Obsidian

by Alan Baxter

  Dedication

  For lost people everywhere;

  May you find your way home.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Alex Caine Series by Alan Baxter

  About the Author

  Books by Alan Baxter

  Copyright

  1

  The midday sun beat incandescent against everything, the sky impossibly blue. Eddies of sand shifted through crowded streets, hawkers pushed barrows, well-fed owners stood in the shadowed doorways of shops and cafes, coaxing passers-by to sample their wares. Somewhere a camel moaned its dissatisfaction with life and an ancient jeep roared and rattled along the packed dirt road. Voices shouted and cajoled, striped awnings rippled in a hot breeze. In a dim, quiet bar Claude Darvill chewed a plastic straw in frustration, the glass condensing in the dry heat, ice-cold against his hand. He perched his long, lean frame on a bar stool. A broad leather fedora-style hat shaded his face, shadows in his hollow cheeks, tufts of sandy hair escaping all around. Darvill’s free hand pressed an old phone handset to his ear, the black plastic making him sweat where it touched. He sucked frosty Coke through the gnawed straw, chewed again. Finally a female voice crackled. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m still getting no response.’

  ‘I’ve never had a problem on this line before,’ Darvill growled. ‘It’s private, always redirected.’

  ‘That may be so, sir,’ the woman said, clearly humouring him. ‘But there’s no one answering. I can try again if you like, but the connection is simply going dead.’

  ‘Right. Fine.’

  Darvill hung up and stared at the old bakelite phone with venom. Something was definitely up. He had felt it weeks ago, a ripple of concern. A psychic alarm bell he’d long since learned to trust, but had been so deep in the field, so engrossed in the chase, he had ignored it. Now that felt like a terrible mistake.

  There was nothing else for it. He dialled again, watched the number wheel burr back with each digit. It rang three times, then a breezy English voice answered. ‘Black Diamond Incorporated, how may I direct your call?’

  ‘I need to speak with Mr Hood, please.’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Hood isn’t available right now. Can I …’

  ‘This is urgent, woman. Get Hood on the line now.’

  There was a pause, the receptionist presumably biting down against his rudeness. ‘Mr Hood has been away from the office for some time and I can’t tell you when he’ll return. Perhaps I can direct your call to a member of the board?’

  ‘What do you mean “away”?’

  ‘He’s been out of the office on business for several weeks.’

  ‘Then get me Sparks.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, Ms Sparks left with Mr Hood. I’m sure someone else in the company can help if you’ll just let me …’

  ‘Who’s been liaising with them?’ Darvill demanded. Politeness be damned, this was serious. He should have come in when he first felt the disruption.

  The receptionist finally lost patience. ‘Sir, I don’t know who you are and I don’t much care for your tone. Mr Hood is unavailable. May I redirect your call to a member of the board?’

  ‘No, you may not. But you can give them a message.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Tell them they better have a thorough report ready in twenty-four hours and be prepared to brief me on everything that’s happened since well before Mr Hood left.’

  ‘I don’t imagine they will appreciate …’

  He cut her off again. ‘I don’t give a fuck what they will or will not appreciate, miss. Tell the board exactly what I said and tell them the message is from Claude Darvill, Robert Hood’s son. Tell them I’m invoking the Lazarus Protocol. They might have to look that up.’

  Alex Caine ducked under a looping, clawed hand that brushed his cropped dark hair. He swept his leg around, shin connecting with iron-hard muscle, and the creature’s knee buckled sideways and it crashed to the ground. Alex watched the shades and colours, auras he saw with preternatural clarity, to see what would happen next. But the thing was already up again, bull-rushing him. So fast! He leapt to one side, adrenaline surging, magic pulsing from the shards of the Darak power stone embedded in his chest. He drew on its energy and thrust an arm full of muscle and magic into the creature’s face, his fist hard and fast. He felt bone, or this thing’s equivalent, crack beneath his bleeding knuckles. The creature turned, raked red-hot claws across Alex’s arm and chest.

