Unaware and afraid, the Southern Claw’s leaders dispatched more teams to find Red and stop her, among them Talon Squad. On those rare occasions when members of the squads were actually found, there was usually not much left. The Southern Claw was suddenly running short on elite squads. There were plenty of soldiers, but the Hunter squads were the Southern Claw’s elite forces against the Ebon Cities. Losing even one Squad was a serious blow to the Alliance. Losing five had been devastating.
“ I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t imagine…”
“ No. You can’t.” Cristena finished her cigarette, looked at Cross for a moment, and then stood up. “I’m sorry. I think you maybe had a different idea of why I wanted to meet with you.”
“ Maybe,” Cross said. “But that’s not important. Cristena…” He stood up, and made sure to look her in the eye. “I’m sorry. I wish I had good news for you, or any news for you. I don’t know anything about the missing Squads.” There was no need to explain that most of them were presumed dead. She was visibly agitated. The cool demeanor and self-control she’d displayed the night before were all but gone.
“ Are you going after her?” she asked him. Something went cold in Cross’ gut. He’d been trying not to think about it.
“ Yes,” he said. “Yes I am.”
“ Then do me a favor,” she said. “Kill her.” There were nearly invisible tears on her face. “Kill that bitch for me. Maybe then I’ll stop hearing Renaad’s voice every time I touch my spirit. Maybe then I’ll actually believe that he’s not out there somewhere, suffering. Maybe then I’ll be able to sleep again.”
She turned to leave, but Cross stepped out to stop her.
“ We need a tracker,” he said. “My squad…I mean, the squad that I’m in, Viper Squad, needs a tracker. I’m sure, given the circumstances…”
“ No,” Cristena said. She kept her face down. She wouldn’t say yes. He knew she wouldn’t, and she was right not to. She left without another word.
Cross sat back down and drank more coffee, wondering all the while if he shouldn’t drink something stronger. He checked the clock on the far wall, a pale and monstrous thing that looked like a ghostly whale. The briefing was at 0900. Cross had just enough time to finish his coffee, and to think about the whispers of the dead.
He watched a spider cross the floor. It was out of place there in Krugen’s, which was normally so immaculate. The spider was ashen pale, like it was made of ice, and it scurried towards the door.
Cross had lied when he’d told Snow he’d never heard their mother after she’d died.
He heard her all the time. He wasn’t sure why Snow didn’t…maybe she would in time. Hopefully Snow would get used to ignoring her, just as Cross had.
FIVE
SHIELD
The briefing rooms for all Southern Claw military personnel, whether Hunters or the city watch, were located in a massive old hospital that had been converted into the Thornn government headquarters. In addition to its status as a command post, the building was still a hospital, as well as a prison, a church, an arcane workshop, and as an asylum for those whose minds had succumbed to the horrors and madness of living in a world filled with the constancy of undead, magic, and post-apocalyptic abominations. The gothic structure was all tall arches and pedestals, smooth columns and bladed promenades, arched halls that were far too tall and ancient oak doors that could only be locked with sliding bolts made from log halves. The dark stone used in the construction lent the hospital an exceedingly ominous atmosphere, and the improper lighting throughout the structure made it seem like some ancient European castle.
Not exactly the feel I’d have gone for, Cross thought. He’d always hated the place, but he’d be the first to agree that it was extremely defensible. The hospital sat at the edge of the northernmost tip of the Bloodnight, a sharp and cold river than ran southwest into the freshwater Rimefang Loch. The hospital hung directly over the churning waters of the Bloodnight, and the only way to get in aside from using the heavily guarded gate was to scale one of the sheer forty-foot steel walls. Those walls were perfectly positioned to deliver generous doses of gunfire, arcane missiles and vats filled with any number of caustic substances onto intruders.
