Besides the driver up front, six team members sat on benches along either side of the van: four werewolves, an ogre (you can tell by the tusks), and a hook-nosed giant who looked so much like Axel he had to be another troll. The team wasn’t dressed in body armor like the SWAT teams you see on TV. Instead, they wore black jeans and black sweatshirts, but the clothes were heavily embroidered with symbols of magical protection. In addition, a charm hung around each cop’s neck. There was one female on the team—the werewolf who’d opened the door for me—and she looked tough enough that I’d think twice about tangling with her, no matter what phase the moon happened to be in.
Daniel wasn’t present. Regulations kept humans a mile away from any suspected plague site. But the van carried communication equipment, which one of the werewolves fiddled with now. In a minute, Daniel’s face appeared on the screen.
The ogre sat at the near end of a bench, his knees nearly hitting his chin. He scooted over to make room for me and I sat—well, half sat would be more accurate—balancing as best I could on the sliver of available bench.
The werewolf who’d established the communications link told Daniel everyone was here.
“Great,” he said. “Team, I want you to meet Vicky Vaughn, who’s lending us her expertise on demons and the Old Ones. We found this location thanks to her.” This got me a couple of nods from various SWAT personnel, but most kept their eyes glued to the screen. Daniel took a couple of minutes to complete the introductions, announcing each team member’s name and specialty. I’m sorry to say the information didn’t stick. There were six of them, and only one of me, and I’ve never been good with names.
Preliminaries dispensed with, Daniel got down to business. The team was well informed about the Old Ones, especially their powers and vulnerabilities. A few months ago, the Old Ones were a mere legend—most vampires didn’t even believe in them. But recent events had changed all that. This SWAT team knew that if an Old One gets his fangs into a body, he can drain it dry in less than a minute. They knew that the Old Ones never sleep, although they grow lethargic in the daytime. And they knew that silver is the best weapon against them. Each team member was supplied with silver bullets, two silver knives, and silver-plated handcuffs. The werewolves wore special gloves made of some thin, high-tech material that let them handle those items.
“I’ve seen silver burn through Old Ones’ flesh,” I said. “But be aware that, when we broke them up last winter, they were working on a cure to make them impervious to silver.” They’d used Juliet as a guinea pig, and the experiments had nearly killed her. “We don’t know how far they might have advanced that project.”
From the screen, Daniel spoke. “Given our current information, although silver may not kill the Old Ones, it should weaken them enough to subdue them. Also, like all undead they don’t do well in sunlight. If possible, break out some windows; the light will disorient them.”
“That’s true,” I agreed. “Their vision weakens in daylight. But remember that there are hostages in there, too. We want to avoid injuring them if possible.”
“What about those hostages?” the female werewolf asked. “They’re all PDHs, right? We understand some of them may be possessed by a demonic spirit.”
“The Morfran. It can’t materialize in daylight, so you won’t have to deal with it directly. But yes, it’s possible that some of the zombies in that building are Morfran-possessed.” Not Tina, I thought. Please not Tina. I didn’t let my voice betray my fear. “If that’s the case, the Morfran could drive its host to a murderous frenzy. So be careful.”
“All PDHs are to be taken into custody so we can watch them and make sure they’re clean,” Daniel said. “No exceptions.” I had a feeling that last comment was directed at me.
“But don’t kill any,” I emphasized, “even if a zombie attacks you. We know how to exorcise the Morfran. Remember, these folks are victims.”
There were no more questions, and other than, “Please be careful. One of those zombie hostages is just a kid,” I couldn’t think of anything else to add. Daniel gave the team the green light to do their reconnaissance.
Two werewolves left, and the ogre sitting next to me slid over, so I finally had enough bench to sit on. The scouting werewolves took along thermal imaging equipment to scan the building for cold spots. The Old Ones’ icy body temperature would show up black, giving us an indication of the locations and number of Old Ones in the building. Zombies don’t produce body heat, either, but their skin is the same temperature as their surroundings. The Old Ones are like walking blocks of ice.
