by E A Comiskey
“Your daughter is a little scary.”
Richard turned to see who had spoken. Michael stood next to him, pressing one of Maddie’s kitchen towels to a scalp wound.
“You have no idea,” Richard said.
Maddie started crying against Stanley’s chest and Richard walked over to where they sat in the grass. “Shhh. It’s gonna be okay, kid. Don’t cry. It’ll be okay.”
“In what world is any of this okay?” she shouted.
Some of the neighbors who’d begun to draw near backed away. Their whispers drifted through the night like so many wandering wraiths.
“You need to let us clean this up,” Michael said. “All of it. Let us make this go away before it gets too far.”
Already, police sirens wailed in the distance, drawing closer by the second.
Richard couldn’t speak past the lump in his throat. His eyes seemed stuck on his pale, shaking child, crying in Stanley Kapcheck’s arms.
“Do it,” Stanley said. “We’re in your debt.”
Michael showed off his dimples. “Yes, you are. For saving your fragile mortal lives back there and for cleaning up afterward. Don’t worry. We won’t lose track.” He motioned toward Maddie and a tall thin figure in a dark robe swept across the lawn to hover over her. The stink of death emanated from the creature. The stench mingled with the coppery scent of Albert’s moist remains and sent Richard’s stomach into a slow roll.
Richard reached for the dagger in its sheath on his arm. Stanley grabbed his wrist. “We need to let them do this. Two dozen people just watched your daughter run a man down with an armored vehicle. How are you going to explain any of this to those cops who are...what? Three blocks away now? Two, maybe? How are you going to stop anyone from posting videos of this on the internet?”
Richard scowled. He dropped to his knees next to his daughter, ignoring the crunching of joints that sent little spasms of pain through his legs. Nothing about this felt right. Working with the monsters? With the bosses of the monsters? Might as well go back to making deals with The Devil. He took Maddie’s hand in his and pressed it to his heart while the miscreation bent close enough to kiss her. Her trembling slowed and stopped. Her grip grew slack. The black-hooded thing gave a sigh of pleasure and swept away toward the first little group of onlookers who were held in place by a glowing white band of light that encircled them like some kind of high-tech lasso.
The police cars zoomed around the corner and slowed to a crawl. Behind the dark windshield, Richard could just make out the driver, staring straight ahead even as he wove left and right around obstacles littering the street. A second creature like the one who had worked its magic on Madeline rode in the back seat of the cruiser, one hand on the back of the officer’s head.
“What’d it do to her?” Richard asked.
“It made her forget,” Michael said. “I suggest you get her to a hospital. She’ll need a little looking after, but it’s nothing they won’t be able to manage if you get her there fast enough.” He tapped the little square watch face on his left wrist and it glowed to life. “I’m thinking you should be able to meet me at the local airport in two hours or so. Don’t be late. We have a lot to do and not much time remaining to do it.”
Burke. They had to help Burke. She was a prisoner because of him. Maddie was laying in the grass, a murderer now, because of him. He blinked hard and turned his face away from Stanley. “I’ll go get Madeline’s car. We can take that.”
Stanley didn’t reply, but Richard felt the weight of his gaze as he walked away.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Burke
Burke rode north in a helicopter, which landed with a thump in a clearing surrounded by evergreen forest. The other five passengers and she boarded a long electric cart, and a driver with eyes all over his face steered them along a short dirt road. He muttered in Latin and the gate rolled open. Glowing red symbols on signs over the road faded to black, and the cart rolled forward.
In the distance, the immense rocket dominated the skyline. Beyond it, the lake rolled with Mother Earth’s steady respirations. Closer, a long, single-story building buzzed with all the activity of a beehive in autumn. They parked near a row of identical steel doors. One of them opened and a man with tidy silver hair and skin as pink as a peach came jogging out to meet them. He held one hand extended toward Burke. When she clasped it, he pumped vigorously.
