“I had hoped you wouldn’t ask me that.”
“Thomas, I love you.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Thomas was quiet, watching as Death approached.
“Thomas? Do you love me?” Molly pressed, almost in a whisper. Her bottom lip trembled.
“That is what I wanted you to ask,” Tom said as he turned to look at Molly. His blue eyes were shining their brightest, and the dread on his face had been replaced by a smile. Ignoring his fate for a moment he examined Yatagarasu. He’d had a funny dream recently, like the kind he used to have. He didn’t know why he needed the blade, but he’d spoken to Ine about it ahead of time, just in case.
In the next moment the vine rising from the ground hardened, and from the end of it bloomed with a tinny rasp a wicked blade in the shape of a harvester’s scythe that flared up abruptly at the tip. The instant after the blade burst forth, Death seized the vine with one hand and broke it off at ground level, swinging the horrible weapon up and over one shoulder with two arms, the other six arms recoiling in agitation.
Tom looked up again and grinned at Molly as if nothing in the world was wrong. In one smooth stroke the scythe cut through the air, leaving a smoky trail behind. When it struck Tom, high on the chest, he and the specter vanished from sight, only an oily mist hovering where they had stood.
Molly waited for a long time. Without moving from where she stood, she waited, thinking that Tom might come back. Maybe she was still in the dark temple, having a bad dream, and someone would wake her up. But no one did. Everyone waiting behind her was real, just as Tom’s disappearance was real. Like her, they all waited in silence, none able to understand what would happen next.
It is uncertain how long they all stood before beginning to descend the mountain again. No birds called out to them. The wind tiptoed through the air. The evening stars above blinked, still in shock. Like a funeral procession, Molly and the others forgot about time and thought only of the space surrounding them, feeling its emptiness. In silence they got into one of their boats, leaving the other behind.
****
“I can hear them,” said Jack Darcy, pacing the shore and cocking his head toward the forest. “You stay put!” he barked, kicking Morgan in the ribs and sending him into the gritty sand. He and the rest of the crew, having given the Blood Moons trouble for hours, now struggled against their bonds. None of them would speak when asked where their captain was, and a few of them had been put down already for trying to stab or shoot their captors.
Like a god of the ocean, The Howl rose from the water’s surface in the distance, its titanic girth closing off the small bay and jailing The Roatán Butterfly within the shallow waters between it and the shore. Snaking in the winds atop The Howl’s highest mast was a banner decorated with the fanged crescent moon, the symbol for the Order of the Blood Moon. From shore it was difficult to estimate the true size of the Blood Moons’ maritime fortress, which, from bow to stern was at least four hundred and fifty metres, standing fifty-five to sixty metres from the water’s surface at the stern and perhaps thirty-five near the bow. A bizarre arrangement of gigantic sails bloomed from it, not only from the deck by means of masts, but also from the sides of the ship. Triangular sails on retractable masts, the cranks at their iron bases locked, leaned out over the water, rolled up so they wouldn’t catch wind while the ship lay anchored. The sails affixed to the main masts were many in number, none too large to manage, but gathered together closely enough to scoop and hold gales that would power the vessel.
Catwalks large enough to hold several sailors at once were visible along the windward side of lifting yardarms, which were joined by ladders. Two gun decks were stacked just under the main deck, separated by a space comprised of strictly support structures to bear the burden of hundreds of cannon of varying weight. The Howl’s gun ports, placed a safe height from the water, dotted the hull like loopholes in a castle— perches from which to fire down upon a target. A few unusually large gun ports, shut closed like the rest, hid even more devastating weaponry, the likes of which the Blood Moons, nearly seven and a half thousand individuals, had used on rare occasion to lay siege on port cities from a great distance. These unheard-of guns, loaded with bewitched, explosive, one-hundred-fifty-pound shot, were the pride of the Order.
Hearing the commotion on the beach from the river, Molly and the others landed their boat before coming within sight of the ships. Quietly she led her crew through the trees and around to the Blood Moons’ flank. From the cover of vegetation they crouched and surveyed the scene.
“Who are they?” Molly wondered aloud. She didn’t understand how anyone could have found them.
“That is Jack Darcy there,” said Leon, recognizing the nefarious captain of The Howl.
