Stormfront (The Storm Chronicles Book 9)

by Skye Knizley

  “Yes!” Raven said. “Hell yes! I’ve beaten the odds by being tough, smart and having people I can trust at my back. Rupert, Aspen, Marie, Thad. Even Mom, though she has issues choosing between me and duty−”

  “A problem you share,” Storm interjected.

  Raven stopped as if she’d just walked into a wall. “What?”

  Storm shrugged and continued down the path. “You have a problem choosing what’s best for you over what you think is your duty. It’s how you ended up here in the first place. If you’d looked before you leaped, maybe you wouldn’t be stuck forty years before you were born. It’s your own damn fault, kid.”

  Raven stood there, in the snow, buffeted by wind, blinded by falling ice, and felt furious. How dare he blame this on her? She was doing her job, protecting the innocent and catching the bad guys. It was her duty!

  Exactly, Aspen said.

  What do you mean, ‘exactly’, Raven asked.

  This is what we talked about a few days ago, Ray. You said personal isn’t the same thing as important, Aspen replied.

  It isn’t. Just because something is personal doesn’t mean it is a priority, Raven said.

  She paced back up the path with her head down and her red hair trailing in the wind behind her. Duty has to come first!

  Why?

  Raven stopped again. What do you mean, why?

  She could almost see Aspen’s soft smile. It’s a simple question, lover. Why is duty more important than yourself? Than the one you love?

  “Kid? Did you get lost?” Storm asked.

  Raven turned around again. Storm was almost obscured by the raging snow that threatened to obliterate the path they were following.

  “What? No, just, thinking,” Raven said.

  “Think on your own time, Ray, we have work to do,” Storm said.

  That’s why, Raven thought. Because Mom and Dad have told me my whole life I had work to do.

  You can’t do the job if you don’t take care of your heart and soul, Aspen said.

  Raven sighed and followed Storm along the path, letting his larger frame take the brunt of the blizzard. I still don’t understand how you’re here, Asp.

  I’m not. Not really. This me is…call it an echo. The real me won’t remember any of this. I told you…she told you, you would never be alone again. This is her way of keeping her promise.

  That was comforting, and not. Raven didn’t understand a lot about magik, Marie had taught her only rudimentary casting as she, Raven, didn’t have the gift. But what if it wasn’t magik? People had gone mad for far worse reasons than time travel and saving the world. She’d already experienced a form of post-traumatic stress, what if this was just another symptom?

  Am I going crazy? she asked.

  You were a special kind of crazy when I met you, my heart. But no, this part of me really is here, I just only exist when you need me and the real me isn’t here. I’m like a…a…damn. A recording? Of her thoughts and feelings, stored in your engagement ring, Aspen said. When you are back in our time, I won’t be around, the real me will. Okay, now I’m confusing myself!

  They climbed a short rise and Storm motioned for Raven to stay low. She crept up beside him and peered down into the shallow crater below. Two dozen black-uniformed men stood amidst a series of standing stones that would have put Stonehenge to shame if anyone knew they were there. In the middle was an area cleared of earth to reveal a door of steel and stone covered in blood that still dripped down the sides, turning the snow crimson. It had been pulled open with a block and tackle that now hung discarded from one of the stones, its wheels squeaking in the wind.

  Skorzeny stood outside the door, weapon in hand. Beside him was a tall, beautiful woman with black hair that streamed behind her in the wind. She wore a red leather catsuit beneath a black fur coat and had eyes so blue they were painful to look at.

  Skorzeny yelled something in German and one of the soldiers stepped forward. He looked terrified, so much so the MP38 he held was shaking in his hands. He peered into the door then glanced at Skorzeny as if hoping for a reprieve. Skorzeny yelled again and the soldier stepped through the door and descended the steps. There was a moment of silence and then a scream from far beneath the earth followed by a spray of blood that caused Skorzeny to step back to avoid being splashed.

  “Deathtraps,” Storm muttered.

  “What?” Raven asked.

  “It’s a deathtrap. Vikings sometimes used them to protect their tombs and stashes,” Storm said. He opened his mouth to say something else and unleashed a bloodcurdling scream. His back arched so hard it sounded like vertebrae were cracking and he writhed in pain. The movement caused the snowbank to give way beneath him and he tumbled into the clearing, unconscious.