  Alex hissed in pain, used the sensation to empower him further. With a flurry of blows he closed the gap between them and drove a palm under the wide, scaled jaw. The creature’s head snapped up and Alex leapt, grabbed its wrist and swung one leg over the monster’s face. They crashed to the ground and Alex cranked the massive, armoured arm across his hip, roaring with pleasure at the creature’s howl of pain as its elbow joint disintegrated.

  Alex rolled up onto one knee and drove swift punches and an elbow into the creature’s face. It split, cracked and bled dark ichor, mixing with Alex’s own blood as he let his magic pump through his arms. Gathering every bit of energy he had, he rammed steel-hard fingers into the creature’s chest and ripped out its heart. It bucked violently, squealed high and long, and dropped still.

  Alex staggered back, gasping for breath.

  ‘And the winner is Alex Caine!’ The voice was brash over the loudspeaker.

  Alex stood in the centre of the ring, panting, blood running with sweat over his body. The corpse of the scaled, horned creature before him slowly crumpled into ash and dust. He flexed his hands, the energy of his magics ebbing with the adrenaline. The cracked stone of power, the Darak, pulsed in his chest, a part of him, burning with arcane power. Where his flesh and the three obsidian-like shards merged seamlessly, tiny arcs like electricity crackled and sparked, then stilled. He looked up, scanned the cheering crowd, and sighed. It wasn’t the same. It would never be the same again.

  Silhouette ran into the ring. ‘Are you okay?’ Her pale blonde hair framed her face as she looked closely into his eyes.

  Alex kissed her, felt the buzz of magic between their lips. He nodded, put one arm around her shoulders and turned her, led her away.

  The roar of the crowd dulled as they entered a corridor away from the auditorium. In a cool, concrete change room, little more than a broom cupboard, Alex slumped onto a stained gurney and checked his wounds. Gashes from teeth and claws scored his arms and chest. A large flap of skin hung from one calf. He touched it gingerly, gasped in pain. As the adrenaline disappeared, the real hurt rose.

  ‘You’re a fucking idiot,’ Silhouette said quietly, though her eyes held nothing but love.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ Alex asked.

  She shrugged. ‘I have no idea. Some demon entity, I guess.’

  They were silent for a moment, then Silhouette spoke again. ‘After everything we’ve been through, to
nearly get killed in there is ridiculous. You know that, right?’

  Alex laughed softly, despite his pain and frustration. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So is it out of your system now?’ She sat astride his lap, her firm curves enticing through denim and leather.

  Alex sighed, felt lost. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. I used to make my living this way, Sil. It was my life. It always fulfilled me.’

  ‘Against other human martial artists, Iron Balls. When you were a simple human and knew nothing else. Before this.’ She ran one fingertip over a shard of the Darak, sending a shiver through him. ‘You’re not the same any more.’ She continued to run her finger over his abs, back up his arm and shoulder, tracing the lines of well-developed muscles.

  ‘A simple human. I thought perhaps bouts like before, only with opponents more like …’

  ‘Like you?’ she asked.

  Alex hung his head. ‘I’m not a demon.’

  ‘You’re not entirely human any more.’

  He looked up into her blue eyes and kissed her.

  She smiled as they parted. ‘You can’t expect to replace what you had before with the same thing amplified, Alex. It doesn’t work like that. And now, getting yourself killed in a ring fighting monsters would piss me off.’

  He grinned at her. ‘I didn’t though, did I? I kicked that fucker’s arse.’

  ‘Yes, you did. You fought brilliantly, as you always do. But look at you. You’re hurt. You can stop fighting for sport, Alex. Let’s just accept you’ve gone beyond that.’

  He slumped against the wall, ran his hands over her thighs and hips. ‘So what do I do now?’

  ‘We only got back from Iceland a few weeks ago, yet you almost immediately managed to find a non-human cage match. Really quite a feat in itself. But it’s irrelevant. You don’t have to know exactly what you do now. There’s plenty of time. Let’s just chill, find our feet.’

