The Phantom Oracle (Vampire Innocent Book 5)

by Matthew S. Cox

  After a few minutes of descent, the diamond at the tip of the compass needle begins emitting a faint green light. Ooh, that’s kinda cool. Soon, I can perceive a darkening up ahead, which I’m fairly sure is the sea floor. This close to the coast, the depth can’t be too severe. I remember something about a continental shelf or some such thing where the ocean gets super deep. Can’t say I remember how far off the coast that is, but I’m hoping I haven’t gone past it.

  The greyish world around me is like an alien planet. The seabed appears to be about fifty or sixty feet below, so I figure that’s approximately the limit of my vision. How I wind up being able to see farther in saltwater than the lake, I have no idea.

  Unless that Poseidon blessing actually did something.

  I’m about to roll my eyes at the thought, but… again, I’m a vampire at the bottom of the Pacific using an enchanted compass to track down a box of magic books. Am I really going to laugh off the idea that he might’ve cast a beneficial spell on me?

  Admittedly, I’m sometimes tempted to laugh at the idea of vampires still, but… yeah.

  Okay, thank you Lord of the Sea. And if you could keep the sharks busy, that would be awesome, too.

  I turn, line up my facing with the compass needle, then fly. Well… swim. Not sure. I’m projecting myself forward by sheer force of will instead of paddling my arms or kicking, so I’m going to call it flying even if I’m not technically in the air.

  A few minutes into chasing the needle, I glide over a fragment of a ship that’s been down here a long damn time. It’s barely recognizable as anything more than a pile of lumber—though the mast gives it away as a former sailing ship. Here and there, I spot flashes of silver or blue from fish, though none are brave enough to get close. And I’m totally okay with that. Make you guys a deal. You don’t bite me, I won’t bite you.

  Shipwreck after shipwreck goes by below, in varying states of decomposition from a couple of stray boards to a metal boat that probably went down in the sixties. And yeah, I’m totally guessing there. For all I know, it sank yesterday. The compass diamond grows brighter, so I keep going in that direction.

  The glowing needle leads me to a smooth patch of seabed. From like five stories above the bottom, it looks like a river of silt flowing between rippling dunes on either side. That must mean there’s a current here. The area contains about ten recognizable ships, most wooden and well-covered by various barnacles and crusty greenish stuff.

  I steer downward and make my way toward where the needle points. My destination winds up being a bit of a toss-up between two boats that came down almost on top of each other. The larger one landed completely upside down, so it resembles a weird house from a fantasy movie. It’s also the more intact of the two, so I head for the smaller one, assuming it to be older.

  A cannon port on the side lets me into the hull.

  Some manner of eel comes right at me out of nowhere. Only my vampiric reflexes save me from having most of my face taken off by razor sharp teeth. I dodge to the side, its slimy side brushing my ear as it races on by and goes out to the ocean.

  Unable to scream in shock, I wind up giving it the finger.

  I hang there with a hand over my heart for a moment to calm down.

  Exploring this boat doesn’t take long since most of the inner decks have collapsed. It’s obvious I’m in the wrong place. Even at the far end of the wreck, the compass is still pointing me past the wall. So, I fly back out another cannon port and land on my feet. I wonder how many people in the world have ever stepped barefoot on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. Probably not too many. I should be long dead—or at least in deep poop—from hypothermia.

  It’s kinda nice oozing between my toes actually. Feels like really wet beach sand.

  And it would totally suck if it got into my wetsuit.

  Two laps around the larger boat confirms the only apparent way in is a gap between the hull and the seabed at the midpoint of one side. It’s weird that the thing doesn’t have any windows or cannon ports. There’s plenty of ruined rope netting, covered in that crusty stuff and barnacles, but the only way in is the space between the wall and the sand. The boat is a pretty decent size, maybe three stories tall, and the compass is locked on it.

  Okay. This is why I’m here, so only choice is onward.