Vampires, of course, had little need to climb, but Cross knew those who’d redesigned the hospital had taken care of that, as well, through the strategic placement of warlock marksmen and carefully woven ethereal nets cast by expert trackers. Anything, living or undead, that even attempted to fly close to the hospital’s walls would be detected, incinerated and shot down. To date, not a single vampire or other undead flier had made it in.
Cross waited in the main hall, a wide chamber carved out of dark and dirty stone. The windows in the hall let in only muted light. Oversized lanterns dangled down from the vaulted ceiling. Cross stood with one boot planted against the wall behind him, nervously rubbing his fingernails together. He hadn’t shaved in days, and he imagined he looked like a ruffian. Cross was pale, tall and thin. He dressed in black fatigues and wore a heavy black armored coat that added nearly forty pounds to his weight. In spite of not having shaved, Cross’ face still felt mostly clean, since he’d never been good at growing a beard. Snow said he had a baby face, that he looked even younger than twenty-six.
His spirit swirled around him due to how agitated as he was. He’d been asked to wait while Morg and Winter conferred with some others whose identities Cross could only guess at. Based on the nature and sensitivity of their mission, Cross guessed that most of the senior officers would be in attendance, which would mean Pike, Argus, and maybe even Jericho, the ranking officer in Thornn. As far as the whereabouts of the rest of Viper Squad — Graves, Kray and Stone — Cross had no idea. As far as he knew, they were supposed to be there for the briefing along with him.
Something is wrong. The idea gnawed at him. There was so much at stake — the lives of everyone, really, and the future of not only Thornn but perhaps the entire Southern Claw Alliance. The White Mother and her advisors were taking no chances. Cross hated not knowing what was going on. He hated being kept there, waiting.
The air seemed to grow colder the longer he waited. He heard moans from the medical wing: soldiers felled in recent skirmishes, sent back to Thornn by airship to receive the best medical support in all of the Southern Claw. A dying patient screamed somewhere beyond the massive oak doors that led out of the hall. Cross wondered if it was someone he knew.
Thornn was one of the largest cities in the Southern Claw, in part because of its plentiful supply of both magical and mundane resources but also due to its stockpile of experts, whether they were arcanists, historians, engineers, doctors or scientists. After The Black, when the world was falling to pieces and scattered refugees were forced to do everything they could just to stay alive, the enigmatic creature who would later come to be known as The White Mother scoured the world. She’d searched not only for survivors, but for the right survivors: people who could help remake civilization, people whose knowledge and abilities would help carve some sort of future out of a place that had become a cesspool of nightmares, mutants and death. There was no telling how the White Mother had known who to select or how to find them, but it was a known and accepted fact that she was not human herself; rather, she was a creature that came over from another world during The Black. The White Mother was a being as formidable, as ancient and as powerful as her opposite, the Grim Father, Lord of the Ebon Cities and the enemy of all humankind.
No one ever met the White Mother. She worked through intermediaries, and left the governing and direct leadership of the Southern Claw Alliance to its own.
To people like Red.
The nearest door opened. Cross caught a glimpse of the massive hospital chamber, a vault of columns and steps and plinths, each taken up by one or more beds surrounded by sheets and curtains, surgical tables and tubes, medical engines and healing turbines, and row upon row of the injured. The hospital guests were victims of the vampires of Rath, casualt
ies in the field skirmishes and small-scale battles that took place far to the west. Most of the wounded in those battles were sent to Ath, but when Ath’s hospitals began to run out of beds they were re-routed to Thornn. A glimpse was all it took to see why Rikeman, the head surgeon, rarely got any sleep.
Cross saw him limp into the hall. Rikeman was a gaunt man in gray fatigues who wore a thin beard and had surprisingly muscular arms. His surgical gloves were stained with blood, and he looked bone weary with exhaustion. Rikeman’s limp came from the magical brace he was forced to wear over his left leg, an uncomfortable looking hunk of cold iron set with switches, dials, gauges and heavy leather and chain straps that held it in place. Thin trails of ice-cold steam escaped from the joints of the leg brace, exhaust from the arcane engine that kept a magical disease in Rikeman’s leg stable so that it wouldn’t spread and destroy the rest of his body. Cross didn’t know how that had happened to him, and didn’t really want to.
