by Chris Fox
“When we get there, do you want to grab dinner?” Blair knew it wasn’t the right time, but was it ever?
“Are you finally asking me on a date?” Liz brushed her hair from her face, looking away for a moment. Was she blushing?
“Hell yes, I am,” Blair said. He wrapped an arm around her waist.
“Yeah, I’ll have dinner with you. Just take me somewhere nice,” Liz leaned into Blair. It felt good. Damn good.
“Ka-Dun, if I may interrupt,” Ka said, a hint of impatience leaking into its tone. Blair turned toward the hologram, giving it a nod. It bobbed its head once, then continued. “The signal broadcast from the Arks just prior to our first encounter has had time to arrive at its intended destination. The Builders are now aware of the state of affairs on this planet. They will be coming.”
Dead silence fell as everyone took that in. Trevor took a step closer to Liz and Blair, Jordan joining them a moment later. Even Irakesh looked frightened.
“In addition, this planet’s magnetosphere has been unstable since the First Ark’s detonation,” Ka continued, frown deepening. “I believe you will find much has changed in your absence.”
Epilogue
Mark came awake by degrees. He felt different, though it was difficult to say how, precisely. It was dark and moist, wherever he was. He reached out, fingers probing some sort of membrane. It gave a little at his touch, but refused to tear. A shiver of anger lanced through him, and claws burst from his finger tips. They were long and dark, much longer than they’d been when he transformed into a vampire. How was that possible?
He used the claws to shred the membrane, gasping at the cool air that rushed into the strange cocoon. He tried to lean forward, but something on his back prevented the movement. He felt an odd tingling back there, and realized he could feel something he shouldn’t have been able to. An extra pair of limbs. He flexed them experimentally. Were those…wings?
Mark scrambled from the chrysalis, clawing desperately at the membrane until he tumbled free. A slick substance coated him and made it difficult to grab onto anything. Mark fell heavily to a stone floor, dimly aware of a reddish glow in the distance. Where was he? Panic and revulsion warred within him as he struggled to understand.
“Ahh, you’re awake,” came a gravelly voice. He squinted up at the speaker, an elderly man with a thick beard and long white hair.
“Who—who are you?” Mark rasped. His throat felt strangely unsuited for speech.
“I am called Hades,” the old man explained, kneeling next to Mark. “Do you know who you are, or where you are?”
“I’m…Mark Phillips,” he said, the full name coming to him from the dim recesses of his mind. “I don’t know where I am. Or what’s been done to me. What the hell was that thing?”
“Ahh, the chrysalis. Set sent you here to be reborn, one of his final acts. The chrysalis has changed you, made you far stronger than you were,” Hades explained with the tone of a concerned grandfather.
It has also gifted you with me, Set-Dun. A deep voice thrummed through his mind. The voice was familiar, yet different. It didn’t sound like the Risen he’d been given when Osiris transformed him. This, whatever it was, felt darker. You have been elevated. You are the first to survive the transformation, the herald of our return.
Mark didn’t respond to the voice, but he knew for damn sure he didn’t like it. He focused on the old man instead. “What happened to Set?”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Hades said, resting a hand on Mark’s goo-covered shoulder. He looked at that shoulder, eyes widening as he took in the smooth, black skin. It had the tough, marbled texture of a lizard’s hide. Mark shuddered, appalled by what he’d become.
“I’m not sure.” Mark’s thoughts were racing. Where was he? What had happened?
“What of Isis and Ra? Osiris?” Hades asked, betraying a bit of concern. His grip tightened on Mark’s shoulder.
“I don’t know,” Mark replied. If the plan had worked, then England was nothing more than a crater, and they were all dead.
“No matter,” Hades said, releasing Mark. He rose to his feet. “Come. You have much work to be about. Our enemies are many.”
Mark took his first awkward steps with his horrifically deformed body. They emerged into a wide tunnel that passed between pools of lava. Mark found himself enjoying the unbearable heat. “Our enemies?”
