Savage: An Urban Fantasy Novel (The Solumancer Cycle Book 2)

by J. C. Staudt

  “If we survive this, I’m going to enjoy hearing all about this plan.”

  “If we survive this, I’m going to shove my elven foot so far up your pale human ass you’ll be tying my shoelaces with your tongue.”

  “Did I mention I liked you better a few hours ago?”

  “You’re delusional if you think I could’ve ever been attracted to a jackass like you.”

  Ouch.

  “That’s enough, sweetheart,” says Ryovan. “Focus.”

  Sweetheart, huh? Sounds like someone’s been leading me on.

  “Stay alert and keep your mouth shut,” Shenn tells me.

  Ryovan nods toward the pool. “As soon as we reach the edge, the rest of you make a run for it. Give it all you’ve got.”

  Glass crunches underfoot as Shenn and Ryovan stalk through the broken doors. They scan the dark yard beyond as they cross the patio. When they emerge from beneath the two-story deck, they turn to check the side of the building.

  Ryovan freezes. “Shit.”

  “Come on,” Shenn snaps, motioning us forward. “Now.”

  Des shoots out to an early lead, reaching the poolside before Urdal and I exit the doors, the orc barreling through at full speed while I hop over the broken glass on my one remaining shoe. Someone lands hard on the deck above us. Another figure drops onto the concrete behind Shenn, who ducks and sweeps her leg to trip him. She stabs the vampire through the throat, searing undead flesh. Others land around her and Ryovan. They drop into our midst as we rush past.

  I hit the concrete pad and leap.

  For a fraction of a second I’m a kid in midsummer, cannonballing off the diving board. Sunny day. Clear water. Not a problem in the world.

  Then I hit the surface with a splash, and lukewarm reality comes rushing back in. Chlorine stings my wounds. Other bodies splash in around me. I surface to find Urdal, Des, Shenn, and Ryovan huddled close. Ryovan stands with his assault rifle above his head, watching the flames shatter the mansion windows and lick the siding with black tongues. We crowd toward the center of the pool while vampires gather at the edges, hissing and snarling and leering at us.

  “You sure these are vampires?” I ask. “They’re acting more like rabid dogs.”

  “Spawn and thralls,” Shenn explains. “The lowest of the low. Spawn are the dead victims of vampire feeds, risen to life again. They’re practically feral. Thralls… they’re still human, each one dominated by the will of a vampire.”

  “Buster said there were a hundred of these guys when the Warrendale Crew raided this place a couple days ago.”

  “Buster? As in the goblin you were tailing while we were supposed to be on a date?”

  “What do you care? You just admitted you never liked me.”

  “In case you were looking for reasons why, that’s one of them.”

  “I wasn’t, but thanks. A hundred thralls a lot for one vampire to have, is all I’m saying. I thought there were limits.”

  “There usually are. The covens put restrictions on the number of thralls each member is allowed. What’s your point?”

  “My point is, why is Mottrov breaking the laws of his coven? Why does he have so many?”

  “Who knows? Who cares?”

  “And another thing. If they’re human, why aren’t they getting in the water?”

  “Mottrov won’t let them. It would break his mental bond.”

  “Wish we’d brought Mazriel,” says Des, distressed.

  “Yeah, I guess that might’ve helped,” Ryovan admits.

  “Who’s Mazriel?”

  “Our shaman,” says Shenn. “Or warlock. Whatever she’s been calling herself these days. She could’ve broken Mottrov’s bond with all of them using an eldritch spell.”

  “Convenient.”

  “Would’ve been.”

  Ryovan hands his rifle to Des, rests his palms on the water’s surface, and closes his eyes. He begins muttering under his breath.

  “What’s he doing?” I ask.

  “Praying.”

  “Now’s no time for pray—”

  Shenn and Desdemona shush me in tandem.

  I wait in silence while Ryovan finishes his prayer.

  When he opens his eyes, his demeanor has calmed. “That should do it.”

  “Do what? You said you had a van parked down the street. Do you think we can get to it?”