  I flatten out on the bottom and pull myself forward into a ‘chamber’ between the outer deck and the ground. There’s only about three feet of clearance at the tallest point, and a shitload of crabs hiding in here. I don’t see any sign of a navigator’s wheel. All four masts are either stuck way deep in the sea floor like spears or they broke off while the boat sank. I do, however, spot a door in the ‘ceiling’ near the back end of the area. Eager to get away from the crabs, I fly the length of the ship with my back brushing the wood above me, and zoom over to the old hatch. Upon reaching it, I grab the edge and roll over to pull myself headfirst into the opening.

  Wooden steps lead down (or up in this case) to the second deck. Aside from being upside down, ruined, full of water, and covered in oceanic crust, it looks pretty much like it did before going down. Stuff is everywhere, which I suppose happens when a boat rolls over and over while hurtling toward its grave at the bottom of the sea.

  The compass leads me forward. I ease my way down the hall, peering into rooms so far gone I can’t even tell what they’d once been used for. Fragments of barrels, bunks, scraps of cloth, even a human bone or two sit around in disarray.

  I can’t help but feel like I’m not supposed to be here, or that I’m desecrating a sacred place. But, I don’t see any angry ghosts. It’s gotta be in my head. Logic says that if the men who died on this ship remained in any form of existence that could object to me being here, they’d be some kind of apparition I could see.

  Pushing unease aside as a product of imagination, I keep going.

  The compass reverses itself after about fifty feet. I stop and back up. The needle flips around right away, not like at the surface. Also, the diamond is glowing super bright. So, I must be directly over (or under) the trunk’s location. Ugh. Guess I go down one more deck. Err, Up. Dammit. Why did this ship have to roll over? This is too effing confusing.

  I cruise back to the stairs and swim through the hole to the next deck. Unsurprisingly, the rooms are smaller, since the outer hull is narrower. Scraps of unidentifiable cloth float by, along with some papers and at least two quills. A thick wooden door at the end of the corridor gives me hope. That looks like an important door, the kind of important door that people use to guard important stuff.

  Though, honestly, who the heck would try to steal a trunk full of books on a boat while out at sea? Where would they hide it?

  It’s tempting to invert myself so I’m right side up to the boat, but that would feel too bizarre. So, I approach the door and grasp the encrusted iron ring serving as a doorknob. Naturally, it’s locked. I swing my legs up and brace my feet against the slimy, encrusted muck on either side, grab the ring in both hands, and pull as hard as I can.

  A dull crack, surprisingly loud, breaks the stillness as the door gives way. Being underwater, I feel the sound as much as hear it. The pull ring comes off in my hands and I go sailing backward. The door, free from the lock, drifts open a few inches. I smirk at the ring and toss it aside before swimming to the four-inch-thick door and pulling it out of my way.

  The room beyond it stretches the full width of the boat and about thirty feet deep. All sorts of decaying boxes and crates litter the former ceiling. One stands out due to it being intact: a steamer trunk with brass metal bands and a dark jade green inlaid surface. It’s probably not a great sign that this box hasn’t developed a layer of crud like everything else down here. It’s even freakier that it looks old in terms of style but not in condition. And, I haven’t exactly had the best luck with steamer trunks.

  A twinge of memory pain pokes at my upper front teeth.

  Okay. There you are. Time to go home.

  Since I no lo
nger need the compass out, I tuck it into the wetsuit’s pocket, pull the zipper closed, then drift into the room. The trunk’s about four feet wide, three tall, three deep, almost the same size as Ashley’s. So bizarre that it doesn’t look at all the worse for wear after spending so long under the ocean. Metal plates on the top seem to have some kind of engraved pattern on them, though it’s difficult to make out under the layer of silt. Bleh. I’m not here to admire stuff. I stretch down to grab the handle on the left side. The instant my skin touches the metal, a whole bunch of little symbols and carvings on the brass bands light up with a dark emerald light. The same glow illuminates the gunk coating the plate at the center of the lid.

  Ooh, that’s pretty.

  At least, I think it’s beautiful until the debris between me and the door erupts into a beige silt cloud. Bony hands reach out of the junk, shoving it aside as three moving skeletons drag themselves upright.

  Oh, and the door I came in? Yeah. It’s closed again… somehow.

  Skeletons? Seriously? Are you effing kidding me?

  All three rise to their feet, advancing toward me with wicked, rusty rapiers.

