Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  She'd screamed and struggled anew, uselessly. He'd merely paralyzed her with another shock, carried her upstairs, bound her, gagged her, and left her.

  That had been just before sunrise. As she could see through the grimy, cobweb- shrouded bay window, it was dark again. Surely Frank or Marilyn had discovered her abduction by now. They could show up looking for her at any moment.

  First R. J. had died because of her. Then Marilyn had gotten herself ripped to shreds. Now Frank and all her other friends were going to perish. Unless, despite her gag and bonds, she found a way to warn them off.

  She'd been desperately mulling the problem over all day, and had only come up with one solution. But to her surprise and self-disgust, even though she'd been already been contemplating something similar for days, she'd hesitated to try it.

  Something creaked. She twitched, and heart hammered. She strained to listen until she was reasonably certain that the noise had simply been the old house settling, and not a footstep.

  I've got to do it now, she thought, while there's still time. Once I'm a ghost, I'll be free. I can warn Frank to stay the hell out of here. And then we'll be together, both part of the supernatural world forever.

  She flexed her arms and legs. The noose began to strangle her.

  Around the last corner, on Union Street, the antebellum Greek Revival houses with their red brick and brownstone facades and white Corinthian columns were tourist attractions, perfectly maintained. But on this block, they were falling into decrepitude. Roofs were missing shingles, shutters hung askew, and lawns were overgrown. Some of the homes were even boarded up. To Bellamy, the area looked like a prime location for a collection of Haunts, but except for his own companions, he didn't see any other abambo around. Maybe they were all in hiding. If he'd spotted a Quick mage and a gang of twenty-some armed wraiths marching into his neighborhood, he might be inclined to duck for cover himself.

  He inhaled deeply, but for the moment couldn't catch the mingled scent of blood, sweat, and werewolf musk they'd followed from the hotel. A thrill of near-panic jangled along his nerves.

  He turned to Marilyn, Titus, and Antoine, who were marching—or in the fledgling sorcerer's case, hobbling—along with him at the head of the column. "Does somebody still have the trail?" Bellamy asked.

  Leaning heavily on her cane for support, smelling of raw wounds and fever sweat, Marilyn bowed her head, concentrating. After a moment she said, "I'm sorry. My new perceptions aren't working as well as they have sometimes. To be honest, I can't even see you as clearly as I should."

  Then what good are you? Bellamy wondered nastily, realizing even as he framed the thought that he wasn't really angry at her, but at himself. From the day he'd met Astarte, he'd been afraid that if she remained involved with the investigation, she'd come to grief, and yet he'd never managed to remove her from the situation. It was his fault that Dunn had finally caught her.

  Titus waved his hand in a mystic pass, then touched his eyes and the tip of his nose as if investing those organs with extra magick. "With luck, I'll be able to pick up the trail in a moment."

  Antoine snorted. "Don't strain yourself, old man. I've got it covered."

  "You're sure?" Bellamy asked.

  '"Course I'm sure! Remem..." The gator faltered, as if the words he intended to speak had gotten jumbled in his mind. "Remember when we tracked down Titus and the demons? I didn't steer you wrong then, did I? Your wolfman buddy dragged Astarte into that last house on the right."

  Bellamy studied the structure, an abandoned, three-story octagonal house topped with a dome. The place was dark. Nothing stirred behind the windows, or beneath the pines in the yard.

  "I don't see any signs of an ambush," Titus said.

  "That doesn't mean it's not there," Antoine rasped.

  "I agree," said Bellamy. "Sure, Dunn left us that note." You all run home to New Orleans, it had read, or you'll never see the girl again. "But my guess is that maybe he was just trying to make us think there wouldn't be a trap set for us. Considering what's at stake, I doubt he'd believe we'd just give up on our investigation to save any one individual, even Astarte. Besides, he knows I've seen what werewolves do with their captives." He tried unsuccessfully not to visualize the Black Spiral Dancer lair he'd visited, with the rotting, half-devoured corpses heaped about.

  "So what's the plan?" Antoine asked.

  "Whoever's waiting for us," Bellamy said, "let's be optimistic and assume they haven't spotted us yet. If we sneak up through the insides of the neighboring houses, maybe we can get right on top of them before they do."