  From beyond the crackling fires of Mottrov Manor comes the sound of tires squealing over asphalt. Headlights beam through the slatted lines of the low wood fence around the pool area. A white van crashes through and churns into a skid across the yard, kicking up dead winter grass. Fitzroy’s Dairy, proclaims the cow-and-sunshine logo emblazoned on the side. Fresh Milk.

  Fresh milk sounds great right about now, and the van’s arrival isn’t a moment too soon. It speeds toward the pool, veering left at the last instant to clobber the vamps around the edge like a line of traffic cones. When the van jerks to a stop beside us, its rear doors fly open and Fremantle steps out with an AR-15 in each hand.

  She spreads her wings and flaps a few forceful gusts toward the pool. There’s a high wind advisory, and the vampires missed the weather report. The gusts blow half a dozen of them overboard. She opens fire, lighting up the ones who’ve refused to fall. The thralls wallow and kick for the poolside; the spawn hit the water and make like onions in a frying pan, disintegrating to ash in seconds. Ryovan’s prayers must’ve been answered; this entire pool has been turned to holy water.

  A man with a faceful of wiry brown hair and two pronounced buck teeth below a small wet nose leans out from the driver’s seat. “Get in, dipwads.”

  Chapter 18

  The pool darkens with clouds of ash as I wade through the waist-deep water for the stairs. Des beats me to the truck, diving inside as vampires leap onto the roof and clamber up the sides. I still haven’t figured out what species Officer Dolman is, though she’s clearly something more than human.

  Shenn and Ryovan clear a path for Urdal and me while Fremantle protects our flank with her massive wingspan, assault rifles chugging in her hands. I duck into the van and slide onto the long bench seat stretching down the right-hand side. Gun racks line the left wall, while Kevlar vests and combat gear fill the shelving system above. Lorne is lying on a cot positioned widthwise behind the two front seats.

  When we’re all inside, Fremantle slaps the doors shut with her wings.

  Our wererat driver turns back through the van’s open carriage to shout at us. “All aboard the pain train.”

  Ryovan gives him a weary look. “Thanks, Baz. Now shut up and drive.”

  “Can do, boss.”

  I grab a handhold as Baz stomps on the gas. The van lurches into motion, throwing thralls off the sides and roof as it careens through the broken fence toward sweet freedom. The momentum pushes me into Shenn, who gives me a frigid stare and looks away.

  When a vampire crashes through the passenger door, Baz props his left wrist on his right elbow. There’s a gun in his hand. The van’s interior is little more than a big steel box, so when he pulls the trigger it’s like hitting sheet metal with a hammer. The vamp twitches and falls out while we gripe and cover our ears. Somehow the sound isn’t enough to wake Lorne.

  “We left Fremantle behind,” I point out.

  “The new guy’s got a lot to learn, huh?” says Des to the others.

  Urdal grunts with laughter and points out the van’s back window.

  Fremantle is rising through the air, strafing the vampires with her rifles. When a spawn leaps off the pool house roof and catches her by the ankle, the gargoyle blasts him in the face from point-blank. The van jounces onto the pavement and speeds down the driveway with a herd of vampires on our tail. Ryovan jams a new magazine into his rifle as Baz zooms through the battered wrought-iron gate and fishtails onto the dirt road beyond.

  Fremantle rises above the mansion and folds her wings into a dive. She spreads them and glides, gunning down vamps to thin the herd on our heels
. One catches up to the van and leaps onto the back bumper, where it presses its face to the glass and fogs the window with a menacing growl. Ryovan punches the vamp with the butt of his rifle, shattering the glass. He flips the rifle around and shoves it down the vampire’s throat while pumping the trigger.

  As Fremantle soars in and lands delicately on the milk van’s roof, Ryovan shoves his barrel through the hole in the vampire’s head and unloads on the others chasing us. When he’s empty, he pulls the barrel inside, sliding it off the decimated vamp like a shish kebab skewer from an undercooked steak. Outside, a thrall screams as Fremantle plucks him off the van’s roof and bowls him into the dwindling group of pursuers.

