Warbound: Book Three of the Grimnoir Chronicles - eARC

by Larry Correia

  “That’s me.”

  He looked around. Faye. Ground. Gun. Then, realizing that he was in a very bad way, he settled on looking at Faye. “Please pull me up?”

  “Maybe.” Faye answered, noting the black-and-gold Grimnoir ring on his gun hand. “Why’d you try to sneak up on me?”

  After the initial shock of almost falling, the old fellow had regained his composure. “Why were you spying on us?”

  That was a fair question, though she was rather disappointed that her spying skills weren’t turning out to be very good. “I’m looking for somebody in particular. He was a friend of Whisper’s.”

  He was a distinguished-looking man, well dressed, despite the pigeon poop and new tears that he’d put into his clothing trying to sneak up on her. He probably would have been rather handsome in his youth. It was hard to tell if he had the commanding presence of a Grimnoir elder, since nobody really had much of a commanding presence when the only thing keeping them from falling off a roof was a little girl holding onto their tie. He was old enough to have fought the last Spellbound. “Are you Jacques Montand?”

  “I am . . . You’ve come to kill me, then?”

  Not really, but he didn’t need to know that yet. “I’m thinking it over.”

  “So you know what you really are?”

  “The Spellbound. Whisper told me before she died.”

  “I see . . .” Jacques sighed. They both knew there wasn’t a whole lot he could do right then if Faye decided to just let go of the gargoyle. She could easily Travel to safety before hitting the ground and Jacques knew it. He slowly released the death grip on her arm. “I do not know everything she told you, but I would ask you to leave the other members of the Grimnoir leadership out of this. They voted to leave you alone. Our last instructions to Whisper were to observe you but to take no action. The majority of the elders thought that though you had been cursed, you yourself were innocent of any wrongdoing.”

  “Uh huh . . . On this vote, how close was it?”

  “Five against two.”

  Well, she was even more popular than she expected. “How’d you vote?”

  He looked her square in the eye as his shoes slipped a little further. “I understand more about the threat of the Spellbound than the others. I voted to have you eliminated immediately.”

  “I didn’t ask for this!” Faye exclaimed. It would have been so easy to just let go of him. That big of a fall might’ve even killed a Brute as tough as Delilah or Toru. Then Faye could simply take Jacques’ link to the Power and make it her own. But then again, that was probably just the mean side talking. Faye had made a promise, and Faye always kept her promises. “I should drop you, jerk.”

  “It was nothing personal. I have seen what the spell will eventually cause, and I have evidence which makes me believe this will happen again. I do not regret my decision.” He closed his eyes and waited for her to let go. “Do it. I am not afraid.”

  Faye was impressed. The Frenchman had guts. “I didn’t come all this way to kill you, Jacques.” Faye pulled hard. It was enough to shift both of their centers of gravity back over the edge, and he stumbled forward onto more solid tile. It was also hard enough for the tie to choke the heck out of him, and he had to stop and adjust it before he could breathe a sigh of relief. Jacques stood there on trembling legs. He may have been a Brute, but he didn’t have near as much physical Power as some of the others Faye had met. By the time he opened his eyes, Faye was ten feet away, sitting on a gargoyle’s head, just in case he tried to do something stupid and heroic. “I came here so you could teach me.”

  Billings, Montana

  Rockville was just as ugly and godforsaken as he remembered it.

  The Special Prisoners’ Wing was separate from the rest of the prison, and from the road it looked like one massive, windowless concrete cube. The ugly fortress sat in the middle of an open area that seemed unnecessarily big, but was that size to make sure that an escaping Fade would run out of Power or have to come up for air before he could reach the perimeter. Around the yard was a brick wall tall enough that even a Brute would have a hard time hopping it and thick enough that it would be tough to crash through. The wall was topped with concertina wire and had a guard tower on every corner. It had been said that the riflemen in those towers were all expert shots, and not of a hesitating nature. He’d never been in one of the towers, but he’d been told that, in addition to the thirty-caliber machine guns, they also had elephant rifles and even bazookas in case one of the tougher prisoners decided to take a stroll.