  “Fürstin Raven, so glad you could join us,” Archer said from the shadows. He was holding the poppet in his hands, so twisted it was almost a ball. Dark yellow magik drooled from his eyes and his smile was the most malevolent Raven had ever seen. The Devil’s couldn’t have been much worse.

  Raven drew her pistol and leveled it at his head. “Let him go, Archer!”

  Archer threw back his head and cackled. “Of course, of course. Once you’ve entered the tomb and recovered the sword for us.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Archer. Let Dad go or I’m going to give you another hole to breathe out of,” Raven snarled.

  “Fräulein Storm, I suggest you lower your weapon and do as Herr Archer asks,” Skorzeny said behind her. “There is no way out, you are surrounded.”

  SS troopers wearing black uniforms and helmets stepped from the darkness, weapons ready. From their eyes and scent, Raven was certain they were Pureblood vampires. She was confident she was fast enough to kill them all, but not before Archer killed Storm. She wasn’t certain he could come back from that kind of death.

  “Dammit,” she muttered. “He needs to tell me what he can do.”

  Skorzeny took the Automag from her unresisting hand and stuck it in his belt. “Down to the vault, Fräulein.”

  Raven descended the snow bank and knelt beside Storm. He was alive, but unconscious and wracked with spasms.

  “He will live, Raven. But only if you enter the vault and recover the sword,” Archer said.

  The woman in red stepped forward, her eyes on Raven. “Who is this?”

  Raven straightened. “Raven Storm of the House of Storm, who are you?”

  The woman sneered. “I have never heard of such a house. I am Morgana, Mistress of Magik.”

  She looked at Skorzeny. “Igor, dear, why aren’t we killing this dhampyr?”

  “She is resourceful and skilled, Herr Archer believes she will be successful where my men have failed,” Skorzeny said.

  “Miss Storm, it is time,” Archer said.

  Raven stepped toward the vault. “What’s in there?”

  Archer smiled. “If you’re unlucky? Certain death. If you survive, you will find the last resting place of the legendary Excalibur.”

  Raven arched an eyebrow. “Excalibur? As in King Arthur, round table, all that nonsense?”

  “It is true!” Morgana snapped, stepping closer. “It is history, and you’re going to bring it to me!”

  There was a scent clinging to Morgana, like vanilla and honeysuckle. Raven smiled and looked her up and down. “I know you, Morgana. Go to any nice clubs, lately?”

  “Enough!” Skorzeny roared. “Find the sword or your father dies!”

  Raven looked at him and gestured at her pistol. “I’ll be back for that, and my father.”

  She gave Archer a meaningful look and stepped into the vault with her heart hammering in her chest.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Outcast Island, Lake Michigan, 1943

  The stairs were wet and slick with blood that ran so wetly it was like thin paint streaming down the walls. Gob
bets of flesh and pieces of torn uniform hung from the walls and the scent of death clung to everything, so thick it made Raven gag into her wrist.

  She moved slowly and with caution, one step at a time, her senses stretched tighter than a drum. Her thermal vision was almost useless, the still-warm blood clinging to the walls made everything blotchy shades or orange and blue, but she could see lighter spots on the floor that were curious. She knelt beside them and probed the area with one of her blades. It looked as if the stairs would fold flat, or close to it, turning the slow spiral into a slide.

  Raven drew her other knife and wedge it into the steps, then pushed the first one into the floor slot. The stairs shivered and flattened while a strange rumbling sound began somewhere below. Inch by inch Raven used her blades to descend the stairs until she could see what lay ahead. At the bottom was what looked like a giant steamroller covered in blood, broken bone and still-slick flesh that made a splatting noise as the wheel turned. Raven considered the wheel for a long moment, debating if she could stop it with sheer force. She dismissed the idea, if it had enough weight and speed to turn grown men into a thin red paste, it weighed more than a Buick. She clung to the knife holding her feet inches from the wheel and let her other senses work. The rumble of the wheel was accompanied by the splash of water and Raven spotted a water-wheel driving the roller. She held tight to one knife and pushed it deeper into the stone, then threw the other. It flew straight and true, dislodging the belt that drove the roller. It rumbled to a stop and Raven slid the rest of the way to the bottom.