Nobody said much while we waited for the team members to return. Daniel cut the communication link so he could talk to the biohazard team, waiting in their own van at a different location. The SWAT guys sat with their eyes closed and their heads back, meditating to strengthen their magical defenses. They’d need it. The Old Ones are adept at magical warfare, able to call up energy and wield it as a lethal weapon. They’re no slouches at sword fighting, either.
I thought of Tina, practicing lunges in my living room, and my heart constricted. Right now, she was probably curled up in a tiny cell like the one Bonita described. Alone, scared, and in darkness, not knowing where she was or what would happen to her. I had to get her out of that place. In fact, I vowed, if she made it out in one piece, I’d take the kid back as my apprentice, if only to keep an eye on her.
Two sharp raps on the van door made me jump and almost fall off the bench. The others opened their eyes calmly as the scouts returned. They got Daniel back on the link and uploaded thermal images of the building. They’d found eight Old Ones—our team was outnumbered, but not by much. “We couldn’t scan the basement, though,” a werewolf explained. “There could be more down there.”
“Probably at least two,” I suggested. “That’s where they keep the zombies, and Bonita said they always came in pairs when they brought her food. So we should assume another two guards, at least, on that level.”
Ten ancient super-vampires—maybe more—to six highly trained paranormal cops. Even with our daylight advantage, it could go either way. I’d fought the Old Ones before. I could tip the advantage to our side. But Daniel wouldn’t hear of it.
“You’re here as a consultant, Vicky, and I appreciate your help in that role. But you haven’t trained with this team. You don’t know their procedures. I hate to say it, but you’d get in the way. So I’m telling you—no, I’m ordering you: Stay in the van.”
None of the team looked at me, and I was glad my crimson face evaded scrutiny. The humiliation heated my demon mark, making me want to strike out at something—anything, since Daniel was out of reach. Instead, as the van started rolling toward the target site, I focused on slowing my breathing, willing the demon mark to cool. Whatever was about to go down, Hellion-fueled rage wouldn’t help.
The recon images showed that the cold spots were concentrated at one end of the building. As the team conferred with Daniel to formulate an attack plan, leaving me out, the uneasy feeling that had taken root in my gut began to sprout. Could I trust Butterfly’s information? The information, yes. The Old Ones were in that building. But what about the demon’s intention?
Was this a trap?
“Good luck, team,” Daniel said. The screen went blank.
The ogre reached across me to open the door. “Wait!” I touched his arm. He looked at my hand as though it might be something to eat. Then his hard, tiny eyes met my face. His tusks gleamed.
“Remember that this tip came from a demon,” I said, looking at the ogre but speaking to the whole team. “Pryce is powerful in the demon plane. He may have passed me this information to set a trap.”
“We know that.” The hard eyes softened a degree. “But thanks.” Then he opened the door and stepped quietly out. For a monster the size of a gorilla, he was light on his feet. The others followed, silent.
The ogre wore a headset linking him to the van’s communication system, which the driver had now taken over
. When the team was in position, the ogre notified us. Then we heard his whispered command, “Go, go, go, go!”
We heard shattering glass and the explosion of flash-bang grenades.
We heard shouts of “Police! Down on the floor, now!”
We heard rapid-fire shots.
And we heard a soul-rending scream of fear and pain.
After that, we heard static. Nothing else.
“Shit,” said the driver. “Something’s—”
I didn’t hear the rest of his sentence. I was already out the door and running toward the building.
My boots slapped the pavement as I sprinted to the opening they’d cut in the fence. Wire ripped my jacket, catching a sleeve as I squeezed through. I yanked free and darted to the open door, drawing a sword as I went.
Inside, I found myself standing in a long hallway. Sounds of fighting erupted from the far end. Moving quickly, I advanced along the hall, staying quiet and watching the shadows for hidden enemies. The corpse of an Old One lay on the floor. I raised my foot to step over it, but a hand grabbed my ankle and yanked me off balance. Not dead. I fell sideways, using the momentum to turn and ram my sword into the damn thing’s throat. Flesh sizzled as the silver blade entered the desiccated body. The Old One gurgled. The hand relaxed and fell away.