  Shit.

  29

  Sharp, Nasty, Pointy Things

  The sight of skeletons moving under their own power leaves me dumbstruck.

  This room has no windows and only the one door, which slammed itself shut. Seems unlikely those guys are going to stand around idle while I try breaking my way out the hull.

  And they’ve got swords. Thin, rusted-to-hell rapiers to be exact.

  I glance down at my brand new $98 wetsuit that I miraculously didn’t get yelled at for buying. Not that I’ve ever been a diver, but this thing is kinda nice, and I haven’t exactly had the best luck as a vampire with clothing surviving crap trying to kill me. The skeletons keep advancing, their motion somewhat sluggish due to the water. I zip backward to the corner of the room, hoping to buy a few seconds. As fast as I can move my arms, I peel the wetsuit off and kick it toward the floor.

  Stripping is probably not the usual reaction someone has to three skeletons with swords coming after them. At a guess, I’d say it’s not even on a top twenty list of things to do when confronted with the unexplainable. But I just bought my wetsuit and Dad would kill me if I came home with it shredded. It drives him nuts when we ‘don’t take care of our stuff.’ So glad I decided to wear my bikini under it, but something tells me these guys are way beyond caring if by boobs are covered or not.

  They all come around the left side of the trunk, closing in on me, so I head around the other side and hurl myself at the door. It doesn’t break. How tough can old wood be? I pound at it, but succeed only in embedding tiny splinters in my hands. If I can get past this door, maybe the skeletons will follow me out to the ocean. I’ll lead them off a good ways then come back for the trunk before they—wait. Would they follow me straight to land? That trunk might attract them like a homing beacon.

  Grr. I can’t drag this crap back to my family.

  The door is surprisingly tough. I rear back and kick at it with both legs, but it holds. My strength is nowhere near the high end of what vampires are capable of—thinking about Aziz—but I should at least be able to kick a hole in ancient, waterlogged wood.

  Ugh. Magic.

  A thin, corroded rapier blade sprouts from my chest—along with a stream of tiny bubbles, air leaking out of my lung. I involuntarily try to yell in pain, though I succeed only in creating an even bigger bubble. The skeleton behind me attempts to pull the weapon out, but the narrow blade is so heavily encrusted with rust and ‘ocean crud’ that it refuses to come loose from my body. A sharp, searing pain accompanies each tug, so painful I can’t even do anything but stare in shock. The fourth time the skeleton pulls, the blade snaps off with a jarring crack that reverberates in my bones.

  I whirl around and punch that skeleton straight in its lack of a nose, driving my fist into the skull around a cloud of splintering bone fragments. Dark muck—whatever had been inside its empty brain case—billows out of its eye sockets. It flails its bony arms, one hand clutching the basket hilt of a rapier with only a few inches of blade remaining on it.

  Skeleton Two stabs at me, but I fly left to avoid the incoming weapon, then stomp-kick the skeleton in the ribcage. My foot punches through its ribcage up to the calf and gets stuck. Trying to pull my leg out brings the whole skeleton closer to me. He tries again to spear me with his sword, but I catch his wrist in both hands.

  Of course, Skeleton Three takes that moment—while I’m hopping on one foot and holding the other one’s sword away—to stick his rapier into my chest from the side, under my right arm. The corroded blade grinds over my rib and comes out the other side, piercing everything on the way. Holy shit that hurts! Ooh, that’s bad. It had to hit my heart, at least I think it did. This rapier’s got so much crud caked on it that I may as well have been stabbed by a stake covered in broken glass.

  Skeleton One stabs his four-inch blade into my back and leaves the basket hilt hanging there.

  Again, I try to scream, and in that instant of blinding pain, Skeleton Two’s bony arm slips my grasp and his sword pierces me under the left collarbone. He goes to yank it out, but the blade’s so rough and cruddy it won’t come free. I think I black out from pain for a second or two since the next thing I know, the skeleton’s drifting few feet away with a broken rapier hilt in its hand. The fourteen-inch fragment of blade is still sticking out of me.

  Argh! I’m not a goddamn pincushion!