  There had been two dozen escape attempts since the Special Prisoners’ Wing had been built. There had been only one success that anyone knew of. The rest had ended up back in their cells or in the facility’s crematorium.

  Rockville was simply ugly. Rockville was a monument to ugliness. It served the ugly purpose of keeping dangerous criminal Actives away from the world. Its name served as a warning to any Active who thought about using magic to break the law. Rockville was a synonym for hard time. If any normal person ever passed by they would have to stop and gawk at the sheer ugly of the place. Good thing it was in the middle of nowhere.

  But no matter how nasty Rockville looked on the outside, it was nothing compared to the monotonous hard-labor hell that was life on the inside.

  Been a long time. He’d never thought he’d be back here, certainly not as a free man.

  At least this time he wasn’t here as a convict. He was here as a recruiter.

  Jake Sullivan parked the car before the gatehouse and waited, feeling the eyes on him. The Special Prisoners’ Wing of the Rockville State Penitentiary didn’t get very many visitors. Cautious guards approached from both sides, polite enough, but carrying Thompsons and ready for anything. There was no such thing as a complacent guard at a facility where the average prisoner could have super strength or set you on fire with his mind. From what Sullivan knew, at least one of the gatehouse men would be deaf, and therefore immune to the manipulations of any Mouth trying to con his way through.

  Papers presented, he waited while they triple-checked everything. It only took a few minutes. Of course they’d known to expect him. The Warden was thorough like that.

  The gate was built solid enough to stop a bulldozer, and it took a good five minutes to get it open wide enough for his car to make it through. There was a second fence inside the first, this one made of wire, and he had to wait for that gate to be pulled aside as well. Originally they had kept attack dogs inside the wire, but had been forced to get rid of them after a Beastie had used them to maul some of the guards. After that they’d electrified the wire, until one day a Crackler had sucked up the extra voltage and used it to blow a hole in the main wall during an escape attempt. So now it was just a fence.

  That was the thing about containing criminal Actives. You just never knew what they were going to come up with next. Rockville collected the worst of the worst, the most violent, dangerous, magically capable hard cases that a judge couldn’t come up with a good enough reason to just execute.

  There was a loud clank as the main gate began to close behind him. A cold lump of dread settled in his stomach. He took a deep breath and waited for the guard to wave him through the secondary fence. He wasn’t the sort to get rattled easily, but Jake Sullivan had served six long years inside that wall. Just over there was the rock quarry where he’d spent thousands of hours doing backbreaking manual labor. He’d killed a lot of men inside these walls, all in self defense, but regardless, that sort of thing lingers with a man.

  The gate closed like the lid on his coffin.

  The Warden’s office was exactly as he remembered it, dusty and old-fashioned. Every flat surface held stacks of books and papers, most of which were about magic, all taken from the prison’s extensive library. Sullivan had read them all at one point or another. Since the Special Prisoners’ Wing was dedicated to holding Active felons, no expense had been spared in the collection of information about magic. The Warden was a sch
olarly man, not out of any sort of innate curiosity, but rather because his job required it. It took a keen mind to come up with defenses for all of the various ways his special prisoners could cause trouble, but the Warden took his job very seriously and was now something of an expert on the topic.

  The last time Sullivan had been in this room was when he’d been offered J. Edgar Hoover’s deal for an early release, his freedom in exchange for using his own Power to help capture wanted Active criminals. Sullivan had jumped at the chance. Some of the other cons had called it selling out, but they were just jealous. Anything beat breaking rocks.

  The Warden had greeted him warmly and waved the escort guards away. After all, the Warden had known Sullivan had enough respect for law and order to not be scared of him trying anything while he’d been a prisoner. So he certainly wasn’t about to worry about him doing anything now that he was a free man. Sullivan took a seat in a chair meant for a normal man, and it creaked dangerously under his extra mass.