It then occurred to Molly that Morgan, days before their arrival, had reported the appearance of a strange landmass that had disappeared soon after it he’d spotted it. She reasoned that he’d seen the gigantic vessel that now sat between them and escape.
“Who is he?” Chera asked. “I’ve never seen such a ship!”
“He commands the Order of the Blood Moon, a clan of thousands of werewolves who abused their curse,” said Leon. “They easily lose control of it, and it makes them mad and violent. Mortals and immortals alike have banished them from the land, so they live on that floating fortress out there.”
“Why are they here?” Chera wondered.
“For Thomas,” answered Leon. “Is that right, Molly?”
Molly nodded and stood up.
“What will we do?” Geoffrey asked her.
“We will do as Thomas said. We will stay with The Roatán Butterfly, whatever the circumstances,” she decided. Not until that moment had something occurred to her: years ago, in Barbados, an old man had tried to explain her future to her. She’d nearly forgotten about it, but as her life with Thomas began, the old man’s prophecies had come true:
The wolf. He took something that belongs to you, and you want it back…
Eli.
Your mother will lead the wolf to you, and your sister waits for you in a garden of stone…
The twin rings.
You will fall in love. The Octopus will steal it away…
Had the old man said anything else? She’d stopped listening to him when she thought he was crazy. Damn it! She should have paid more attention but how could she have known…
“Molly? What are your orders?” Leon was asking.
“What?” said Molly, leaving her thoughts and turning to look at Leon. “Yes, we will go to the ship. Whatever happens will happen, but we will follow Thomas’s commands.”
“Is that a wise choice?” Chera asked skeptically. “I don’t think Captain Crowe knew we were being followed.”
“I’m certain we’ll be fine,” said Molly, her eyes falling on Brother, hanging on Ine’s hip. Ine noticed, and as badly as she wished to give the weapon to Molly, she couldn’t. She hadn’t formally given Yatagarasu to Thomas, and the sword taking its place was keeping her alive.
“How long will they be?” demanded Jack, standing astride Morgan, who rolled over in pain in the wet sand. “Damn you! How long?” Jack’s mighty fist jerked Morgan up to his feet by the collar. Morgan coughed as Jack blew a cloud of smoke into his face, the grackle skull pipe tossing hot cinders at his eyes. When Morgan didn’t answer, Jack threw him back to the sand and strode toward an empty treasure chest that his men had brought ashore, its lid wide open as if prepared to devour a heap of riches.
“Do you see this?” Darcy said, pointing at the chest. “When Thomas Crowe returns, the two of you will share this coffin at the bottom of the Atlantic.” Jack sneered and chewed at the pipe stem. “The world’s going to hell,” said Darcy, loping back over to Morgan, who looked up at him through the abrasive sand in his eyelashes. “So why not side with the demon-king of wolves? Aye?” he shouted, spreading his arms wide and smiling at the Blood Moons lurking on the beach. Raising their voices in a howl, t
hey cheered for Jack.
At the forest’s edge appeared Molly, and after her, Geoffrey, Leon, Chera and Ine. From across the beach they all stared with empty expressions at the congregation of werewolves on the beach, and their grand ship in the bay.
Jack, a broad smile splitting his beard, came to greet them, his eyes jumping from one of them to the next. Quickly, his smile vanished, and his brow pinched together. “Where is he?” he asked them. “Where is Crowe?” The silence following was tense, interrupted only by the flapping of The Howl’s banners.
Across the world, night had already fallen on London. Paolo Ciapetta, dressed in his white uniform, rolled down his sleeves to conceal the tattoos on his arms—designs he had immortalized in his skin long ago, including a most important one, the fanged crescent moon on his right forearm. Two decades earlier, because of that mark, he had been cast from the Vatican and told never to return. This night was the twentieth anniversary of that occasion. Forgetting his past for the moment, Paolo straightened his high collar and brushed the unruly folds from his long coat and cape, then knocked on the door to the Eighth’s quarters.
“Come in,” came a voice from the other side. It was deep and hollow, and resounded like a bell.
Paolo opened the door and strode into the room. The Eighth, seated behind a desk, had turned his chair away from the door so Paolo could not make out his features, except for one hand that rested on the arm of the chair. As if the Eighth could feel Paolo’s eyes, he moved the hand from sight, but not before Paolo glimpsed the ugly scarring on it and the grotesque metallic plating that patched it.