  “I’m through!” she called. “The tunnel goes deeper!”

  At the bottom of the stairs was a deep shaft cut into the volcanic stone that had once formed the island. The water wheel, a contraption made of wood and steel, was mounted inside the shaft, its paddles fed from a stream far above. It turned slowly, ponderously, creaking with every pass.

  A corridor ran in the opposite direction, its domed ceiling stretching into darkness. The floor here was littered with old bones and pieces of what looked like shattered weapons and shields. Beneath the carnage was a floor made from volcanic stone cut into squares placed like tiles. Raven retrieved her knife and stepped around the broken skeletons, her eyes on the floor. She could see flashes of heat beneath the stones and the hair on the back of her neck stood up, indicating the presence of magik or something preternatural.

  Her feet left the stones a mere half a heartbeat before the stones flashed and searing heat rose from the floor. It was like standing on a cook-plate, only this one was hot enough to turn bone into ash in the blink of an eye. Raven rolled, jumped and flipped through the heat storm. At times it felt as if her skin was going to burst into flames while at others it was so cold she could feel her blood freezing in her veins. She landed on the far end of the tunnel atop a heap of charred bones and destroyed weapons, breathing hard and fighting the pain that wracked her body. Her leathers were scorched in places and burned through in others. In those places her skin was blackened and bubbled as if the flesh beneath was boiling.

  Raven fought back the pain, fought the tears in her eyes and let her body heal. Moment by moment the pain lessened and soon she could move without feeling as if a torch was pressed to her skin. She stood with the help of a broken longsword and began to limp into the next section. She passed through an old wooden door and stepped into a large cavern cut from the native stone. It was impossibly big, the distant wall looked more than a mile away and the bottom, if there was one, was so far down it wasn’t visible.

  Raven bit her lip. Magik was funny stuff, she’d seen light created from darkness and life returned to the dead, but this seemed beyond even that. A cavern this large could not exist beneath the island, it was too big.

  It isn’t real, Ray, Aspen said.

  Raven resisted the urge to lean over the side and drop a coin, just to see where it landed. “I guessed that, Asp. Got any bright ideas?”

  Before Aspen could respond, a great wind began somewhere below and rushed upwards, accompanied by the rush of water. A whirlpool rose from the depths and Raven stepped back from the precipice, protecting her face from the spray with one hand. The rushing slowed then receded until it was nothing but a soft bubbling noise, like an aquarium at night. Raven lowered her hand and saw a figure appear in the water. She was beautiful, with green hair that floated in the water around her like a cloud and ice-blue eyes. She was nude, and her skin was the color of a cerulean sea. The water receded and she stepped onto the floor a few steps from Raven, who felt a pressure building in her head, like fingertips brushing her brain.

  “English has…changed, Ravenel Tempeste,” the Lady said. “Interesting.”

  Raven brushed her hair over her shoulder. “Not for the better, but I don’t have time to discuss the Urban Dictionary, my father is dying, I need−”

  The Lady held up a hand. “I know why you’ve come, Tempeste. Your blood is not of the Dragon, you have no claim to the sword.”

  “Look, Lady, it’s just a sword and a man’s life is in danger while you’re jerking me around. Who are you, anyway?” Raven snapped.

  The Lady smiled ruefully. “I see your education is lacking, Tempeste. I am the Lady, I dwell between time in the waters of eternity. I am guardian of the Dragon and all his works.”

  Lady of the Lake, Aspen said. Think Disney!

  “I knew that,” Raven whispered. Louder, she said, “My apologies, Lady. My blood is not of the Dragon, it is of Kane, one of the oldest bloodlines. I must have the sword, there has to be a way.”

  The Lady padded away, leaving puddles of water with every step. She paused and looked back at Raven. “Kane’s blood does not do you any favors, Tempeste. My instincts say though your soul is tarnished, your heart is pure. Arthur was hardly the perfect sword bearer. To save a life, I will give you a trial. If your heart is true, you will win the blade and save your father.”

  I have a bad feeling about this, Ray.

  Raven pursed her lips. “What sort of trial?”

