled to the brim.

  If he did survive, he knew he’d be finding cat vomit all over the house for the next two weeks. Whenever he left out extra food, the fur-ball would gorge himself, vomit, then repeat the process ad nauseam. The cat looked on with smug approval, then darted up the stairs, disappearing back to wherever he’d come from.

  That done, Levi headed over to the office, disarming the wards without a thought. The trunk in the corner clicked open, revealing the counterfeit documents, his stack of prepaid cell phones, and the gold bullion bars and cash beneath. He pushed the cell phones out of the way and pulled out the silver-lined box with his secret weapon stored inside. He set the heavy box down and instinctively ran a crude hand over its lid, ensuring all the containment wards were intact and holding. All good, which was a small relief at least.

  He turned his attention back to his storage chest; as he pushed the cell phones back in place, a thought hit him like a freight train barreling into a car stuck on the tracks—it was something the professor had mentioned in passing back in the Sprawl. He’d said the resurrection ritual required a sacrifice. A sacrificial murder, which required one sibling to willingly kill another—a reenactment of Abel’s murder—in order to complete the summoning. Ryder was carrying the homunculus, the physical vessel, but what if she was also the sacrifice?

  Ryder had a sister—what was her name? Jennifer? Jane? He couldn’t quite recall—but he knew Ryder had one. He ran a finger over one of the disposable phones. He’d given Ryder one just like it so she could call her sister. The only family she had left; those had been Ryder’s words. Levi couldn’t imagine a reason Ryder’s sister would be involved in this mess, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility, either. After handing the phone over to Ryder, he’d told her to shut it off and leave it on the coffee table once she’d finished with the call.

  Hopefully she’d done as he’d instructed. He had to be wrong, but if he could find that phone it would put his suspicion to rest one way or the other. And, even if the sister wasn’t involved, perhaps he could put her mind at ease.

  Quick as he could, he reengaged the trunk lock, threw a blanket back over the box, and scooted out of the room, lead-lined box in one hand. He locked the office—even in his rush, there was no point in taking unnecessary risk—and hoofed it upstairs, heart pounding in excitement. He headed into the living room, gaze landing on the table like a sledgehammer. His heart fell: nothing but a stack of neat coasters. He ground his teeth and grimaced.

  The guest room, could she have left it there after showering?

  He was moving even before the thought had fully formed. He streaked down the hall and pushed the door open, eyes sweeping the room. There, the burner phone sat on the nightstand beside the bed. He grunted—the grinding sound of a rockslide—which was as close to celebrating as Levi ever came. He snatched up the phone and flipped it open. Ryder hadn’t bothered to turn it off as he’d instructed, but for once he didn’t mind. He pulled up the recent-call log and found what he was looking for inside. A lone phone number, which had to belong to Ryder’s sister.

  He selected the number and punched the call button with his thumb.

  Berrr, berrr, berrr. Berrr, berrr, berrr.

  Nothing. He tried again.

  Berrr, berrr, berrr, click.

  “Hello, Levi,” a lightly accented voice, vaguely European, said from the other end of the line. Hogg. “So you’ve managed to put all the pieces together. Quite clever, considering what a rudimentary beast you are.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve done with Ryder’s sister, don’t know how you’ve wrapped her up in your schemes, but I better find them both alive and well.”

  He laughed. “Don’t be a fool,” he said. “I didn’t force her to participate against her will—the ritual requires a willing accomplice. And Jamie was quite willing, I can assure you.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he said. “Why would she do that? Who would ever do that to someone they love?”

  “Why does anyone do anything? Revenge? Jealousy? Loneliness? Fear? Humans are not complex creatur
es, nor are their motives. Now, I’m busy, preparing for tonight’s ritual. So what do you want?”

  “I want to know she’s okay. Sally.”

  “That worthless sack of meat is fine, golem. Fine until the equinox, when she will stop being fine.”

  “Prove it. Let me hear her,” Levi said.

  “No.” Hogg spoke the word slowly, indifferently. “I will not condescend and take orders from a puppet of mud. You belong to me, not the other way around. You have my word. That is all you’re going to get. Now, if that is everything—”

  “You evil, murdering bastard,” Levi blurted out, surprised by his own words. “Why are you doing this? Why release this thing back into the world?”

  “More whys. Always with the whys,” Hogg said. Then he laughed, a booming belly-chuckle. “You’ve grown too much like them. I made you better than that, made you to be above these idiotic notions of good and evil. You’re too much like these weak human beings, so concerned with morality. Always asking why, as if understanding that question will somehow make the situation different. As though understanding the why will impart significance and meaning to suffering.

  “Why am I doing this, you ask. But there is no why. Perhaps you want to hear that I was tortured or beaten as a child, as if that might explain my madness. I wasn’t. Quite the opposite, in point of fact. My parents were loving, nurturing, supportive. So were my kin. Good people, all of them. I enjoy torture and experiment purely for torture and experiment’s sake. I slaughter people because it gives me pleasure, and it has always been so. Believe it or not, but I am very, very old, and after several lifetimes, I’ve found that slaughter and torment simply make me content. The only reason why I do what I do is because I can. That is the truth that drives me.

  “And I am specifically releasing Cain because I owe him a great deal. Let me spin you a tale of yesteryear. This story starts thousands of years ago, before the downfall of Atlantis. I was a boy then, Levi, which ought to give you some idea how long I’ve been around. When I was seventeen, I bludgeoned a neighbor boy to death. Smashed his head in with a rock because he was alone, poor, and I wanted to do it. Wanted to end him because I could. Killing him, it made me feel like Atropos the inevitable—she who cuts the thread of fate. I killed him and buried his body in a shallow grave behind my house.