  “You’ve been busy since we last met,” the Warden said from across his wide desk. He was a squat, thick-necked, wild-haired fellow who always seemed to have the stub of a cigar clamped in one side of his mouth. In his six years here, Sullivan had never actually seen the Warden with a lit cigar.

  “Yes, sir.” There was no need to be so deferential anymore, but old habits were hard to break. “It’s been eventful.”

  “In addition to what I’ve read in the papers, I’ve heard a few rumors. They’re saying you’re responsible for exposing the OCI conspiracy and catching the bastards who tried to kill Roosevelt.”

  He couldn’t exactly tell the Warden about how he was now part of a secret society that had saved the entire east coast from a Tesla superweapon. “I played a small part is all.”

  The Warden leaned way back in his chair and chewed on his cigar. “Then that would mean my arranging your release was a good idea.”

  It had been the Warden who had suggested to Hoover that Sullivan could be of some use in helping capture criminal Actives. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that they were friends, since the Warden was the man responsible for keeping him caged like an animal in a prison full of violent madmen, but once he’d understood Sullivan’s nature, there had been a certain level of respect. Plus, if the Warden had not allowed him access to the library, Sullivan would’ve gone crazy a long time ago. “I personally think it was a good idea. Can’t speak for anyone else.”

  “Well, I do suppose it depends on who you ask. Some seem to think you’re a national hero while the rest say you’re a menace to society. I was a little worried about keeping my job when that whole Public Enemy Number One thing happened.” The Warden chuckled. “Luckily, nobody in their right mind would want my job.”

  “Yeah, that was real amusing.” Being framed for an attempted presidential assassination and becoming the most wanted man in the country hadn’t exactly been a picnic.

  “I imagine,” the Warden agreed. “For a few days there I was under the impression I might once again be able to enjoy your sunny company here at beautiful Rockville.”

  There was no way the OCI could have taken him alive, but that went unsaid. Sullivan merely gave a noncommittal grunt.

  “It isn’t often that I get to speak to one of our rehabilitated fellows. So, what brings you back to my fine establishment, Mr. Sullivan?”

  “I made a request to the Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Yes, I received the letter from Director Hoover. It was rather cryptic, but gave me the impression that you are working on a rather important project. He was clear that it wasn’t one of his projects, but something that could prove to be vitally important nonetheless.”

  “It is.” Sullivan didn’t think that Hoover was entirely convinced as to the reality of the Enemy’s existence, but after his political victory over the OCI, Hoover had felt like he’d owed Sullivan enough to at least humor his request. Not to mention that the BI director was happy to have the volatile and now infamous Heavy Jake Sullivan go off someplace where he wouldn’t be able to talk to reporters anymore.

  “I’ll admit, I am curious. So what’s the nature of this mysterious project of yours?”

  Track down a horrible monster from outer space before it can send a message home to its daddy to come and destroy the whole Earth. “I can’t really say.”

  “Hoover said you’d say that.” The Warden leaned forward suspiciously. “So what do you want from me?”

  “Not what. Who.” Sullivan reached into his coat, pulled out the paperwork, already signed by a federal judge, and passed it over.

  The Warden took it and read, disbelief growing on his face. “You can’t possibly be serious? This prisoner . . . Released? Why—”

  “There’s an important job that needs doing. I’m putting together a team to do it. Real talented bunch, if you get what I mean. In fact, there ain’t much we can’t do. However, this particular fella’s got some rare skills I need.”

  “He’s dangerous.”

  “Which means he’ll fit right in.”

  “You know about . . .”

  “Heard about him. He got here after I left.”

  “Don’t think you can control him, Sullivan. He’ll get inside your head.”

  “He ain’t a Reader.”

  “Might as well be.” The Warden rolled his cigar to the other side of his mouth. “He’s not like you, Sullivan. Letting you out was one thing. Anybody who has studied the law could look at your case and see you were railroaded. You were a war hero who stomped a crooked sheriff in a crooked town, and because you were a scary Active, you were made into an example. I just wish I’d read your file sooner. The vast majority of the rest of my convicts, on the other hand, are in here for damn good reasons. This man Wells, for example. He’s a killer, nothing but a mad-dog killer.”