“Benjamin Franklin,” he said. “No relation. You must be Burke.”
“Yes,” Burke said.
“I’m pleased as pie you’re here. I’ve heard nothing but good things about your skills and, Lord knows, we need someone to look over all the last-minute bugs. You know how these things can go sideways in a second, no matter how much planning you do.”
“Yes.”
“Great, great. Come on in, then,” the old man gushed.
“Okay.” Burke climbed down from the cart and followed him.
Benjamin Franklin turned out to be as clever as his namesake and Burke spent the night trailing him around, taking notes and making suggestions.
It seemed like she should have gotten tired at some point, but she didn’t. It seemed like that observation should be unsettling, but it wasn’t. Albert told her to make herself useful, so that’s what she would do. Sleeping was no help to anyone.
Time passed and none of it seemed to matter much. The only thing that mattered was completing each task—answering the questions that were asked of her.
And then she woke up.
No matter that she’d never gone to sleep, she’d been moving through a dream for hours and then, the next moment, she was awake. She remembered everything she’d done and everything that had been said, but she knew she’d not done any of it of her own will.
She looked around. Benjamin Franklin sat typing at a computer. Creatures with snake-like faces and hissing voices made noise at each other while scrolling through rows of numbers on a huge monitor.
He’d possessed her, controlled her, gotten inside her head and taken over. Shivers raced through her body and her teeth clacked together.
“Are you well, dear?” Benjamin asked.
Reason left and only rage remained. She leaped from the chair, picked it up, and flung it at the snake men. One of them crumpled to the floor, but the other shot a stream of venom at Burke.
She dove to the floor and rolled, and the foul substance hit Benjamin in the eyes. He fell from his chair, shrieking.
Burke scrambled to her feet and lunged toward the door. She yanked it open, only to find alien creatures running toward her from every direction.
She planted her feet wide and fought. With strength increased a thousand-fold by the horror of Albert’s violation, she kicked and spun, dodged, punched. There came a moment when she noticed the bodies strewn around her and believed she’d win, but, a split second later, her arms were pinned behind her back and something that might have been an orc slammed a wooden club into her midsection.
Her vision blacked as she sucked hard, trying to draw in any small bit of oxygen. Behind her, Benjamin ordered, “Lock her in a cage and keep her under guard until Jones says we can eat her.”
Chapter Thirty
Richard
Richard remembered the 1960s the way a person remembers a wildly vivid nightmare years after it occurs. His conscious mind understood that the weird dream of the time of free love was over. The kids who’d overdosed while singing about peace and love, the ones shot down by a sniper’s rifle in Asia, the ones maimed by police dogs, or were hanged from the branches of trees in their own front yards, cried out in ghostly voices for justice and mercy from the front pages of the nation’s newspapers. Meanwhile, a man walked on the moon. The Peace Corps mobilized. The Beatles came to America, and girls took to wearing skirts that left him spending half his mental energy trying not to stare at the soft, sleek, feminine thighs on display right there in public for God and everybody to see.
He remembered all of that, but he didn’t remember ev
er once hearing anything about space rockets being launched from Michigan.
“Not just a few of them, either,” Michael said. “Dozens of them over a six-year period.”
“You’re yanking my chain. I would have known.”
Michael twisted the thick gold band on his center finger. “Yes. All US citizens know exactly what their government is up to at all times. It’s true now. It was even more true in the cold war years.”
“Nobody likes a smart ass,” Richard told him.
Michael laughed.
Stanley laughed.
Richard scowled. They sped northward on a helicopter so fancy the limo looked like a stone-aged jalopy by comparison, and he hadn’t intended to be the in-flight entertainment.
Michael went on, “It wasn’t really a big secret, just nothing widely publicized. In fact, they put a little rock there with some words on it to commemorate the site. For decades, it looked like the remnants of a fair-sized firepit on the shore of Lake Superior.”
“And now?” Stanley asked.
