It took Mitch only a moment to make a decision. He knew what he had to do. He had to end this.
“Jocelyn,” he whispered, raising the Cerenkov, “I’m sorry.”
The Archangel came at him, but he fired past it into the blinding center of the light. The gun shuddered in his hands, kicking back toward him as the rippling blue beam pierced the light. The sound of it rolled across the mountaintop like a thunderclap.
The light changed, turned from bright-white to a burning orange. A high-pitched whistle cut through the air, quickly warbling down to a frequency that shook the ground beneath his feet.
The Archangel screeched and turned back, heading straight into the shifting light. Mitch looked for Jocelyn, but she was gone. Shadows flew past him, swirling toward the ember-red glow as if pulled in, their arms and legs stretching out as they flew.
Mitch turned and ran.
Shadows, souls, whatever they were, they pummeled him as he went. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, colliding with him and passing through him as they were pulled toward the light. Voices clamored in his mind, memories of places he’d never been, people he’d never met. He started to forget who he was, what he was doing, his mind fragmenting under the onslaught of a thousand strange memories. He crossed his arms uselessly in front of him, trying to fight off the tidal wave of emotions and words that weren’t his. He planted one foot in front of the other as fast as he could, charging toward the edge of the cliff.
Suddenly, the whirling storm of shadows was gone. He dodged between the boulders that crowded the scruffy edge of the ridge. The stars in the sky faded and the black valley below started to lighten, as if a new sun was dawning behind him. It was eerily silent, except for an unnatural inrush of wind, pulling pinecones and dead leaves tumbling through the air. The light pulled everything toward it. It tugged at his clothes. Imploding.
The entire mountainside below him lit up with a brilliant light, brighter than day, brighter than the sun. Mitch ran from the light, reached the edge of the rock and jumped with all of his strength off the side of the mountain.
He dropped through the air, arms and legs churning. The pine forests and jutting red rocks and snow-choked streambeds that meandered out below him to the horizon turned yellow, then white, then bleached out altogether. The blinding glow enveloped everything.
Mitch felt transfixed in space, weightless, sightless. The air itself boomed with a crush of energy so hot it stole his breath away.
THIRTY-SIX
An angel sang in Mitch’s ears. A single note, so high, so thin, it seemed like she was singing about the death of the world.
Mitch’s entire body felt bruised and twisted, as if he’d tumbled end-over-end down the side of the mountain. As he opened his stinging eyes, he realized he might have done just that.
He blinked up into a hazy sky lit in glowing shafts of red by the first rays of dawn. Soft ashes rained down around him, tumbling specks turning the rocks and the broken trees all the same shade of dirty white.
A figure stumbled through the wasteland of fallen pines, kicking up puffs of ash with each step.
Mitch blinked the grit out of his eyes and struggled to sit up. Every inch of him ached in protest, told him to lie down again, sleep. A splitting pain throbbed in his head. Ugly scabbed cuts crisscrossed his hands. The muscles in his back twinged and threatened to lock up. He wondered how long he’d been out.
He squinted at the figure as it got closer, and he saw that it was Geneva. He waved, slowly, forcing his arm to move. She changed direction and climbed over the broken ground straight toward him.
She dropped to the ground in front of him, breathing hard, looking him over. He reached out and touched her cheek. Streaks ran through the ashes on her face, where tears had run and dried. Her eyes glistened.
She threw herself against him in a fierce hug, smelling like wood smoke and fear. He held her, smoothing her ash-choked hair, listening to the single long note ringing in his ears. The ashes settled down around them like gentle snow.
After a little while, Geneva stood up and wiped her eyes. She tried to talk, but he couldn’t hear anything just yet. He pointed at his ears.
She took his arm and leaned back, pulling him to his feet. He stood up slowly, one hand on his back, feeling like he’d never be able to walk the same way again. She kept holding on, steadying him, until he found his balance. She led him slowly down the slope.
The blast had flattened the mountainside. Trees lay pointing downhill, their branches snapped off, trunks cracked. A hundred yards away, Lanny leaned against the bare stump of a tree trunk, looking up and down the wasted mountainside. He saw Mitch, and his face lit up with a grin. He raised his eyebrows.
Mitch came down one tender step at a time, Geneva helping him. When he finally got there, he turned and followed Lanny’s gaze. The top of the mountain was bare, scorched rock. No sign of the Archangel, or what had happened there. Nothing left but dawn-streaked sky.
He didn’t know what he would say to Geneva, when his hearing finally came back. How could he possibly explain what he’d seen? All he knew was one thing: he’d done what he had to. All that was left was figuring out where to go next.
He could start with a steak and a cold beer at Lanny’s, followed by a good dose of shuteye. After that, anything was possible. Hit the road for a little while. Get Geneva away from the mountains, show her what the rest of the country was like. Go find Bryce and tell him it was safe to come out into the light of day again. Not that he ever did that anyway.
Geneva pointed and mouthed something. He couldn’t make out what. Then she headed down the mountain, stepping over tree trunks, picking her way between rocks, every bit as alert and spry and very much alive as she deserved to be.