In the room also were two men dressed in dark coats. One of them had long blond hair and the grin of a crocodile. The other, more composed, had shorter, dark hair and an intelligent air about him. When the blond man shifted his weight, the clinking of metal on metal came from inside his coat. At their feet a vampire, down on both knees, bloodied and slouched, shivered and coughed.
“You’re punctual,” said the Eighth to Paolo. “That is outstanding. Timing is everything, and victory always belongs to the one who is first in everything. Arrival, preparation and the strike.”
“You wished to speak to me?” asked Paolo, his hands gently folded in front of him.
“And forthright!” the Eighth exclaimed. “Yes, Paolo, I have a great opportunity for you!”
“The one I requested when I began?”
“Yes! I have decided to allow you to oversee the capture of Thomas Crowe.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I decided this because, Paolo, you are an ambitious man. Ambitious men are dangerous, especially when they are working beneath other ambitious men. It only recently came to my attention that you have a set of skills that could greatly benefit the Bureau and its initiatives. I’m promoting you because I believe it will help to establish an understanding, and, perhaps, in the future you will not keep secrets from us.”
Paolo stood perfectly still, listening to the man behind the desk attentively although inside he felt as though he might rupture with enthusiasm, having been granted his request so unexpectedly. “Certainly, sir,” was his understated response.
“Very good, Paolo. Now, how would you like to demonstrate these hidden talents of yours for the men and me? That miserable thing you see on my floor is one Don Violanti Pagani. Perhaps you have heard of him. Sylvia LeRouge discovered him behaving quite treacherously, and, I fear, he has chosen not to accept the Bureau’s gracious invitation of alliance.”
Paolo turned to look at Violanti, curled over on the floor in front of the two men in coats. Blinking disinterestedly like a cat, Paolo stepped in front of the kneeling vampire and lifted one hand, his palm turned toward Violanti’s face.
“Anima discerptum,” said Paolo. An intensely bright point of light appeared in the middle of his palm, washing the color from Violanti’s eyes as he stared into it in horror. Like a bullet, the light leapt from Paolo’s palm and punched through Violanti’s head without a sound, carrying out the back of his skull a gray, ghostly impression of Violanti that hurtled across the room and smacked the back wall, expelling a chalky cloud of dust.
Violanti, his eyes frozen wide, fell forward to the floor, dead as a doll. Paolo blew on his palm and scattered the residual particles of holy magic from his skin. The blond man never stopped grinning, and the other merely raised an eyebrow.
“That will be all, Paolo,” said the man behind the desk.
Paolo nodded and excused himself, stopping by the door to run a finger through the dust he’d made on the wall, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger and then wiping it off on a rag from his pocket and left the room.
“Macius. Decius,” the metallic voice said to the two men who had watched the demonstration, “I’ve summoned you both because you will supervise Mr. Ciapetta. Secretly.”
“Understood,” said Decius.
“But before you go,” the Eighth added as the men tried to slip away quickly, “tell me. Where is Chera Rocha?”
“She deserted, sir,” said Decius.
“I see. I’d begun to think something else had become of her,” replied the man behind the desk, completely aware of Decius’s feelings of hatred toward Chera.
“May we be excused?”
“One more thing, Mr. O’Delle, and then you may leave.”
“Yes, sir?” Decius clenched his fists impatiently.
“Is there anything else you think you should report?”
Decius swallowed hard, wondering if the Eighth knew about Ine. “No, sir,” he gambled.
“Very good, you may go.”
Macius and Decius left in a hurry, exiting the Eighth’s quarters and pushing past a cloaked woman in the hallway on their way out of the Bureau.
The woman in the hall hurried in the opposite direction, making sure the men were out of sight before slipping into the quarters and shutting the door. Inside the Eighth’s chambers, she shed the cloak and threw it over the back of a chair.
“I’ll have you know these rags you have me in do not suit my tastes,” she said.
“Good evening, Corvessa,” said the Eighth. “Let’s talk.”
Lore
The Old World
Chad T. Douglas
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I
The Greatest Burden
II
The Olemancer
III
Oi’Alli
IV
The Dirt King
V
Lore
I
The Greatest Burden
Fifteen centuries ago in a great country in the Far East there lived a man named Tsen Qian. One of the fiercest soldiers in all of China, Tsen Qian had been revered and respected for his bravery and strength during the Warring States period, a time when China was unified by its first emperor, Qin Shi Huangdi.