  Her change of expression half obscured by her mask of bandages, Marilyn frowned. "Remember, I can't walk through walls the way the rest of you can."

  Bellamy thought sourly that if her magick wasn't working anyway, she might as well hang back, but he didn't quite have the heart to say so. "Then you use the houses for cover, and sneak up carefully. Keep your pistol ready. Anyway, assuming we can get next door to where we're going without all hell breaking loose, I'll go on in alone for some reconnaissance."

  Antoine shook his wedge-shaped head. "No way, warmblood."

  "It's just possible that one man can slip Astarte out unnoticed. Then we won't have to fight the perps on their own terms. And even if I can't manage that, wouldn't you like to know what we're facing before you go rushing in there?"

  "I suppose so," said Titus. "But I should be the scout. I can do things you can't, such as veil myself in darkness."

  "I know you can work miracles," Bellamy said. "That's what makes you too valuable to risk as point man. Look, I'll be okay. If anything tries to hurt me, I'll shoot it. You'll hear the noise and come running. I can hold out for the couple seconds it'll take you to reach me."

  Titus grimaced. "I still don't like it, but all right."

  "Then let's do it," Antoine growled. The column turned and slunk to the house on their immediate right. The wraiths climbed on up the portico steps and melted through the door. Wheezing, her sparkling halo gray and crimson with pain and determination, Marilyn crept on through the pool of shadow beside the porch.

  The abambo skulked on through a succession of desolate rooms, exterior walls, and the weed-infested strips of ground between them. Many of the parlors and dining rooms were altogether bare, stripped of everything of value, but occasionally some forlorn bit of ornamentation hinted at the luxurious lives of the planters and entrepreneurs who had once inhabited them. A parquet floor, warped by water damage. Faded golden French Zuber wallpaper, hanging in tatters. An elaborately carved, high-backed throne of an armchair, with one leg snapped off.

  After what seemed an eternity, the ghosts reached the house adjacent to their objective. Peeking through a broken window, Bellamy still didn't see any signs of occupancy next door. He jumped through the opening and the frame surrounding it. For a split second, the jagged shards of glass seemed to snag his flesh, although the sensation didn't hurt, merely tugged. Once on the ground, he dashed to the octagonal house and slipped his face through the side of it.

  Since there was a crawlspace beneath the building, he found himself peering into an empty room from a vantage point about three feet above the floor. He listened and heard nothing but the hissing of Nihils and the faint skittering of vermin in the walls. But despite the ambient stink of wood rot and rat droppings, he caught the scents of Astarte's sweat and blood and Dunn's rank, bestial odor once more.

  Bellamy laid his assault rifle on the floor, and then, planting his hands beside it, hoisted himself through the wall and up into the room. The weapon at the ready, constantly turning, he stalked on through the first level of the house.

  All he found was filth and a marble fireplace, which, by the looks of things, someone had once tried to extract from the wall before abandoning the effort as too much trouble. It was beginning to look as if there were no Spectres or wolfmen lurking about after all. And yet the house felt dangerous. Something about the atmosphere gave him the creeps, or maybe it was j
ust his apprehensions for Astarte jangling his nerves. Please, God, let her be alive.

  As he started up the free-standing spiral staircase, he caught another whiff of her scent, stronger than before. Insanely reckless though it would have been, he had to struggle to resist the urge to call her name.

  On the second floor he found deep, parallel gouges marring one of the walls. A werewolf had sharpened his claws here, but there was no sign of the monster now.

  Still skulking, gun leveled, Bellamy climbed to the landing of the third floor, where a draft blew through the broken stained-glass skylight at the apex of the high, concave ceiling. Behind a doorway on the left, Astarte lay hog-tied on the floor. At first glance, all her cuts and bruises appeared superficial.

  Bellamy felt a surge of joy, which instantly curdled into horror. Because Astarte wasn't moving, and her face was blue. A loop of rope constricted her neck, and despite his hypersensitive hearing, he couldn't hear her heartbeat. Nor did she have a visible aura.