  “Sorry, Warden. I’m afraid where I’m going, mad-dog killers are exactly what I’m gonna need.”

  Solitary confinement was by the gravel pit. Sullivan had spent quite a bit of time in solitary. It was where you got put automatically after a fight. Didn’t matter if you started it or not. Get in a fight, go in the hole. And Sullivan, having had the reputation of being the toughest man inside Rockville, had no shortage of upstart punks who’d wanted a shot at the title, so Sullivan had spent a lot of time in the hole. Usually, he hadn’t minded. The quiet had helped him think.

  The holes lived up to their name. They were just shafts that had been dug ten feet straight down into the solid rock with a four-hundred-pound iron plate stuck on top for a roof. The holes weren’t even wide enough for a tall man like Sullivan to lie all the way down. Inside was just enough room for the prisoner, a bucket to shit in, and a whole bunch of rock. Once a day they’d send down a clean bucket with food and a can of water in it, and pull up the old bucket to hose out to send back with your rations in it the next day. Once they’d decided you had enough they’d roll down the rope ladder. It hadn’t been too awful in the summer, but being in a hole during the Montana winter was miserable. There tended to be fewer fights during the winter months.

  The Warden had telephoned ahead, so there were ten guards waiting around one hole in particular. Some were carrying nets, and the rest were armed with strange Bakelite batons with metal prongs sticking out the ends.

  “What’re those?” Sullivan asked, gesturing at the unfamiliar weapons.

  The guard patted the big square end of his baton. “Electrified cattle prod. Gotta have something. Bullets just bounce off this guy.”

  “It won’t be necessary. Stand back while I talk to him.”

  “Warden said you’d want it that way. Your funeral, pal.” The lead guard shrugged. “Stand away, boys.”

  The guards complied, a few of them giving him dirty looks that suggested they remembered him from the old days. Even cleaned up and without the striped prisoner suit and the ball and chain clamped around his ankle, he was still an easy man to recognize. He’d never given the guards any trouble. They were just men
doing a hard job, so Sullivan held no grudge, but to them, once a convict, always a convict, and only a sucker trusted a convict.

  Waiting until the guards were safely away, Sullivan walked up to the hole and kicked the iron plate a couple of times to announce his presence. “Morning.”

  The voice was muffled through the plate. “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk, Doctor.”

  There was a long pause. “So it’s doctor now, huh?”

  “You got a medical degree and you’re an alienist, so that’s your title, ain’t it?”

  “I suppose I’ve rather gotten used to my title being ‘Convict.’”

  Sullivan remembered his own stays in the hole, how only the tiniest bit of light could creep through the air slots cut in the iron plate, and the painful blindness that came with freedom. “Cover your eyes. It’s bright today.” Then Sullivan used a tiny bit of his Power to effortlessly lift the rusting iron slab and toss it to the side.

  Sunlight filled the hole. “Aw. That really stings.”

  “Warned you.” Sullivan kicked the waiting rope ladder down into the pit. “Come on up.”

  “Give me a minute to make myself presentable.”

  “Take your time.” Sullivan waited patiently as the prisoner rubbed the feeling back into his limbs then struggled to make his way up the ladder. He didn’t offer to help pull him up, since the man was filthy after several days in the hole, and Sullivan didn’t particularly feel like getting his suit dirty, or worse, ending up in a wrestling match with a Massive who had a reputation for violence.

  Like I got room to talk. Sullivan didn’t just have a reputation for violence, he’d gained national notoriety for it. Still ain’t getting my new suit dirty though. He folded his arms and waited for the prisoner to pull himself over the side. For being able to alter his density, and being so good at it that he could even make the Rockville guard contingent nervous, the prisoner didn’t look like much. He was of average height and thin build, not particularly remarkable at all. Sullivan was half a foot taller and twice as wide in the shoulders.