“Yes,” Hades said, turning to meet his gaze. “All sentient life on this planet. It must be eradicated.”
The Great Pack
Deathless Book 4
Prologue
The Liwanu awakened slowly, warmth seeping into long unused muscles through the rock above. That rock had been cold for innumerable centuries, since the sun had changed and robbed the world of its true power. Now, it was warm again. The time had come. The world was ready for his return.
He stretched, rising to his full height—well, his full height as a man, anyway. He’d slept in human form, as that had given him the best chance of surviving the long hibernation that had carried him to the present.
The Liwanu’s shaggy black hair spilled down his back. His fingernails were long and unkempt. The furs he’d used for clothing had long since rotted away, leaving him naked.
No matter. He’d danced in the snow during the heart of winter; this lesser cold could not touch him.
The Liwanu yawned, walking sleepily to the mouth of his little cave. The entrance was still covered, which did not surprise him. He planted both hands against the warm stone, setting his feet against the floor as he began to strain. Pushing the boulder free was difficult—far more difficult than he’d have expected—but eventually, inch by agonizing inch, he forced it from its perch. It rolled free with a tremendous pop and bounded down the hillside into the thickly wooded valley below. The thunder of its passing resounded across the mountains, echoing into the distance.
A flock of ravens scattered into flight, winging up and away as they observed the boulder’s passing. The sight of the agile birds winging through the redwoods drew a smile from the Liwanu. He knew the world must have changed greatly, but, whatever was different, at least that piece was the same.
The wind, too, was the same: bitterly cold on his skin. It whistled over the valley, singing in the high places, and caressed his nakedness as he moved from the cave mouth. The Liwanu blinked in the thin sunlight, walking up the hillside toward Tissaack’s jutting granite crown.
The mountain was unchanged, the face of the young woman shedding tears down her granite slopes. Yet there were differences. What was that affixed to the back side of the mighty mountain?
The Liwanu leapt into the air, slinging himself from the tip of a great redwood. He bounded up the granite, landing in a crouch at the sub-dome beneath Tissaack herself. A pair of strange grey ropes extended up the back of the mountain, woven from something shiny. Every few paces a tree limb had been fashioned into a rung. It was a ladder, of sorts, allowing people to climb to the top of mighty Tissaack.
The Liwanu roared, lunging forward and grabbing one of the cables. He pulled, wrenching with all the fury the desecration wrought in him. The strange rope groaned, then pulled free from the rock. He yanked again, and again. The third yank pulled the rope loose, and the entire cabling tumbled to the rock near the Liwanu’s feet.
His initial ire was sated, but he still longed to find whoever had done this.
The wind brought the scent of man: a whiff of long-worn leather. The Liwanu turned from the wreckage of the strange ladder he’d destroyed. A pile of strangely colored leathers lay not far from the trail. There were hundreds of them, mismatched and of all sizes. He approached, picking up a glove the color of a strawberry in summer. The glove was cunningly shaped, and far more supple than the leathers his own people had worked. The Liwanu slid his fingers inside of it, surprised by how well it fit. It protected his skin from the cold, so he fished through the pile until he found the matching one.
Then he peered up at the mountain
. “Forgive me, Tissaack. I will return to remove all traces of man from your holy visage. First, I must learn what has happened to the Ahwahnechee. I will return to remove this desecration.”
The Liwanu bounded up the rock face, extending long claws that bored into the granite. He was slightly winded by the time he reached the top—an unwelcome surprise. His slumber had stolen much, it seemed. He slowed his pace, catching his breath as he reached the flat part of the mountain, then walked to the edge, peering down into the valley below as he had countless times during his youth.
He had no words. Ahwahnee’s sacred beauty had been blemished. Sinuous black lines stretched across the valley floor like snakes. They were choked with strange boxy vehicles that belched clouds of filth into the air. There were many upon many, in a bedazzling array of strange colors. Were they some sort of slipsail, as Mother had used?