  “Well, that was kind of terrifying,” says Urdal.

  “You guys realize we also left Githryx behind, right?” I ask.

  Everyone laughs, even Baz the driver. “You hear that, folks? We left Githryx behind. You reckon I oughtta turn this tub around?”

  “I will lift this entire vehicle and fly us home before I let you go back there,” says Fremantle with a grunt as she lowers herself from the roof into the passenger seat through the battered bifold door.

  “Githryx is probably roasting marshmallows over a pile of dead thralls by now,” says Des.

  “He likes fire,” Urdal adds.

  “And he’ll probably get home before we do,” Shenn finishes. She brushes off her vinyl pants and notices the band of red lace clinging to her hip above the waistline is stained with gray ash. “Gross. I got vampire crumbs on my thong.”

  Ryovan’s eyes are slivers. “You wore a thong on your date with the prince?”

  “I didn’t want my panty lines showing.”

  Baz turns around in his seat. “You oughtta be ashamed of yourself, young lady.”

  “Who are you calling young? I’m older than you are,” Shenn shoots back.

  “Baz,” says Ryovan. “Eyes on the road, please.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Before we arrive at the Detroit-Windsor Tunnel, Ryovan stows the guns and draws a curtain across the rack. Baz flashes his credentials to the uniformed man in the customs booth, who peers into the back and lets us pass without question. I guess the good guys have friends on border patrol too.

  We cross the river and enter the city, where Baz steers us through the downtown area and onto the freeway toward Dearborn Heights. A quiet settles over the group as the miles pass us by. I’ve stopped bleeding, though I’m pretty sure there’s glass under my skin in a few places. I suffer in silence, feeling every bump in the road.

  Off the highway, the milk van turns into a hospital parking lot. The faded asphalt is empty of vehicles, while the hospital building itself is dark and dilapidated. The grungy lettered sign above the main entrance identifies it as the Breyer Medical Facility.

  I’m not familiar with this part of town, and even less familiar with the many homes, businesses, and municipal buildings Detroit left behind when it became New Detroit and entered its post-modern renaissance period. Baz takes us down a narrow access road at the back of the parking lot marked Ambulances and Hospital Personnel Only. The road is flanked by the hospital building on one side and an overgrown baseball field on the other.

  We turn beneath a brick overpass and follow a stretch of driveway into the three-bay ambulance garage at the end. Identical milk vans occupy the other two bays. Baz hops out to inspect the damage to the vehicle while we pile out the back.

  “How’s she looking, Baz?” Ryovan asks.

  “Got a few scratches on her. Nothing a can of paint and some varnish won’t fix. By and large she’s no worse for the wear.”

  “That’s more than this one can say for himself,” says Fremantle, emerging with Lorne in her arms. “I’m taking him to Janice.” She lumbers across the garage and ducks through the wide automatic sliding door leading into the building.

  “You ought to go with her,” Des tells me. “You’re looking rough.”

  I wince as I pull a sliver of glass out of my arm. “Yeah, I’ll hold off for now. I don’t know who Janice is. I don’t know who any of you are.”

  Ryovan kneels at my feet and bows his head. “I offer my deepest apologies, Prince Cadigan, for my failure to show you the deference you deserve. It was only because I didn’t want to give you away to Mottrov and his servants.”

  “Dude. Don’t be weird. Get up.”

  He rises.

  “So Mottrov doesn’t know who I really am.”

  “He believes you’re Arden Savage, one of the three children of his former business associate Nathaniel Savage, with whom he enjoyed a long and lucrative professional relationship. Mottrov has taken a keen interest in all three of the Savage children. He was surprised to find you were a wizard, but to our knowledge your true identity remains a secret to him.”

  “And you guys are the ones Mottrov accused me of palling around with?”

  Ryovan nods. “We’ve been protecting you. We are the Guardians of the Veil.”

  “You mentioned that.” I survey the garage, peering up at the high girded ceilings. “You guys own this place?”

  He shakes his head. “You do.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, right.”

  “Compliments of your father.”

