Children of the Storm

by Ken Lange

  He lets out a low groan. “Fine, I get it. They’ve done a good thing by giving us the tools needed to kill the loa.” Lowering his voice, he says, “It’s just going to take me a while to get past them not being our enemy.”

  Okay, he’s got a point, and one I need to be more considerate of. “Yeah, sorry about that. I don’t mind you being suspicious, but do me one favor?”

  He runs his hand over his face. “What’s that?”

  I chamber a round before setting them aside. “Try not to give me shit when it comes to anything that’ll keep me alive. If you want to rag on other stuff, I’ll listen. But when their actions mean we keep breathing, I’d like to be cut a little slack.”

  He chuckles. “I can do that.”

  I smile. “Good man.” Gesturing over at the crate, I ask, “There’s a ton of shit in there. Why is it up here and not downstairs?”

  His good humor fades. “This one had your name on it.”

  I cut my eyes at the thing. “But you guys still checked it…right?”

  Mir nods. “We did. Everything is pretty standard, except two of the items. One of which I’ve got in the lab. I left you the other.”

  Leaning back, I turn my head to the wooden box. “Okay, why?”

  Mir gets to his feet and motions me over to the crate. “I’ll show you.” When I get there, he points at a metal case with the letters LP-12 stenciled on it in white. “That’s it.”

  I pick it up and move it over to the desk. “What is it?”

  He shrugs. “Honestly, I’m not entirely sure. I’ve been going over the data they supplied, and if it works as advertised, it’s one hell of a weapon.”

  I open it to find a fairly large handgun straight out of a science fiction movie. It’s about a foot long and two inches wide with a three-inch rectangular hand guard that runs the length of the thing. The barrel itself is an oblong oval about the width of my first two fingers.

  The four-inch cartridge is right in front of the trigger mechanism. Unlike every other weapon I’ve handled, this one is energy-based and uses a power pack that can be ejected and replaced on the fly. An ingenious idea since it only has a nine-shot capability. Mir’s already gone through one of the packs marked test to find that it fires a pulsed energy plasma projectile that can punch a hole through almost anything—as long as you’re close enough. After twenty yards, its effectiveness drops off considerably. The test cartridges were specially modified to be used indoors.

  Glancing over at the pistols, I sigh. “Shame these things are so limited in range because I’d prefer to carry these.”

  Mir nods. “I hear ya. We were only given a few dozen cartridges for these weapons. I’m already working on a way to replicate them…but that’s going to take some doing since I don’t have a clue how to add the radioactive element to the plasma. The rest I can reverse engineer.”

  Well, shit. The Loki are somehow using advanced engineering techniques that are confusing Mir. That’s impressive and a little intimidating. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out sooner or later.”

  He shrugs. “Maybe.

  After putting the weapon back in its case, I walk over to the bar and grab my shoulder harness. Even though it’s the middle of summer, I’ll be opting for a jacket this morning. Why? Because I’m not a fan of being randomly stopped by the police for openly carrying multiple handguns. While it isn’t technically illegal, it is highly frowned upon. Add into the mix that it’s me, and that’s a recipe for disaster.

  It takes a few minutes to find a coat thin enough that it won’t make me miserable. As it turns out, the only thing that fits that description is a black rain coat with blue polka dots and a hoodie… What can I say? I’m stylish.

  Mir gives me a curious look. “You’re really going to wear that?”

  I shrug. “Better than being arrested before I get there.”

  He glances out the windows and sighs. “At least it’s raining, so you’ve got an excuse to wear that god-awful thing. Were you drunk when you ordered it?”

  Chuckling, I say, “Nah, I was looking for a gag gift for Nicholas. But I didn’t account for the sizing difference.” I point at it. “This is a three XL and it barely fits me.”

  There’s a knock at the door, and we both pause. I focus on the door with my right eye. Someone’s there, but it isn’t the blaring light that’s Nora, nor is it Nicholas as his energy has a red tinge to it.