“ Cross,” the surgeon said. “Are you feeling okay?”
“ Yeah,” he said. “Just waiting.”
“ I mean…you’re all right? No more headaches or anything like that?”
Warlocks tended to be a sickly lot — channeling one’s own spirit to produce arcane effects took a heavy toll on the body. It was a surprise when some lasted as long as they did. In the end, the ones who lived wound up something like Cross’ mentor, Winter: harnessed to bio-charged battery packs or with chemical wires hooked into their veins so that they could maintain contact with and channel magic through their spirits without burning their bodies dry. While every warlock had to channel through some sort of an implement, it wasn’t until they grew older that they needed them just to keep breathing. Luckily for Cross, he and Snow were both considered more powerful than most other mages their age. If he was lucky, he’d be able to wait a bit longer before he had to rely on his arcane gauntlets for day-to-day survival.
“ No headaches,” he said with a friendly shake of his head. “I’m fine. Snow is good, too.”
“ Yeah, I just saw her.”
“ What?” Cross asked after he thought about that for a moment. “Wait, when? Why?”
The opposite door opened, and several Southern Claw officers stepped out. Cross saw Winter, Pike, Moone, Argus, Jericho, Zelestine and King. The meeting chamber was filled with maps and charts, empty mugs and plates and sweet cigarillo smoke. Morg and Winter remained inside, along with Snow.
Oh, no. No.
“ Cross,” Morgan said. Snow looked up, caught his eye, and then nervously looked away.
“ Sir…”
“ Now hold on. Before you jump to conclusions…”
“ She’s joined Viper Squad, hasn’t she?” Cross said. “Sir, she’s my sister. There are protocols about siblings serving in the same unit…”
“ I said hold on,” Morgan said, quiet but stern. The other officers looked back as they filed down the hall. “This is a matter to be discussed behind closed doors.” Morgan’s voice was a near growl, especially when he was angry. He never raised his voice: it just got deeper. “So move it.”
Winter nodded as Cross walked briskly into the meeting chamber. Cross glowered. He was shaking, racked with anger so hard it made his gums ache and his eyes burn. His spirit was caught up in his emotions with him, and she focused the rage into the effort of stabilizing her own cyclonic form. Arcane safe-guards spread throughout the hospital would prevent her from manifesting in any harmful way, and doing so would also cause both she and Cross a great deal of pain. Managing both of their emotional states was exhausting. Cross was short of breath, and it was difficult for him to raise his eyes and look at Snow, who sat in a plain black dress and black tights and the tall black leather boots he’d bought her for Christmas.
“ Take it easy,” Winter advised. “I’d have preferred that she’d told you, but she had her reasons…”
“ Telling me would have been great,” Cross said as he looked at his sister.
Morgan closed the door behind them, harder than he normally would have. Morg rarely lost his temper, and when he did it was downright frightening.
“ All right,” he said. All Morgan needed was a breath to regain his composure, and he was once again the cool, intimidating leader of Viper Squad, the one whose very name was a legend. “It’s time for some family drama. Let’s get this over with.” He looked at Snow for a moment, and then at Cross. “Southern Claw protocol is being overruled in the case of Cynthia Cross joining Viper Squad even though her brother, Eric, is already a member. My squad has been in need of a tracker ever since we lost Cala. If not for the recent uncovering of Red’s destination, finding Cala’s replacement could have waited. As it stands, we’re one of the few available teams left who are qualified to chase Red down, especially taking into account how close we are to the Wormwood. Finding Cala’s replacement has become a matter of great import. Winter?”
The old man nodded.
“ Cynthia…” Winter began.
“ Snow,” she interrupted. “I haven’t been called ‘Cynthia’ since I was five.”