Good. Silver still did its job. The feel of the blade finding its target, the death rattle, strength slipping away—these things sped up my adrenaline-accelerated pulse. I wanted more.
The hot, prickling demon mark urged me forward. I paused, trying to suppress the feeling. It grew. I struggled for a moment, then I let it go. I was here to win. Not merely to stop my enemies but to crush them. To drive in my sword and exult in their annihilation. Instead of resisting the Destroyer, I’d draw strength from the demon that had marked me.
That mark raged with fire that raced up my arm. It ignited my heart, my brain. There would be death—and I would bring it.
Impatient to join the battle, I ran forward. I passed another body that made me pause. This one, in a mechanic’s coveralls, had been decapitated. A few feet away the head of a male zombie stared at me. Then it blinked. His mouth moved, but the severed vocal cords couldn’t produce sound. His black tongue licked his lips, and I realized the words he was trying to say.
“Help me.”
How in hell can you help a headless zombie? Maybe an undead surgeon could put him back together, but there was nothing I could do. Not even put the poor guy out of his misery. My attempt at a reassuring smile a sickly failure, I left him where he lay.
Almost there. From the room at the end of the hall came the grunts, scuffles, and shouts of fighting. Blades clashed. Someone bellowed in pain. Why no gunshots? I quickened my pace. My demon mark spouted flame, reflected in my blade. The need to be in the thick of it, to color my sword with blood and gore, gripped me. I’d stood by for too long. Only death—hot, steaming, bloody death—would satisfy.
I stepped inside. In the semidarkness, it was hard to tell who was what. Zombies, robed Old Ones, SWAT team members—all roiled and writhed in a noisy, pounding mass of violence.
A scream, primal, coming from some place far beyond me, tore itself from my throat. Raising my sword, I plunged into the fight.
33
DARKNESS. PAIN. MY FACE LAY ON SOMETHING HARD, rough. It scraped my cheek when I moved.
Could I sit up? Yes. My muscles screamed, but I managed. My fingers clutched something. A sword hilt. Good. I had protection.
I squinted into the darkness through watery eyes, trying to figure out where I was. My brain thudded like a cotton-stuffed drum: throb throb throb. A thought pushed its way through the thickness: Bonita’s cell. I stretched my arms widely, feeling with my fingers, testing with my sword. No walls within reach. In the distance, a car horn honked. I sniffed, inhaling scents of diesel fumes and salt air. Not a cell, then. I was outside. But where? I could think of no place in Boston where the darkness could be so complete.
How did I get here? And what the hell happened in the abandoned factory? I probed my memory, but the cottony, sludgy feeling wouldn’t clear. I remembered making my way down the hall, my demon mark aflame, excitement building as I neared the fight. I remembered my lust for violence, my blood-chilling battle cry in a voice that wasn’t mine. But then everything collapsed into a flashing kaleidoscope of tumbling images. Blade hitting blade. Blade sinking into flesh. Screams. Thuds. And blood—so much blood. Fountains of it. Rivers. Oceans.
I couldn’t tease the images apart. I saw the blossoming of a sudden wound and didn’t know whether it was mine or another’s. I felt myself step over a body but couldn’t tell whose it was, not even friend or foe. And through it all, a voice whispered in my mind. Not my own thoughts—I was sure of that. A voice outside of me, seeking a way in, wanting something from me. But I couldn’t find the shape or meaning of the words. It was like trying to listen to someone speaking underwater. The words bubbled toward me, but I couldn’t make them out. When I tried now to recall, to listen, my fragmented memory went blank.
Nothing.
My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, which wasn’t as absolute as I’d first thought. I needed to figure out where I was. Everything would fall into place then, and I could move forward. I hoped.
The phone Daniel had given me had a GPS. I’d find out where I was, and then I’d call my apartment. Mab would pick up. She must be frantic with worry by now.
I tried again to dredge up a memory from the raid. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t remember. Mab wasn’t the only one who was worried.