  “Come in.”

  When the door slowly opens, Nigel is standing there. He steps forward then stops suddenly and arches an eyebrow. “Good morning, Viktor.” He pauses. “Interesting fashion choice.”

  I puff out my chest and smile. “Thanks.”

  He glances out the window, which is speckled with water. “You’re about to head out?”

  I nod. “But I’ve got a few minutes. What’s on your mind?”

  He reaches inside his suit coat, pulls out a thin hard drive about the size of his hand, and lays it on my desk. “I come bearing gifts.” A sly grin crosses his lips. “After what happened with Leonard, I felt like I owed you a proper thank you…”

  I wave off the comment. “You know I had nothing to do with it. Not really, anyway.”

  Amusement dances in his eyes. “True, but I don’t know the other gentlemen, nor do I wish to.” He rolls his shoulders. “With Leonard’s death, I’ve been able to put our disagreement to bed and take possession of his holdings.” Pointing at the drive, he says, “That was in a safehouse out in Kenner. The thing literally has your name engraved on it.” He gives me a dismissive wave. “I thought it best to deliver it myself. Someone else might be dumb enough to find out what’s on it to gain some sort of advantage.”

  Shrugging, I say, “Did you find anything else of interest while you were sifting through his things?”

  Nigel smiles. “For me, yes. For you, only the drive. If anything else pops up, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Okay, thanks. I appreciate your help.”

  He waves a hand at me. “I’ve got a great tailor. You should give him a ring and he can make you something a bit more your…style that’ll do a better job of hiding that hardware.”

  I glance under my arm and frown. “That obvious?”

  He wobbles his hand back and forth. “It’s my job to know these things. Most folks will just think you’re a lost hobo.”

  That makes me laugh. “Gee, thanks.”

  He takes his card out of his pocket, writes down a number, and puts it on top of the drive. “You really should call him.”

  “I’ll see what I can do after this is wrapped up.”

  Pausing, he says, “Excellent.” He waves. “Good hunting.”

  He turns and casually walks out the door.

  You’ve got to give the man credit. Most folks would’ve been curious about where I was going and who I was hunting, but not Nigel. He simply gave me fashion advice before heading out to take care of his day.

  Speaking of which, I really do need to get this over with.

  Chapter 18

  Even though the sky is full of roiling black clouds and it’s still a good half hour before the sun will even think about rising out of the east, the world is a vivid thing. Lightning dances between the clouds and every once in a while, it’ll drop down to strike somewhere out in the distance. The ensuing thunder actually leaves a faint visual trace through the air as it rushes across the cityscape.

  With this new way of seeing the world, I’m starting to come to the conclusion that we’re all interconnected…at least on an energetic level. It’s humbling and more than a little infuriating. Seriously, have you met the folks I have to deal with? Who in their right mind wants to be connected to that?

  I guess that’s not really the point, though. Or even what’s bugging me. Not really. While I can’t put my finger on it, this new eye somehow feels familiar. Yeah, I know, I just got this thing shoved into my face a few days ago, but I’m being serious. Even weirder—I think it’s sentient. That probably makes it sound li
ke I’ve taken one too many hits to the head recently, but…

  There’s a gentle whisper in my mind. “I am Hlidskjalf reborn.”

  A chill runs up my spine and I damn near wreck the car. Talking more to myself than it, I say, “Great, yet another disembodied voice in my head. This is completely normal, and Mir isn’t going to mind at all.”

  Hlidskjalf laughs. “Never fear, Allfather, our conversations are private. Only the two of us can converse in this manner. Furthermore, whatever you see can be kept to yourself unless you choose to share it.”

  Thankfully, I’m close to my destination and pull off on the side of the road. “Okay, ah, this is just weird. So, our conversations are private…but you’re in my head. How’s that work?”

  Hlidskjalf pauses for a moment. “It’s complicated. But our connection is older than the one we have with the Idunn or even Mir. We were bonded the moment you existed in this world. So, I’m not in your head as much as your soul.”