  He threw himself down beside her, simultaneously projecting himself across the Shroud. He used his darksteel shortsword to cut away the noose, nicking her neck in the process, then administered CPR, alternately breathing air into her mouth and pumping her chest. Now it was her lips and skin which seemed hideously cold.

  Maybe Titus or Marilyn could revive her. He grabbed his rifle and fired a burst, then returned to his own efforts.

  Perhaps fifteen seconds later, Astarte rasped in a breath, coughed convulsively, then breathed again. Her halo flickered into view. Bellamy sobbed with relief, and her eyes fluttered open.

  "It's all right," he said. "Dunn tied you up in such a way that you'd slowly strangle to death, but I got to you in time."

  She gaped at him blankly. It was obvious she was still dazed. Considering that her brain had been deprived of oxygen, it was no wonder. "No," she croaked. "Choked.. .myself."

  "Trying to get free."

  She weakly shook her head. "No.. .suicide."

  He stared at her, unwilling to believe she meant what she seemed to mean. "I don't understand."

  "To be with you. To be magick. But I never.. .left my body. Everything just went black." Her eyes widened as if she'd suddenly remembered some crucial fact. "I did it to warn you!" She coughed convulsively.

  "To warn us of what?" Titus asked, crossing the Shroud and materializing beside them. No doubt all the abambo had entered the house by now.

  She kept coughing and struggling to speak. At last she forced the words out. "Dunn hid bombs," she gasped. "Radio-controlled. Here and in the ghost world, too." A chill flowed up Bellamy's spine.

  "Are you sure?" Titus asked. "Why hasn't he set them off already?"

  "He's trying to make sure that our entire team is in the house," Bellamy surmised. "Since most of us are abambo, and we made a stealthy approach, that isn't easy."

  "Then perhaps we can slip out again before he is certain," the shaman said.

  "I doubt it," Bellamy said. "The three of us are framed in a big bay window." Titus's head began to swivel. "Don't look, I don't know where Dunn is, but I'll bet he can see us. As soon we move to leave this room, or give any sign we're trying to escape, he'll trigger the explosions. Before long, he'll do it regardless."

  "Then what do we do?" asked Titus, calmly but with an undertone of stress in his voice. "All the Queen's warriors are in the house, too, searching the place. We have to warn them."

  "I'll call them," Bellamy said, "too softly for even a werewolf to: catch it from outside. But our men are abambo, so they'll hear me." He prayed that was true. "Attention, everyone. There are bombs in the house. Get out immediately."

  "Now what?" Astarte asked.

  "I'm going to count to three," Bellamy said, "and then you and I are going to j ump up and throw ourselves through the window. Titus, you get yourself out however seems best to you,"

  "Understood," the old man said. "Good luck."

  "Here goes," the FBI agent said. "One, two, three!"

  Titus vanished back into the Underworld. Bellamy and Astarte scrambled to their feet and sprinted at the filthy window. Reaching it a half stride ahead of her, the FBI agent raised his arm to protect his face and crashed through the glass. They started to fall, and then the darkness blazed orange and roared.

  Time seemed to slow down. Tumbling in mid-air, Bellamy saw the entire house flying apart around an enormous, expanding fireball. He realized that a blast of this magnitude was unquestionably going to destroy him and Astarte, and that if the explosion on the cold side of the Shroud was comparable, all his fellow abambo were doomed as well.

  Then space stretched, also, as it had in the corridor in the police station, where Dunn had set his first trap for Astarte and Marilyn. Bellamy knew he was still plummeting right beside the disintegrating mansion. Chunks of brick and burning wood were hurtling all around him. Yet simultaneously, the explosion somehow looked far away, far enough to protect him from the force and the flames.

  Which only left the fall to worry about. He slammed down hard, on one foot. His ankle snapped in a flare of pain, dumping him on the ground. He wrenched himself around, looking for Astarte. She was kneeling in the grass a couple of feet away.

  "Are you okay?" he asked.

  "Yeah," she said. "Look there."

  Bellamy turned his head. Marilyn stood beneath one of the now-shattered, burning pines with her silver-headed cane raised in both hands. The FBI agent guessed that, limping painfully along outside, she'd never quite made it inside the octagonal house. And when the bombs went off, she'd managed to use her magick to shield herself and her friends from the blast.