Lanny pushed himself off the tree trunk and started down after her, pausing long enough to give Mitch a two-fingered street salute. Mitch nodded and watched him follow Geneva’s footprints, kicking up puffs of ashes with every step.
When they were far enough away, Mitch reached into his pocket and pulled out his old brown leather wallet. Inside, folded into one of the cracked plastic pockets, was a photo of him and young Jocelyn at the museum, standing in front of a dinosaur skeleton. He was leaning over, saying something to her, pointing off the edge of the picture. Her bright eyes followed the line of his finger. Her mouth was half-open in wonder, about to say something.
Mitch smoothed out the edges of the photo. He looked at it one last time and set it on the rock. Watched the falling ashes start to cover it, bit by bit. Then he turned and followed Lanny and Geneva down the mountain.
THE END
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Praise for Conspiracy Of Angels
“Laurence MacNaughton’s Conspiracy of Angels is a thrilling adventure—a mix of horror and thoughtful intrigue. A debut of a new talent well worth exploring deep into the night.”
—James Rollins, New York Times Bestselling Author of the Sigma Force series and the Jake Ransom series
“Conspiracy of Angels starts with a bang, catapulting the reader into one of the most intriguing premises for a thriller seen in years. Killer dialog, plenty of action, and an uber-cool cast of characters make this a must-read.”
—J.A. Konrath, critically-acclaimed author of the Lt. Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels thrillers
“Conspiracy of Angels is a terrific read, a white-knuckle thrill ride that grabs you by the throat—and the heart—and doesn’t let go. Laurence MacNaughton’s characters are beautifully drawn, tough enough to hook you, and real enough to make you care. His language is fresh, his pacing fast and precise. Here’s a book worth staying up for, and one that will no doubt keep you up, long after you’ve closed the cover an
d turned out the lights.”
—Jenny Siler, critically-acclaimed author of Flashback and Shot
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I’d like to thank Kristin Nelson, my incomparable agent, for her encouragement and vision.
I’d also like to give heartfelt thanks to Sara Megibow and all of the good folks on the NLA team: Lori Bennett, Angie Hodapp, Anita Mumm and Adrienne Sparks.
My appreciation also to cover artist Tony Sahara for his impeccable work.
I owe an unpayable debt to my fellow writers for sharing their wisdom when it was needed most: Nikki Baird, Z.J. Czupor, Chris Devlin, Angie Hodapp (again), Mary Ann Kersten, Liesa Mailik, Val Moses, Kevin Wolf and everyone else in the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers Southwest Plaza Critique Group.
Special thanks to Robert Buettner, J.A. Konrath, Kat Richardson, James Rollins, Jenny Siler and Jeanne C. Stein, distinguished authors all.
Finally and forever, I'd like to thank my lovely wife, Cynthia, for her unflagging optimism, her insights and ideas, and her steadfast belief in everything that matters.
About The Author
In kindergarten, Laurence MacNaughton decided that when he grew up, he wanted to be a scientist. “What kind of scientist?” the teacher asked. “A mad scientist,” he declared. “The kind that makes monsters.” As it turned out, mad science presented limited career opportunities. But in college, an African storyteller inspired him to pursue writing. Today, Laurence is a professional copywriter and author of spooky, high-octane supernatural novels. When he’s not busy creating monsters, Laurence spends his days cruising car shows and exploring the ghost towns of the Rocky Mountains. He lives in Colorado with his wife and too many old cars.
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Read on for a free preview of The Spider Thief, my new thriller.
The Spider Thief
Chapter One
Ash
Ash’s eyes snapped open, and for a moment his memories felt like broken shards of pottery, each piece matching up against the sharp edge of another, reassembling until they reached a jagged gap where nothing was left to fill the space.
His dog, Moolah, licked his face. His cold nose and rough tongue jolted Ash back to his senses. The dog let out a worried whine.
“I’m okay, buddy,” Ash whispered. He placed unsteady hands against the dirty concrete floor and pushed himself upright. Grit and fragments of dried grass clung to his cheek. He blinked around at the inside of a cluttered wooden shed, full of the smells of dust and old metal. Stripes of sunlight blazed in through the gaps between the wallboards, falling on cobwebbed tools and an old red car layered in dust.
He brushed at his cold cheek, wiping away the dirt. He didn’t recognize any of this.
In fact, he had no idea how he’d gotten here.
Moolah turned around with soulful eyes and whined. Ash rubbed his short tan fur, calming him.
He swallowed the dust in his throat and took stock of himself. He wore his usual white T-shirt and jeans, what his brother called his James Dean look. With brand-new black cowboy boots, expensive ones that didn’t even have creases on the toes yet. Nice, but unfamiliar. Ash couldn’t recall ever seeing them before.
His brother would know what happened. Ash pulled his phone out of his pocket. No signal.
According to the display, it was just after four in the afternoon, but the date was wrong. The last day he remembered was two weeks ago.
“Two weeks?” he said out loud, drawing a sharp look from his dog.
Ash closed his eyes and dug his palms into his temples, as if the pressure could dislodge something useful. The last thing he remembered was the leathery old face of a señora, streaked with tears as she sat in the shade of an old pickup with four flat tires. That was how it had all started.