  Oh, that makes me feel loads better. “Okay… Weren’t you a big golden throne on Kvasir’s flagship before everything went to shit?”

  “I was, now I’m not.

  Did that make things clearer for you? Yeah, me neither.

  “No, I mean where did you go when you vanished from the ship, and how do you go from that to something that fits into my eye socket?”

  Hlidskjalf chuckles. “I see…you’re hung up on the physical. It’s simple really. I am what I need to be. But to answer your questions as best I can, the moment I was no longer needed, I removed myself from the equation to wait until you were ready and free of your demon. Only then would I return. Both of those things have happened. How I went from one object to another is truly inconsequential.”

  “Maybe to you, but I would like to know what the hell is going on.”

  Hlidskjalf’s tone turns patient. “Very well. I’ll do my best to explain it to you. These rudimentary forms, be it a massive throne or this version of an eye, allow me to…scale down my essence in such a way that you can understand me without turning to ash.”

  Again, with the whole comforting thing. “Okay…so what are you?”

  It doesn’t respond instantly. “A guide, here to show you the way…or more accurately, allow you to find your own way through this mess you’ve fallen into.”

  Cryptic and unhelpful. Wonderful. “So, no straight answers?”

  It sighs. “That’s as specific as I can be, given the circumstances.”

  Of course it is. “All right, I’ve got a different question. When we were aboard the ship, I was able to view anything, anywhere when seated in that room. Is that the case now?”

  Even though I can’t see it, I can feel it smile. “No…well, not yet. I need time to settle in and you need time to grow.”

  That I understand. “I see.”

  Sensing the conversation is over, I do my best to figure out the driest route between here and the funeral home that’ll keep me hidden from the Baron. Given the current state of the weather, I’m going to get soaked. There’s no way around that. On the upside, out of the handful of street lights in the area, only a couple are working, so I’ll be able to make the trek in relative anonymity.

  My destination is a large, two-story, gray stucco building with an old-world flair. According to my research and the building plans, it’s got everything a grieving family could ask for: loads of parking, a nice sitting area to the right of the stairs, massive entryways in the front and on the side where the hearse picks up. The only gated part is the back where they bring the dead into the facility. It’s also the only outside entrance to their basement, where all the actual embalming is done.

  Luckily for me, a burned-out building butts up against the funeral home that’ll give me a perfect view of their secured lot.

  After climbing into place, I take a knee atop the old three-story brick building. The funeral home, while supposedly only being two stories, is actually the same height. It’s not something you’d normally notice, but at this level the discrepancy is fairly obvious. Another thing that stands out, thanks to Hlidskjalf, is that the parking lot is crisscrossed with lasers.

  Seems like overkill. People don’t want in here that badly, surely. Scanning the roof, I’m happy to say that they’ve neglected to take the same precautions up there. The roof hatch near the front might be wired to an alarm, but all I can do is pray that it’s not. Unless—

  Hlidskjalf says, “I’m afraid not. Until I understand how this world works, the best I can help you with is auras and other energy markers.”

  Worth a shot.

  “At this point, I’ll take any help I can get.”

  Darkness encases the building, snuffing out most of its energy signatures…similar to Katharine’s place yet with slight variations on the color scheme. It makes me think this isn’t the upstanding establishment it pretends to be. Which I’d already guessed, since the Baron is supposed to be here. The darkest part of the structure seems to be nearest the roofline. The lower you get, the lighter it becomes until you hit the ground level and then it turns almost black.

  Great, this is going to be fun. That’s sarcasm, in case you missed it.

  Thankfully, the buildings are close enough that the jump from one to the other isn’t stupidly far. Farther than any human can manage, of course, but then, I’m not human.

  Keeping low, I scurry across the roof to the hatch and find a padlock. Cute. A few seconds later, I’m lowering myself into a blacked-out hallway.