  ‘That’s what you’ve been saying all along, huh.’ He felt a bit stupid, almost juvenile. In a very short time his human life had flipped upside down and now he had powers and knowledge that still freaked him out. He’d been determined to return to the life he knew, or at least a ramped-up version of it. Determined to take control of his destiny again. But Silhouette was right. He wasn’t that person any more, no matter how much he adjusted the process to match his enhanced abilities. Silhouette herself was proof enough of that, a pariah among her own supernatural kind. His Kin monster. At least he had her, to love and to love him. On his own he would truly be lost.

  She ran one hand over his hair, ignoring the sweat and blood. ‘You needed to know that yourself. You needed to feel it.’

  ‘Well, you were right.’

  ‘I know.’ She kissed him again.

  ‘So now what?’

  ‘Now let’s get you fixed up and head home.’

  A knock at the door distracted them. A Kin male stood there, all gothic leather and extended canines, affecting the classic vampire look. He smiled broadly. ‘Your reputation preceded you from London, Caine. Seems it’s well deserved. You’ll be a star here in Sydney in no time.’

  He had already been a star in Sydney. Before he left. Before he changed. ‘Thanks. I think.’

  ‘I’m Wilhelm, I run this outfit. After that, I wanted to pay you personally.’ They shook hands. Wilhelm handed over an envelope, thick with cash. ‘You’ve earned this. Fantastic fight. When will we see you again?’

  Alex took the envelope, hefted the weight of it. Plenty of profit to be made, far more than when he fought before. ‘I won’t be fighting again,’ he said quietly.

  Wilhelm’s face fell. ‘Really? Come on! You’re Alex Caine, the great warrior. You’ve defeated all your enemies. It’s in your blood.’

  Alex remembered a hotel room floor in Canada, trapped under the hard, sharp insectile body of the Subcontractor, beaten and about to die. He remembered the concussive blast of the hotelier’s shotgun, the Subcontractor’s head exploding all over him. He hadn’t defeated everyone. ‘No,’ he said, more firmly. ‘Sorry, mate. This is something I needed to get out of my system. But it’s time I moved on.’

  ‘What to?’

  ‘That I’ve yet to determine.’

  Wilhelm raised both hands. ‘Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find us. I’ll be glad to have you here any time.’

  ‘Thanks. I appreciate that, really.’

  ‘Do you know any Fey dealers?’ Silhouette asked.

  Wilhelm turned to her, his eyes suspicious. ‘Just like that? No euphemisms or preamble?’

  ‘Why bother? I figure a man who runs underground cage fights against demons and Kin has malleable morals.’

  Wilhelm laughed raucously, slapping Silhouette on one shoulder. ‘I like you, girl! What do you need?’

  ‘A few ingredients is all.’

  The tall Kin pulled a business card from his pocket, black with a stylised skull motif. Gothic script curved across the skull, Leather & Lace. An address and number were printed underneath. ‘This is a little place in Newtown,’ he said, handing it over. ‘Fetish shop. Tell them I sent you and that you need to see Crabapple.’

  ‘Crabapple?’

  ‘He’ll sort you out, don’t worry.’

  Silhouette nodded, pocketed the card. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem.’ Wilhelm turned back to Alex. ‘Seriously, any time.’

  A small man carrying a leather case entered the room, the tiny space suddenly very crowded. Alex nodded his thanks to the tall Kin.

  ‘I’ll leave you with the Doc,’ Wilhelm said. ‘Until next time.’

  ‘There won’t be a next time,’ Alex insisted.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Wilhelm left and the Doc crouched down to see Alex’s wounds. He tutted and shook his head, pulled out gauze and unmarked bottles. Alex and Silhouette exchanged an amused glance, but let him get on with it. Alex gritted his teeth against the searing burn as his injuries were cleaned and bound. Before long the Doc stood and patted his shoulder like a kindly uncle. ‘Tremendous fight!’ he said, voice low and gravelly, and scurried away.