The strange slipsails congregated around large structures, far bigger than any mud hut. Those structures were numerous, dotting every corner of the valley. Men moved in and out of those structures, their clothing a riot of colors. Some of those colors were new to him, the bright hues found nowhere in nature that he knew of.
The Liwanu growled deep in his chest. He leapt from the mountain, shifting into an eagle as he fell. His arms became wings, nimbly guiding his body down into the valley. A few disinterested faces looked up, each dismissing him in the same way.
The Liwanu glided to a perch atop a wooden post outside one of the largest structures. Strange glyphs decorated the sign. He wished Mother were here to use her magic. She could no doubt understand the glyphs.
The Liwanu shifted again, back to human form, hopping to the ground. Many of the humans were staring. More than a few pointed in his direction. He studied them with puzzlement. Not a single face resembled his people. Instead, some had pale skin, and their hair came in colors he’d never seen. A few had golden locks, and one had the deep purple of twilight. Some faces were paler, some the color of dried mud.
A woman in a dark jacket and dun-colored pants approached. She wore an odd hat with a wide brim. The Liwanu watched her approach passively. She smelled wary, but didn’t seem hostile.
The woman said something, her voice rising at the end to indicate a question. He recognized none of the words, and simply shrugged in reply. The woman spoke again. This time he recognized a word: Yosemite. It was a more formal version of his name, the one used in early stories about his transformation.
“My name has survived the sleep between ages?” the Liwanu asked.
The woman seemed just as puzzled by his words as he was by hers, and her scent changed. There was more fear now. The people around him were growing restless, clustering closer. They were a confusing jumble of scents, and carried odd smells that burned his eyes and nose. He did not like them. They were all speaking at once, pressing closer.
Someone touched his shoulder, and the Liwanu lashed out.
He shifted back to his native form, dark fur sprouting all over his body. His hide toughened as bones popped and cracked. He grew in height, towering over the crowd of people. His face split into a broad, ursine snout. Black claws burst from his paws, and his teeth elongated into fangs.
The humans began to scream and run.
The Liwanu gave in to his rage, chasing down the closest. He knocked the woman who’d first spoken to him to the ground, pinning her with a massive paw.
Then the Great Bear knelt to feed.
1
Five Years Later
Yukon bounded over a rock, sending up a spray of snow as he dodged between two pines. Behind him the pack flowed: dozens of dogs, coyotes, and even a few foxes. They continued their ascent, making for the high places. Yukon paused, giving an encouraging howl to those behind him.
The howl was taken up by the pack, and answering howls echoed from the hills on the far side of the valley.
What news, brothers? Yukon thought at them. He shivered, his thick fur not even protecting him from the bitter cold.
Sunfur. You’re Sunfur. It came in a dozen jumbled thoughts. They were tinged with awe and joy, something Yukon had come to expect when meeting new packs. Many had heard of the Great Pack, and longed to join it.
I am called Yukon. My pack and I are fleeing from many, many notdeads. They fill the valley below, and we dare not go back that way.
I am called Cloudrunner. The high places are not safe, thought back a coyote, an old matron, trusted by the others. He could feel her age, sense many seasons of memories in her mind. You must risk the notdeads. Those who go further into the mountains do not return. Even now, we are fleeing to plains west of us. Better to lay down in the snow than face the Liwanu.
Yukon could feel her terror, the lingering echo of packs whose song had been silenced forever. He peered back the way they had come, down the slopes winding into the town the humans called Sonora. Tiny black figures writhed between houses and shops, a sea of ant-like notdeads. Beyond them, he knew, thousands more choked the forest. He’d never seen a horde this large. It stretched for miles to both the north and south, blanketing the land in hungry death.
We cannot turn back. Yukon thought back, showing her what he saw below.
I mourn for us all, then, brother. The notdeads will kill many. The Liwanu and his children will kill all.