One day during a peaceful year, the Emperor’s officials came to Tsen Qian’s father’s farm to personally summon Tsen Qian to the palace. A royal escort was an unheard of honor, and it thrilled Tsen Qian, who could not guess the purpose of the summons. At the palace, he knelt in front of the Emperor, his eyes turned to the ground. The Emperor Qin Shi Huangdi told Qian a great problem had arisen. To the north, on Heng Mountain, there was a powerful being called Zhenlong, the thunder dragon. Zhenlong, angry because the people of Shanxi no longer prayed to him, refused to allow the Emperor to have northern China. However the Emperor needed the lands to the north in order to unify the country. Thinking Zhenlong had become evil because of the people of Shanxi, Emperor Qin Shi Huangdi ordered Qian to go to Heng Mountain and defeat Zhenlong.
Tsen Qian was honored to have been given this task by the Emperor, but brave and loyal as he was, he feared that Zhenlong would surely kill him. For days Qian prepared for his journey, and asked the Jade Emperor, the ruler of Heaven, to protect him on his quest. One night in a dream Qian was visited by the Jade Emperor, who instructed Qian to go to Heng Mountain and face Zhenlong bravely, wearing no arm
or and wielding no sword or spear. If Qian did this, the Jade Emperor told him, he could defeat Zhenlong and live.
Full of courage and hope, Tsen Qian left for Heng Mountain, prepared to defeat Zhenlong and win honor for himself and his family for generations to come. However, the closer Qian came to Heng Mountain, the more he gave in to his fear and doubt. Before reaching the mountain he met an old man named Wu Xun. The old man gave Qian food and water and asked where he was headed. When Qian explained his task, the old man gave him a small pot. “Inside this pot,” said Wu Xun, “are jia gu wen.” These were the bones of a dragon, carved with protective spells. “You will not be able to kill Zhenlong with a blade. Open the lid of the pot to trap its soul. But,” —Wu Xun shook his finger—“once the soul is in the pot, you must keep it sealed.”
With his magical pot, Tsen Qian set off again for Heng Mountain, certain he would defeat Zhenlong. Qian climbed for days, but the dragon watched his ascent. Just as Qian reached the summit of Heng Mountain, Zhenlong attacked. The warrior quickly took out his magic pot and opened the lid. In an instant, Zhenlong’s soul was pulled from its body and sucked into the pot. As Zhenlong’s body died, Qian heard the dragon speak to him. “You have defeated me,” said Zhenlong, “and so I grant you my power.” Tsen Qian, surprised and excited, watched as the magic pot shook in his hands with the strength of the thunder dragon. Forgetting the warning Wu Xun had given him, Qian lifted the lid of the pot. Zhenlong’s soul burst out, leaping into Tsen Qian’s eyes.
Tsen Qian returned to the Emperor’s palace, where he was greatly praised for defeating the fearsome dragon. Shortly afterward war broke out in the south. Without hesitation Tsen Qian went to battle to fight for the Emperor, eager to use his new powers. No longer did Qian need a sword or a spear, for all he had to do was open his eyes and the enemy he gazed upon would be struck down by a great bolt of lightning. The war quickly came to an end. No one wished to face the Emperor’s new lightning-wielding warrior. The Emperor’s enemies surrendered to Tsen Qian, and as a gesture of peace, put forward the most beautiful girl in Fujian, named Fa Bao, to be Qian’s wife. Foolishly Tsen Qian turned his eyes upon the girl, wishing to see her beauty. A great bolt of lightning flashed from his eyes, striking and killing her. Terrified, the people of Fujian fled, and Qian was left alone, horrified at his loss. Unable to go on or return to his home, Qian wandered aimlessly through Fujian, keeping his eyes tightly shut. Because he could not see, when he came to the banks of the Min River, he walked straight into the flowing water. A second time, his foolishness cost him. Opening his eyes to see where he had stepped, Tsen Qian saw his reflection in the river. In the next moment, a great bolt of lightning fell from the sky, striking him dead. His great power had been, indeed, a burden and a curse. There is an old saying in Hubei to this day: “Evil, in the hands of good, is evil.”
The Lore Series (Box Set): All 3 Books In One Volume Page 64