  Alex watched through the door after the small man for a moment then inspected his dressings. ‘Good job,’ he said with a smile.

  Silhouette shrugged. ‘It’ll do for now. Let’s go and see this Crabapple fellow and I’ll mix up a batch of the good stuff. Have you healed up in no time.’

  ‘Just as well I’ve earned a big pay cheque,’ Alex said. ‘I don’t imagine this trip is going to be cheap.’

  Three men sat in a room, dark but for the orange glow of a few flickering candles. Heavy curtains obscured the windows. Large Renaissance oil paintings covered almost all the available wall space, portraits mostly, with other images scattered here and there among them — mythical beasts and arcane symbols, Dante’s Inferno and Virgil’s Aeneid, represented by masters of the past. The men faced each other across a small mahogany table, round, with carved serpents crawling up its three legs. They rested their hands, palms down, on the smooth wood, their heads bowed. Each man’s fingers were splayed, smallest fingers touching at the tip, connecting them. A low hum came from deep within each man’s chest, rising and falling like a summer insect, unbroken as they breathed in time. A barn owl, like a sand and ivory ghost, gripped a perch in one gloomy corner.

  The owl started, jet-black eyes reflecting candle flames, as the men changed pitch in unison, their vibration rising an octave, the intensity increased. They raised their heads slowly, their own eyes flickering open, each as smooth and black as the owl’s. One man, a small, wiry fellow with a tidy grey goatee beard and shining bald head, spread his mouth wide, his hum expanding into a high, falsetto note that reverberated around the room. The owl tipped its head in curiosity. The other men joined; first the fat, sweating man, with untamed brown curls of hair tumbling around his face, raised his voice to match, then the tallest of the three, long black hair in a ponytail, his beard a furious mass covering half his chest. The three voices rang seamles
s and strident, before simultaneously stopping dead. Silence fell. The owl blinked.

  The men stared into nothing and the fat man spoke in a clipped English accent. ‘I am Nicholas Haydon, know my true name. I travel the mysteries and seek the arcana. I am the vessel for gnosis. Speak through me.’

  The small, wiry man intoned next, his accent broad Slavic. ‘I am Darius Grabowski, know my true name. I travel the mysteries and seek the arcana. I am the vessel for gnosis. Speak through me.’

  The tall man, his huge beard rippling with his words, his accent a deep growling central European, said, ‘I am Salay Armand, know my true name. I travel the mysteries and seek the arcana. I am the vessel for gnosis. Speak through me.’

  They all spoke together. ‘We are three, three is power, speak through us.’

  For a moment the men were silent before Darius said, ‘Seek the place where the power resides, the nexus of the mystery.’ His voice was a hissing whisper, his Polish accent gone completely, replaced with something like Gaelic brogue.

  Nicholas spoke next, his voice the same Gaelic whisper. ‘At the nexus lies death and danger. At the nexus lies revelation.’

  Salay’s deep, guttural voice was replaced with the same whispering burr. ‘Lines of power lead thee, power of three bind thee.’

  All three men spoke at once, in perfect synchronicity. ‘Three by three thy power be, use stone and line divine paths see.’

  The men slumped, gasping for breath and blinking rapidly in the gloom. Their eyes were normal once more, pupils dilated to the low light. They scrabbled for notepads and pens, the scritching of their writing the only sound other than their heavy breathing.

  Darius held up his pad and read, his broad Polish accent returned. ‘Seek the place where the power resides, the nexus of the mystery. At the nexus lies death and something. At the nexus lies revelation. Lines of power lead thee, power of three bind thee. Three by three thy power be, use stone and line divine paths see.’

  The other men consulted their pads. ‘Danger,’ Salay said in his own deep voice.

  Nicholas nodded. ‘Yes, death and danger. That’s the clearest, most complete message we’ve managed yet.’ His voice was his own again too.