“It is the coyote,” she had told him, pronouncing it in Spanish: co-yo-tay. The man she had paid with her life savings to smuggle her husband and grown son across the border. But instead, she’d gotten a phone call: another ten thousand dollars, if she wanted to see them alive.
She’d repeated his words, her voice flattened by a lifetime of broken promises. She could only get five thousand.
With half the money, the coyote had told her, she’d have to choose which one would live. Her husband, or her son?
Ash remembered the dawn creeping over the rooftops of the Arizona town, the edge of light touching him with its searing heat. It hadn’t reached the señora yet, sitting in her chair in the bluish shade of the truck, its shadow the last remnant of the night.
He’d looked from her eyes, pools of darkness without hope, into his brother’s. Mauricio had stood in the dawn light beside him, shivering in his new polo shirt and khaki shorts, hugging himself. “Ash, don’t—”
“We have to do this.” Ash knew it deep down, at a cellular level. It was part of who he was.
“Hey, I want to. But this coyote—he’s bad news,” Mauricio had whispered. “Seriously. He’s connected.”
It hit Ash then, the exact way to crack this. The scheme they needed to pull. Like rooting through a toolbox and finding the perfect wrench to take something apart. He felt a grin spread across his face. He couldn’t help it.
He clapped a hand on Mauricio’s shoulder. “Guess you’re going to have to go buy a lottery ticket, then.” Ash had watched the volatile mix of resignation and eagerness play out across Mauricio’s face.
“The lottery scam?” Mauricio had groaned. “Again?”
It made Ash want to laugh.
And then what happened? After that? Everything was a blank.
Ash’s memory felt grainy, like film overexposed into washed-out whiteness. Trying to think was like jabbing a needle into his temples.
He opened his eyes. Moolah sat at his feet, body tense, ears flat. Watching him.
“It’s okay, buddy.” Ash patted him. “You know where Mauricio is? Where’s Mauricio?”
Moolah just put his head down on his paws.
Ash took a deep breath of the dry air. With a groan, he stood up. A little too fast. Everything tilted around him. He leaned on the fender of the old red car. The painted metal felt cool and smooth beneath his fingers. Solid. As the rush faded, he stepped back, leaving clean hand prints in the dust. Beneath, the car was fire-engine red. Huge and angular, too, built sometime in the sixties. Chrome trimmed every surface, even the black vinyl roof. Thick letters stretched across the fender: G-A-L-A-X-I-E 5-0-0. The sheen of dust covered everything except for a few recent hand prints on opposite ends of the car: the trunk lid and the front edge of the hood.
Ash came around the front of the Galaxie and gingerly lifted its hood, hearing the musical jangle of old steel springs. Underneath, aside from the haze of tan dust, the engine looked like it had come straight from the factory. A massive round blue air cleaner dominated the top of the engine. It had a rippled red sticker printed with the number 390 in thick black type. The top of the battery had been recently cleaned off, the clamps scrubbed so that the metal shone. Someone had been about to restart this car.
Ash closed the hood as quietly as he could. It clicked.
A gust of wind shuddered through the shed. The roof creaked. Dust sifted down to the concrete floor. A black spider the size of his palm skittered past the pointed toe of his boot, then vanished beneath the Galaxie. Moolah sprang to his feet and barked.
Ash jumped. “Moolah! Shush!”
The dog whined.
Ash bent down and petted him. “Good boy.” He dug in his pocket for a treat, but his fingers closed around a strange angular shape. He pulled it out. A pair of tarnished brass keys ringed to a cracked brown leather fob.
He turned the heavy keys over in his hand. They had the same emblem as the Galaxie’s chrome hood ornament, a wide regal crest. But the car obviously hadn’t been driven for years.
Why would he have its keys? He surveyed
the car from its sharp nose to its long tail and then shrugged.
He pocketed the keys and scratched absently at the back of his hand, only then realizing that something felt wrong. He held his hand out in front of him. A mottled red rash covered his knuckles, angry skin and tiny raised bumps.
Poison ivy, maybe. He stared at it, glanced at the car and stared at his knuckles again. Too many questions. Time to go get some answers.
He found the treat pouch and pulled it out, fed one to Moolah, and patted him. “Moolah, stay.” He straightened up and headed for the door.
The dog trotted alongside him, trembling with nervous energy.
Ash sighed. He led Moolah back to the middle of the shed. “Stay.”
The dog looked at the door then back at him, ready to go.
Ash made a gun shape with his finger and thumb, and aimed it at the dog. “Moolah!”
The dog froze, expectant.
Ash dropped his thumb. "Bang!"
Moolah flopped over onto his back, sticking his legs in the air. His tongue lolled out.
Ash smiled. He left Moolah there and cracked open one side of the double doors, letting in a blaze of sunlight. The shed was set beside a sandy driveway that ran down a tan grassy slope. Ash pushed the door open and stepped out into the fresh air. Mountains spread out in the distance, one ridge after another of spring green and rocks, capped with white, each peak turning bluer in the distance. He recognized the terrain immediately.
Colorado. Home.
Conspiracy of Angels Page 26