Daniel’s phone wasn’t in my pocket. Damn it, it had to be. I stood, feeling every blow and cut I couldn’t remember, and checked all my pockets. My clothes were torn and stiff with blood. My hands were sticky with it. But the phone was gone.
So were most of the weapons I’d carried. All I had was the sword in my hand. It, too, was tacky with blood, both hilt and blade.
Okay. No phone, but the plan hadn’t changed. I’d determine my location, and then I’d find a phone to call Mab.
I seemed to be in the middle of an alley between two tall buildings. No streetlights shone here, but the darkness seemed thinner ahead, so I went that way. It amazed me that there could be a pocket of such deep darkness in a city the size of Boston, especially so near the full moon. Overhead, the sky was uniformly black. No moon, no stars. Despite the sunny afternoon, heavy clouds must have blown in. But now, in this alley, there wasn’t a whisper of wind.
I moved slowly, left hand in front of me, my right gripping my sword as I shuffled through the inky night toward the lesser darkness. Each step sent pains of every description surging through me. Twice I stumbled over unseen objects in my path. But I kept going. When I exited this alley, I’d be on a street. There would be lights, traffic, people, signs. It would be like stepping back into the world.
Except it wasn’t. I reached the alley’s mouth and leaned against the corner of the building. There was a street here, yes, but everything was still so dark. I couldn’t see the far curb, let alone a street sign. Distant sounds of traffic were audible, but muffled. I shook my head, trying to clear it. What was wrong with my senses? And where was the source of the light I’d seen while in the alleyway?
There. A glimmer in the darkness. I squinted, and it took shape, grew steadier. A flame burned. I went toward it.
As I got closer, I could make out the source: a fire burning inside a barrel. A figure stood by it, warming his hands. One of Boston’s homeless? Maybe he could tell me where we were, why everything was so dark.
The man stared into the fire, the flames giving his wrinkled, bearded face a maniacal air. He wore a torn raincoat, belted at the waist. His old, gnarled hands writhed around each other in the heat. His shoes were mismatched—one was an old work boot, the other a running shoe held together with duct tape. He didn’t look up as I approached.
“Excuse me,” I said, standing back a little in the darkness so my bloody appearance wouldn’t alarm
him. “I’m lost. Could you tell me where we are?”
The old man cackled, still staring at the flames as though hypnotized. His grin revealed a mouth missing more teeth than it held. I wasn’t sure he’d understood my question, so I asked again. No answer. His laughter was the only sign he’d heard me.
This man couldn’t help. I turned away, wondering which way I should go in all that darkness, when the cackling stopped.
“Yes, I can tell you where we are.” The deep baritone voice didn’t match the old man’s high-pitched laugh.
When I turned around, the man stood in the same place by the fire. But the face that now stared at me wasn’t the face of the old homeless man.
“Pryce.” My aching fingers tightened their grip on my sword.
“You’ve been here before. The world between the worlds. Limbo, humans call it.”
Yes, I’d been in Limbo before. A place of lost things, of wandering souls. It was a borderland between the human and demon planes, a place touching both but belonging to neither. Pryce had once sent a demon to pull me into Limbo and attack me there.
Not again. I brought my sword forward and stepped out of the darkness. Aim for the bastard’s heart.
As soon as the firelight touched me, my hand released my sword. It fell to the ground and my arm dropped to my side, shaking.
Pryce kicked the sword away.
“Not here, cousin. Not now. I thought Limbo would be a good place for a truce. Allow us both some breathing room.”
“I didn’t agree to a truce.”
“Not in so many words. But notice how you were unable to strike me. That’s new, isn’t it? My bond with Difethwr is good for that much, anyway. The Hellion has grown strong enough in me that you cannot raise your marked arm against me, just as you cannot raise it against the demon that marked it.”
Was he telling the truth? I tried to flex my fingers. Limp, they wouldn’t obey. But we were in Limbo, and the rules were different here. Pryce’s claim might be a trick to make me believe I could no longer fight him.
Hellhound (A Deadtown Novel) Page 28