Yukon did not know that word, Liwanu—there were still many words he didn’t know, even after the Mother had awakened him—but he could feel the meaning behind it, something like the growl of a terrible bear.
Yukon trotted a few steps in the snow, unsure what to do. Thank you, sister. We will move swiftly and try to avoid the high places as much as we can. We’ll follow the mountains, until the notdeads are left behind. Hopefully, we are gone before this Liwanu can find us.
May we run with you, brother?
Yes. Join our packmind. Be one with us.
Yukon bounded through the snow again, following the ridge to the north. He set a ground-eating pace, loping through the snow with ease. The Mother had made him larger than any wolf, but the rest of the pack wasn’t so fortunate. The smallest was a Border Collie, panting as she rushed along in the trail Yukon’s passage allowed. He longed to slow, but dared not—not after Cloudrunner’s warning.
The sun marched steadily across the sky until Yukon finally paused upon a tall hill. He stared down at the tiny town below, just a few structures near a lake that had been made by men. The water was thick with writhing black specks, and the shores teemed with them. This place was even worse than Sonora. How large could the horde be? Surely there was an end to it.
Yukon plunged ahead, knowing that if he hesitated too long the rest of the pack would pick up on his unease. He needed to be strong for them, to keep them moving lest they give up hope. He plunged down a steep slope to a snow-covered road, then turned north again, pressing forward, feeling for more packs.
There were none. The hills were silent, save for the wind. Even the crows were missing, and they never stopped talking. The pack sensed the change, and the occasional yips and barks were gone. They moved silently, flowing through the trees like ghosts.
Yukon’s heart raced. Something was out there. Something large, and very, very old. He sensed it out there, somewhere—and he knew that it sensed him, too. There was a sameness between them. Whatever it was, it had also been awakened by the Mother.
A lost brother?
The snow next to a huge granite boulder exploded into the air. A black-furred grizzly towered over the pack, standing many times the height of a man. It lunged at a German Shepherd, snapping her up in its jaws. She gave a single whimper, then the Bear flung her body into a pine tree. She fell and did not rise.
Yukon darted forward, barking at the Bear. Its gaze fell on him, and his pack sprang away. The larger members circled behind the Bear, while the smaller ones retreated into the trees.
Blood dripping from its muzzle, the Bear gave a thunderous roar as it lunged for Yukon. Yukon darted backward, but not quickly enough. Claws punched
through his side, and he yelped as the blow carried him into the air. It flung him across the meadow, and he rolled through the snow at the far side.
Run, Sunfur. Run! Cloudrunner’s voice echoed through the pack mind. We will delay Liwanu, so you may live. The pack must live.
Yukon knew despair. No. Please. Do not do this.
The pack howled. They swarmed the Bear, darting in from every side. Yukon could feel their fierce determination, their knowledge that this was a foe they could stop. They would die, so Yukon would live; they were gladdened by this.
Yukon hung his head in shame, turning from battle. Blood flowed freely from his side, leaving a trail he knew the Bear would be able to follow. He forced himself past the pain, running north along the ridge. He still couldn’t risk leaving the hills, not while any of the pack survived. Many voices had gone silent, yet many more remained.
He redoubled his pace, running as he had never run. Alicia must be warned.
2
Splitting Up
“Are we absolutely positive that splitting up is the best way to go?” Blair asked, leaning on his golden staff. The scarab-topped Primary Access Key hummed with power, comforting in the midst of so much chaos. He could feel it feeding pulses of energy into the Nexus, stabilizing its weakened matrix. The gems lighting the golden chamber glowed dimly, but it was better than it had been when they’d arrived.
They made a motley group: a mixture of deathless and champions, the ragged survivors of the battle for the First Ark. Now that the crisis was over, Blair was already seeing the cracks start to form. Jordan stood apart from everyone, tree-trunk arms folded across his trademark black t-shirt. He hadn’t said much, but kept darting glances at Trevor and Irakesh. Trevor clearly knew it, frowning back at Jordan each time the big man darted a glance his way.