  She gave Bellamy and Astarte a glassy-eyed smile. "Not entirely useless after all," she said. Then she pitched forward onto a heap of fiery rubble.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Dunn wanted to watch the fireworks. But he also knew just how much plastique he'd planted in the octagonal house, so he thought it wiser to turn his back. Sure enough, the window through which he'd been peering shattered into a barrage of splinters, some of which landed in his hair and on his shoulders.

  Brushing them away, he turned back to the opening and looked across the street. The explosion had not only virtually annihilated the domed, octagonal mansion but smashed half of the derelict home beside it. Yet, impossible as it seemed, Bellamy and his girlfriend were hunkered down more or less intact in the front yard.

  After a moment, Dunn saw the problem: Marilyn Sebastian, striking some kind of Siegfried and Roy pose under a burning tree. She must have tossed off a spell of protection.

  Dunn turned to the little stone statue he'd set on the shelf. He'd been told the thing was supposed to be a jaguar, although if that was really what the Aztecs had thought a big cat looked like, they should have devoted less time to building pyramids and playing football with severed heads and more to inventing optometry. "Tell me we at least nailed the spooks from New Orleans."

  For an instant, nothing happened. His Spectre companion had probably been peeking out the window himself, and needed a second to reinstall himself in the artifact. A gleam came into the carved, bulging eyes. "At least some of the ghosts made it through intact, also," the image said in its dry, hollow voice. "Titus is floating in the air. The alligator and a number of the wraith soldiers are in the yard."

  "Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick!" the werewolf snarled. "And Cank thinks that rookie sorcerer doesn't have any juice. Well, we're going to bag somebody for our trouble. Bellamy and Sebastian, anyway." He set down the radio detonator and picked up the sniping rifle he'd dragged along for the occasion. As he sighted in on Sebastian, the transsexual collapsed. Now the remains of the pine hid most of her body.

  "Don't be a fool!" the jaguar statue said. "There are too many of them, and in a moment, they'll start looking for us. We've got to get out of here right away."

  Dunn knew his companion was making sense, but the thought of letting his enemies escape again was just too much to bear. "You do what you want," he said. He trie
d to sight in on one of Sebastian's vital organs, but couldn't quite manage it.

  "The mage is probably dead already," the Spectre said. "The way you mangled him, his body couldn't take the strain of the conjuration."

  "Then I'll pop Bellamy," Dunn said. He shifted his aim to his fellow FBI agent, who was crawling frantically toward Sebastian as if something were wrong with his legs. This one's for you, Chester, not that you weren't a goddamn pain in the ass.

  "You can't be sure of killing Bellamy," the stone figure said. "If he doesn't perish instantly, on your first shot, he can just fade back across the Shroud and heal— Wait! Do you feel it?"

  "What are you talking about?" Dunn asked, beginning to squeeze the trigger. Then he sensed it, too. An indefinable foulness, a silent but somehow dissonant vibration, hanging in the air. It might have sickened a human, assuming he was capable of registering it at all, but to a Black Spiral Dancer, it was exhilarating. "Son of a bitch. Is it show time at last?"

  "Yes!" said the Spectre. "And we'll be needed. Don't throw your life away for a beggarly portion of revenge. In a few hours you'll be free to punish your enemies however you want, for however long it amuses you."

  "You've got a point," said Dunn. "Let's get the hell out of Dodge." He picked up the statue, and, invoking his Ragabash powers of stealth, skulked for the door and the stairs beyond.

  Ignoring the jabs of pain from his injured ankle, Bellamy scrambled toward Marilyn. Astarte darted past him, grabbed the unconscious Arcanist, and rolled her off the fiery debris.

  The lovers beat frantically at the flames dancing on Marilyn's coat and bandages. When the flames went out, Bellamy placed his hand under the transsexual's nostrils, and then touched her carotid artery. She was breathing, and had a pulse. He told Astarte as much, and she slumped with relief.

  Titus materialized beside them. "Poor, brave soul," she said. "I can see from her halo that that took all the strength she had."