  The lack of light has never been a huge issue for me—normally, my vision would switch spectrums to allow me to see clearly, but today, it’s almost as if someone’s just turned up the lights, allowing me to bask in the creepiness that is this passageway.

  It’s got a 1970’s red and black hexagonal hotel carpet that’s in dire need of a shampoo. The old white plaster walls are chipped with the occasional claw mark gouged in for good measure. Then there are the dark stains—none of which are more than head high. But not to be outdone, the doorframes go for gold in the creep factor as there are bits of flesh and fingernails caught behind them. Whoever had been brought up here hadn’t come willingly.

  The winner of the macabre of the year award goes to the doors themselves. They’re made of thick steel held together with heavy rivets along the edge and around the slides that are at eye level, all of which are caked with blood, skin, and hair. Gold chandeliers covered in dust and spiderwebs hang at regular intervals down the hall, but it’s clear they haven’t been used in years. About halfway down is a corridor that splits the level in half.

  The energy in this place is exceptionally dark, but it seems to be stemming from a room just past the intersection. Even though it’s certainly one of the worst ideas of the morning, I stop at the first metal door and slide the portal open. Instantly, I’m hit by the scent of death, sickness, and blood. Steeling myself, I peer inside at a bare, windowless cement room that’s smeared in gore.

  It’s official, folks, I’m stupid. How else do you explain the fact that I knew not to look in there and did it anyway?

  I push back and continue down the corridor. I’m not sure why, but I stop at each of the cells to find them equally empty yet no less disturbing. When I reach the midway point, I glance to the left, where there’s a shorter version of the hall behind me. To the right is a set of stairs leading down. My attention, however, is fixated on what’s ahead of me—more specifically, the intricately carved hardwood door just past the intersection. Unlike the others, there’s no slide here, but without a shadow of a doubt, someone’s there. Whoever it is appears to be sitting. Their energy is a swirling mass of black and purple with large chunks of blood-red thrown in for good measure.

  Gooseflesh erupts down my arms. I’m going to hate myself later, but I’ve got to know who’s behind door number one. I twist the knob, pull it open, and step inside.

  Baron Kriminel is sitting at a large metal desk looking at a computer screen. When he glances up at me, he frowns. “Viktor
?”

  I grin. “Yep.”

  He slowly gets to his feet. “And just what are you doing here?” He slides his finger across the top of his desk and a tiny flash of energy pulses through a wire that runs into the floor. “I don’t recall inviting you into my home.”

  If I have to guess, that was the silent alarm. “You didn’t, but here I am.” Thumbing over my shoulder, I ask, “Do you really want to call in your boys? This could be a peaceful conversation.”

  The Baron smirks. “With your reputation? You don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?”

  I glance over at the wall to find three energy markers matching the Baron’s hurrying our way. “You sure you want to do it this way?”

  He steps back as the door flies open behind me. “I am.”

  Rolling to the side, I pull my pistol out from under my coat and fire. A faint orange energy trails after the irradiated projectile. The moment it passes through the first wraith and into the next, their forms pulse orange before turning to ash. I fire again to catch the third one in the chest, and it follows its friends to hell.

  I tug out my second pistol and aim it at the Baron, who’s diving headfirst into a tear in reality. With a pop, he’s gone. And I’m stranded in a house full of wraiths. Right on cue, there are howls of rage from them or their mutated cousins. I’m not sure if it was the Baron’s silent alarm or the gunshots that woke everyone up and gave away my position.

  Either way, I’m pretty screwed.

  For half a second, I eye the spot where the Baron vanished with envy then face the door, check my weapons, and prepare to make an example of some folks.

  Leaning out the doorway, I don’t bother to aim and let loose several rounds. A dozen wraiths light up orange before winking out of existence while their unfortunate cousins turn to gooey bits of tissue covered in dust. Problem is, a stunt like that is effective exactly once—unless they’re stupid. Apparently, these guys are smarter than that. Which means life will become significantly more difficult now.