  The Lady smiled. “The only kind that truly matters, Tempeste. Prepare yourself!”

  Darkness descended and Raven heard the sound of water rushing toward her. It swirled around her ankles then rose to her waist and her feet slipped from beneath her. She fell beneath the black, rushing waves and fought to swim, to pull herself back to the surface. She stroked with all her strength in what felt like the direction, to no avail. The surface was far above, or in another direction.

  As quickly as it had come, the waves receded. Raven coughed and spat water from her lungs, then collapsed onto a floor of rough cut stone. When she could breathe again she sat up and rang out her hair.

  “Trial by drowning? Do I look like a witch to you, Lady?”

  “You are less than a wit, Tempeste. I trust your skills in battle are sharper than your tongue,” the Lady replied from somewhere in the darkness.

  Torches and braziers flickered to life, casting light that danced and capered on the obsidian walls. Raven could see she was in a rough, round chamber with her back to a cliff. Dozens of archways and openings that seemed to lead nowhere formed a semicircular arena with a portcullis, tall, rusted and spattered with blood placed in the far wall. It reminded Raven of the kind of cheap effects used to thrill viewers in bad gladiator movies.

  “Begin,” the Lady said.

  Raven climbed to her feet and the floor began to rumble, causing dust and debris to fall from the distant ceiling. Something unseen roared, a loud low sound like an out of tune foghorn and the portcullis began to rise, lifted by unseen hands to reveal a cavernous entrance that descended into the depths. A massive clawed foot appeared, then another until a gargantuan creature with leathery brown skin, long muscular arms that ended in razor-sharp clawed hands and a huge head with a maw big enough to swallow a man whole. It stepped into the light and roared, glaring at Raven with beady eyes full of hatred for everything small a
nd squishy.

  Raven drew her knives and looked at them. They hardly seemed adequate to the task of killing such a massive thing, but she didn’t see she had much choice. She held them in her hands and sidestepped, watching the creature. It followed her moves, slime dripping from its gaping jaws, and reached out with snake-like quickness. Raven ducked beneath its claws and rolled, gagging at the stench that rolled off the creature. The putrid ichor dripping from it smelled like an open sewer in high summer mixed with the stench of rotting meat. Whatever this thing ate, it wasn’t snow melt and fresh ox.

  The creature reared back and tried again, this time slamming its sharp claws into the ground. Raven again rolled out of the way, then slashed with both knives. The blades drew blood, but it was no better than a paper cut to the creature, which growled in irritation and stepped fully into the chamber with a slow, earth-shaking gait. Raven dove out of the way and ran for the portcullis, which slammed shut in her face, locking her in with the behemoth.

  Behind her the creature turned and lowered its head as if preparing to charge. Raven held her blades at the ready and crouched, waiting.

  “Okay, big guy, it’s just you and me. Let’s see how tough you really are.”

  With a roar it charged, claws outstretched. It was faster that it looked and came at Raven like a speeding truck. At the last moment she leapt aside and let the monster slide face-first into the portcullis, which bent, but held. Dazed, the behemoth lay there a moment giving Raven the chance to slip inside its guard and cut a wide swath through its tough hide. Her blades flashed and danced against its skin, but they were too small to do any real damage. The Behemoth slapped her aside and she tumbled into the wall with enough force to crack her ribs. She fell to the ground and the thing scooped her up in one massive hand. The force around her ribs was making it hard to breathe, she struggled and slammed both blades into the skin behind the nearest knuckle. The creature screamed in pain and let go, but Raven held onto the blades. She dangled from the Behemoth’s hand and let her monster out. The world went blue and she felt power coursing through her veins. The pain in her ribs vanished and she pushed off the fingers that had held her but a moment before. She flew through the air to land on the Behemoth’s head. There was blood where it had slid into the portcullis, if there was a vulnerable spot it would be there. She held onto one of the thing’s tentacle-like ears and stabbed into the wound, over and over again. Blood fountained, bathing her in sticky ichor and the Behemoth keened in pain. It stumbled, but did not fall. Instead it reached for Raven, flailing blindly with one claw. She ducked to avoid being cut in half and lost her footing. She rolled when she hit the ground and ran, narrowly avoiding being stepped on.