“ Snow,” Winter said, “is, bar none, the best candidate for the position. In fact…and this seems to run in the Cross family…she’s the most naturally talented witch I’ve seen in a long, long time…”
“ She’s my sister,” Cross said coldly. “She’s not a soldier.”
“ I’m right here, Eric,” Snow said quietly. “And it’s not like I’m coming straight out of the library. I’ve been training for months, while you’ve been away.”
Of course you have, Cross realized. You’d never walk into something like this unprepared: we both got that from Mom. You’ve been training, probably learning to focus your skills and control your spirit, and I wouldn’t know a thing about it because I haven’t been here. Even when I am here…I’m not here.
“ The fact of the matter is,” Morg said after the silence drew long, “what’s done is done. A protocol override has been voted on and approved by the senior officers in Thornn, as has your sister’s inclusion as a member of Viper Squad. You two need to sort this out.”
Cross stared at his sister, she stared at the floor, and both of them were near tears.
Morg waited. Cross wondered, just for a moment, if his threatening to quit would help, but the idea passed quickly. He knew he couldn’t quit, especially not now. His anger was gone. His spirit clung to him, embraced him. She was desperate to keep the cold of his sadness at bay. It didn’t work.
Morg and Winter left the room, though they indicated they’d return for the briefing in just a few minutes. Cross and Snow were left alone.
He looked at her, and he saw her at eight years old, dressed in a frumpy shirt than dangled down to her ankles, always refusing to wear pants; he saw her at twelve years old, building snow forts with him after dark, as unafraid as he of the terrors in the night; he saw her at fifteen, looking at boys, but he never saw her much because she read so many books and always hid in her room, and all he ever did when she emerged was tell her to go away and leave him alone. He’d never understood what his mother meant when she’d said they were growing up too fast, until now.
“ Eric…” Snow began, but she fumbled her words, and her mouth moved with an empty rhythm. “I’m sorry…I want to help…and I knew you…”
Cross shook his head, and reached out his hand. She gave him hers in return, and he pulled her into his trembling arms.
I can’t stop you, he wanted to say. I want to, but I can’t. All I can do now is everything in my power to keep you safe. I’ll be a shield for you, little sister. I’ll protect you.
“ I can’t wait,” he said quietly, “to come over for dinner tonight.”
He felt Snow smile. Inside, his heart cracked. Their spirits danced a lonely dance, soft and slow, not quite touching, circling their human anchors like it was a child’s game. Cross held Snow for a time before the rest of Viper Squad arrived, and the briefing began.
PART TWO
HUNTERS
He sees the mountain. It is a grim edifice of black rock embalmed in hoarfrost, so immense that it penetrates the pale sky like a blade. Ice winter clouds float over its onyx face, and iron mist hovers inches above the sluggish crystal waters of the silver marsh at the mountain’s base.
Women sit on the brittle grass and dip their bare feet into the ice-laden stream. They are fair and pale, their skin the color of milk or moon. They live in this prison of sleeping trees, whose branches lay across the ground like spent lovers. The scents of dying lilacs and corroding hyacinths drift up to heaven on a chill and cracked wind. The jet mountain looms over them, a silhouette that eclipses the glade. The wind blows through the clearing and ripples their dresses and hair; they are caressed by it, as if by a lover’s hands. When they speak, he can’t hear them, but he can see their words, like platinum ghosts. Leaves float over the ground, and the wind causes the trees to stir like skeletons.
The women share memories of their home. They recall dark buildings slick with black rainfall and streets thick with armor and smoke. Statues of tall men eclipse the city with their shadows, and the air is heavy with fear.
But this, this glade, is a better place for them. They sit near the waters and quietly laugh, knowing their presence here is ever in flux. They dream of the present, and though he knows they must be freezing they look like they are comfortable and at ease. Gossamer branches sway behind them, and beyond the lavender trees hangs a cold and empty moon, a portal through the clouds.
Blood Skies (blood skies) Page 6