“Now the facility is significantly larger and quite well-staffed,” Michael answered.
“And these shadow demons have the run of the place?”
Michael tapped his fingers against the plush leather arm of his seat. “I wouldn’t say that. As far as we can tell, they’re being used more like grunts, for the time-being. Umbra still has at least the illusion of control over them.”
Stanley tilted his head like a curious cockatoo. “I’ve never heard of shadow demons.”
“You believe you’ve heard of every supernatural thing that exists?”
“Most of them, yes.”
“Most isn’t all, Mr. Kapcheck.”
Stanley gave a nod. “Touché.”
“The Daughters of Kali and the demons they control were able to get to her through Albert. He opened his soul to hellish power and when his shadow fell on her she became his captive. When he died, his control over her dissolved. Our sources tell us she became rather displeased when she returned to her senses. The Daughters of Kali find their numbers down by half a dozen or so. Burke’s been put in lock up until Umbra and Jones make a final decision about what to do with her.”
Richard harbored no doubts that displeased had to have been the understatement of the century. He wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that Burke tore her captors limb-from-limb, but she’d been badly outnumbered.
Lock up. What did that mean, exactly?
His guts hurt. He needed a glass of prune juice and a decent sleep in a proper bed, free from the panicky fear that gripped him. His thoughts reeled, restless as a worm in hot ashes.
“Why didn’t they just kill her?” Stanley asked.
Richard thought he might puke. Friggin’ Stan Kapcheck. Why would he ask something like that?
“They were never interested in Albert, of course,” Michael said. “He was a tool, a fool, and a pawn in a game he could not begin to understand. From the moment Umbra recognized her, Burke became a trophy she couldn’t live without. Burke’s a famous programmer, which makes her an asset to the big plan, but even more, she’s a famous hunter. That’s just about the biggest feather Umbra could put in her cap. Maybe the only thing bigger would be you, Mr. Kapcheck. The hunter The Devil has shielded.” He raised one dark brow. “You never did tell me why she finds you so charming.”
Stan swallowed hard, looking as close to nervous as Richard had ever seen him. “And I probably never will, Mr. Kelly.”
Richard’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two men. He breathed a sigh of relief when Mr. Kelly showed no sign of offense.
“Well, no matter, really,” Michael said. “The end result is the same. Your girl Burke is locked up and, in a day or so, she’s going to Mars. At that point, she’s as good as dead to you. If we’re going to do this, we need to do it now. No second chances this time, boys.”
The bump of the runners hitting the ground jolted Richard awake with a start. He had intended to stay awake and follow the conversation between Stanley and Michael. Ashamed that he’d dozed off, he blinked sleep from his eyes, wiped drool from the corner of his mouth and looked around to make sure no one had been watching him. Michael sat next to the pilot, talking in hushed tones that didn’t reach him over the whump, whump of the rotors. Stanley peered through the window. Richard did the same.
They’d touched down in a field surrounded on three sides by an evergreen forest. This far north, no hint of autumn remained. Winter had arrived with a heavy dusting of snow and a serious lack of daylight hours. Heedless of the clocks that insisted morning had arrived, the Ice Queen would not let the sun rise for another two or three hours.
Bone-shaking noise shifted into unnerving silence when the pilot shut down the engines. Michael held his hands open before him. “This is it for us, fellas. You’re on your own from here. Ready? Any final questions?”
“I believe you’ve equipped us as well as possible,” Stanley said.
Richard scratched his head, felt the hair on the left side sticking out like a crazy person’s. He pulled a stocking cap from the pocket of his coat and yanked it down over his head. Michael seemed to take the action as a confirmation that Richard was ready to head out into the Great Northern Wilderness.
Among other things, the last six months had taught him two truths about hunting.
First, the true answer to the question, “Are you ready?” is always no. You can’t be ready. It’s impossible. There is no such thing as a hunt that goes exactly as planned. You can prepare for a thousand eventualities and, invariably, the thing you didn’t expect is the thing that happens. Stanley’s talent as a hunter was his ability to adapt in an instant.