  Growling in my head, I whirl on Skeleton Three. It tries to bite me, but I grab it around the neck in one hand, my other on its shoulder. Make a wish, buddy. A sharp yank disintegrates the spine and the skull floats off, separated from the rest of it. Of course, the arms keep raking at my face, shoulders and chest. I shouldn’t be surprised really. It’s not like they are seeing with eyeballs.

  Searing pain burns into my right side.

  I glare down at a rusty table knife. Skeleton One continues trying to push it in deeper. I grab its hand, squeezing until I crush it, then ram my elbow into its face. The jawbone sails across the room while pieces of the smashed skull glide to the floor.

  If we’d been out in the air, these skeletons would probably be flying all over when I hit them, but the water density basically holds them in place, so instead of knocking them over, I’m punching holes in them. Speaking of which. I grab the rib cage of the other skeleton and rip it apart so I no longer have one leg stuck. Skeleton Two disregards its near total lack of ribs and lunges in, trying to bite me.

  No idea if a skeleton can be surprised, but it stops moving after I reach out and rip its jaw off with a blurry-fast swipe of my hand. I’m sure if it could do facial expressions, it would be gawking at me.

  I give it the finger. No sword, no jaw. Now what are you going to do to me?

  Skeleton Three’s still scratching at me with its bony fingers. I grab one arm, break off its hand, then snap the forearm in half, before breaking the upper arm in half, then ripping the remaining stump out of the shoulder socket. The whole time, it rakes at me with its other hand.

  A rusty cutlass blade stabs up through the floor way too close to my left foot.

  Oh, shit. How many skeletons are on this boat?

  Wow. If I wasn’t already dead, being inside a flooded shipwreck on the ocean floor would be terrifying.

  I swim up enough to avoid any more floor blades, and continue tearing the skeletons apart. Naked bones are not terribly tough compared to my strength, so it’s like I’m under attack from a pile of kindling sticks. They’re shredding the shit out of me, but they don’t exactly have claws, so the scratches are healing almost as fast as they inflict them.

  And yeah, it hurts like a son of a bitch. But not quite as much as my heart still pumping while it’s got a rusty, encrusted rapier blade jammed through it. These guys would be way more effective defending their trunk from living people trying to take it. I have a nasty habit of not dying when stabbed
in the heart.

  Pain similar to a wasp sting bites into the back of my right shoulder. I snap my head that way and blink in confused surprise at a rusted fork sticking out of me. Seriously? Wow, these guys are getting desperate. I can’t even tell which skeleton is behind me anymore other than it being headless. Guess he volunteered next to be disarmed.

  It makes no effort to get away from me, continuing its mindless assault as I systematically break it to progressively smaller pieces.

  Cutlass Boy pulls a floorboard down, but the hole it made isn’t anywhere near big enough for it to get into the room. Instead, it reaches one arm in, waving its sword back and forth at me. The skeletons already in here follow me as I drift away, though the one in the floor keeps trying to get at me with no comprehension it’s impossible.

  I drift by the trunk amid a cloud of flailing bones, and glare down at the stupid thing. The disturbance of fighting around it has blown the silt off the lid, revealing a thin glowing green line tracing the shape of a skull on a metal plate, surrounded by more glowing writing. It flickers and emits a tiny orb of pale light that glides off into the floor.

  Pain gets me in the back of the left ankle.

  One of the loose skulls is biting me.

  Argh! Bastard. I kick my leg around until the skull slips off, then stomp-crush it.

  Every time the raking bony fingers bump against one of the blades jammed into me, I want to scream, but my lungs are already quite empty. Wait… no they’re not. They’re full of water.

  Son of a bitch.

  I rip the leg off one skeleton and use the femur as a club, but it’s slowed too much by swinging it in water to be effective. Snarling—mentally—I go full crazy kitty on the moving bones. Only, I don’t use claws since it seems silly to attempt cutting bone. Grabbing and breaking works well enough. A blurry moment later, I’m surrounded by a mess of smashed bones sinking to the floor. I’m ‘breathing’ hard only as an instinctive reaction to feeling like I exerted myself. The sensation of water blowing in and out my nose is beyond weird.