  My heart stops. Everything stops. “He’s here?”

  A sad smile. “We haven’t seen Glen in almost sixteen years.”

  I frown. “He owned this whole hospital? We lived in a miniscule apartment downtown. Him, my mom, and me.”

  “We know. His enemies knew, too.”

  “He’s got lots of those. Ersatz won’t let me forget it lately.”

  “Ersatz?”

  “My minik—wait. You don’t know Ersatz?”

  “The pet.”

  “Look, you can’t call him that. He’s sensitive about it.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “So how could my father afford to buy an entire hospital?”

  “King Glendon was lucky enough to cross through the fabric of worlds with a small fortune in his possession. Believe it or not, he was carrying a chest full of gold when the winds of fate brought him here. You remember what your father did for work?”

  “Yeah, he was a janitor at a hosp—” I stop myself. “At this hospital?”

  Ryovan nods. “This one. The one he owned.”

  “Why a hospital? Why not a shipping conglomerate or a retail giant?”

  “Because he wasn’t just a good king. He was a good man. He sank his last penny into this place. The hospital ran on a budget deficit for years. Glen had a soft spot for those in need. Couldn’t turn anyone away. He wasn’t a doctor, and he knew little enough about modern medicine. All he knew was that he could help people, and he wanted to do his part. He put himself on his own payroll as a custodian, half for the paycheck and half to keep a low profile.”

  “Genius. No one ever notices the housekeeper.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So what happened to this place?”

  “When he disappeared, things went downhill fast. The hospital’s finances were put under review, and we were forced to shut down. That was less than a year after his disappearance. This hospital and all his other assets, which are few, have been kept in trust ever since. A trust in your name.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “You were eight years old.”

  “Seven. I turned eight after he left.”

  “You were too young from a legal perspective to handle the responsibilities of running the hospital. Your father named me executor of his trust, with explicit instructions on how to proceed.”

  “What about my mom? Dad never told her about this place? You never told her?”

  “She knew your father worked here. That was it. He never told your mom much of anything. Made me swear the same. In fact, we were never to interfere in your home life unless we were needed. For your mother’s safety, and yours.”

  “Why now? Why did you wait all these years?”

  “We�
��ve been watching over you for a long time. From a distance, as your father instructed. We lost track of you when your mother moved you to the suburbs, and found you again briefly when you moved back to the city. Then six months ago, you vanished.”

  “Yeah, that was kind of intentional.”

  “In your case, perhaps. I don’t believe your father meant to disappear. We were worried the same thing had happened to you. Since we run on limited resources, we chose to shift our focus away from our normal duties in an effort to find you.”

  “What are your normal duties? What is it you do here?”

  “In good time, your highness. First, I would look upon your face.”

  “My face? It isn’t in great shape.”

  Shenn is standing with her arms crossed, hip jutting, staring at me.

  “What?”

  “Take off your belt,” she says.

  “Now you’re sending mixed messages.”

  “Don’t be a smartass.”

  “I’m basically a toaster with a broken dial. I’ve got one setting, and it’s smartass.”

  “Take off the belt.”

  With a sigh I undo the buckle and pull it through my belt loops. The transformation is an especially painful one given the scrapes and cuts I’ve sustained. When my body cracks back into its natural form, everything still hurts, only more. “Here I am. This is me.”

  Ryovan takes a long look. “It’s good to finally have you here, Prince Cadigan, in such a state as you may be.”

  “I’m still not exactly sure where here is. Or how you knew my dad.”

  “I was a warrior-priest in King Glendon’s retinue. I served him as knight and cleric for many a year. We all knew Glen in some form or another, in this world or the old one. He tasked us with protecting the pathways between worlds. We are the keepers of the gate. The watchmen of the dawn. Our charge is to vanquish evil and further the causes of justice. To destroy the agents of darkness while preserving the forces of virtue. To welcome the loyal servants of King Glendon the Stalwart and establish his kingdom on this side of reality.”

  “He left you here to do that? Where did he go?”

  “Would that we knew. Now you’re with us, there’s a chance we’ll find out.”