Second, no good was served by answering the question truthfully. Nobody wanted to hear it. People didn’t ask, ‘Are you ready?’ because they were inclined to help you prepare more completely any more than they asked, ‘How are you?’ because they genuinely wanted to hear about your woes. The acceptable answers were always, ‘Yes. I’m ready,’ and ‘I’m fine, thank you.’
Next thing he knew, the door stood open, giving entrance to the frigid wind. Stanley hopped out and Richard did the odd little hunched shuffle required to navigate the inside of the chopper. At the door, a memory struck him—a photograph he’d once seen of Frank Sinatra exiting a helicopter with a martini in his hand. Old Blue Eyes had style. Ordinary mortals stood no chance of being a fraction as cool as Frankie, but a little voice in Richard’s head whispered, You’re not an ordinary mortal anymore. You’re a gosh-darn special forces monster assassin. Maybe Frankie can charm a nun of her habit, but you’ve got your own level of slick.
With his face arranged in a bad-ass snarl, Richard hopped out of the protective bubble of the chopper. His boots hit the snow and gripped exactly the way well-constructed winterwear ought to, but his hip—not so much. The titanium screwed into his joint did not appreciate him hopping anywhere, let alone from a height of several feet. The socket locked up and he pitched face-first into Stanley’s chest. Staggering backward, Stanley caught him under the arms.
Richard pushed him away harder than he meant to, straightened his hat and jacket, and refused to look back toward the chopper to see the redhead laughing at him.
Nursing his wounded pride, he limped off toward the woods with one leg hitching weirdly, telling himself no one could judge him. At least, he’d moved past his reliance on a walker, and who’d have ever thought he’d manage that? Who’d have ever thought he’d even have the strength to trek through the snow? All right, maybe he lacked Sinatra’s finesse, but he wasn’t some old geezer sucking up sugar-free cocoa in a nursing home, and he never would be again.
Never.
He’d keep going until he went down for the final time with his gun in his hand.
Inside the treeline, they took a moment to do what was necessary after a long journey in a vehicle with no toilet. Even powerful, feared assassins needed to pee sometimes. When they’d finished, they pointed themselves due-no
rth once again.
Adrenaline burned hot, serving as a fine replacement for sleep. The gear they’d picked up at The Children of Cain storage unit kept him warm. The goggles Michael gave them during the ride gave him a decent view of the world around him, despite the deep darkness of the ancient forest. The weight of his weapons provided a certain level of assurance. Nevertheless, trekking through a dark, snowy forest on foot was slow going and his mind began to wander.
Barbara had hated the snow. The desert spoke to her soul—a land of endless, relentless sunshine and warmth. Once or twice a year, winter would brush lightly across the Tombstone landscape and, on those days, she would burn every lightbulb in the house and spend the day baking the kind of hot, heavy food that stuck to your ribs and filled you up until you felt like you could curl into a ball and sleep the winter away like a bear.
Sometimes, if he was lucky, those cold day naps would turn into a different kind of staying warm between the sheets.
What if that young man making the beast with two backs on a Thursday afternoon had been told he’d spend his old age hiking the Upper Peninsula with a British dandy? Did the odd surprises of old age leave everyone slightly disoriented, or was it just him?
He peeked over at Stanley, who strode across the slick, squishy bed of frozen pine needles with the sure-footed grace of a freakin’ mountain goat. Unnatural.
“Hey, Stan?”
“Hmm?”
“You ever think it’s weird, getting old?”
Stanley ducked under a low branch before answering, “Sure. When I was your age, I thought about it all the time. Sometime after my hundredth birthday, I stopped thinking about it. I got depressed in my hundred-and-twenties. The world had changed too much. I’d lost too many people I loved.”
“What made it good again?” Richard asked.