GHOST CROWN: THE TRACKS TRILOGY - Book Two

by J. Gabriel Gates

  “That much C4 should have at least cracked it. Did you see the markings carved into the stone? It’s protected by magic,” the smaller man said. “It has to be.”

  “We’re too close to give up now. The new explosives will arrive tomorrow night. We’ll try again then. Magic or no magic, we’re getting into that chamber. For now, let’s get everyone back to base.”

  “Kate?”

  Kate glanced around to see Zhai looking at her, a dazed expression in his eyes. She felt incredibly relieved to have him back; she couldn’t stand to be alone with these strange men a moment longer. In her joy she would have hugged him—if it weren’t for the manacles binding her wrists.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, and then he looked around. “Where are we?”

  “We’re together,” she answered. She wasn’t trying to be clever; it was simply the only thing she understood at the moment—and, she realized, it was the only thing that mattered.

  

  Maggie drove Raphael home from Chin’s, and they were silent for most of the ride. When she stopped the Mercedes at the curb in front of his apartment house, she asked, “Hey—you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m cool.”

  “You want to talk about anything?”

  “Like what?” he asked, but she only raised her eyebrows. She wasn’t going to say the name, but she was dying to know what happened. He said it for her. “You mean Aimee?”

  “I don’t know if you broke up with her, but if you want to talk about it—”

  “Not yet,” he cut in. “I would break up with her if she’d return my calls or talk to me at school for more than five seconds. You were right. But you already know that,” he finished bitterly. “There are pictures.”

  “I’m sorry.” And she really was. She didn’t want him with Aimee, but she didn’t want him to hurt, either. Tentatively, she leaned toward him. He didn’t back away so she kissed him—very gently, on the lips. He still didn’t back away, but he didn’t kiss her back. Maggie was smart enough not to push it. “Whenever you’re ready, we can talk about it,” she said. But she meant more than talk—and she knew he understood what she meant.

  “Yeah,” he said. “When I’m ready—I might just take you up on that. You okay from here?”

  “Fine,” she said. “You don’t have to worry about me, Raph. I can take care of myself.”

  He broke into a grin. “I guess you can. What you did at Pembrook’s place was awesome.”

  Maggie laughed—and it felt good. “Yeah,” she agreed. “It was. And I have a feeling that was only the tip of a very big iceberg.”

  He looked at her tenderly, she thought, like they had shared a real moment, before he got out and headed up the rickety stairs of his building. As she drove home she realized she was happier than she had ever been—in her entire life—really, truly happy.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  At dusk on Friday evening, Orias sat at his dining room table, feasting on lobster, mashed potatoes, salad, pan-seared asparagus and rich, buttery rolls he’d ordered in from Spinnacle. Every few bites, he took a hearty swig of his special drink—the libation of the Dark Territory, an elixir made with the black roots of mandrake known to grow only on the banks of the River Lethe, mixed with sweet red wine made from his own grapes. It was the potion of forgetfulness, and it filled him with a delicious black fog that dulled the constant ache in his soul. Many days it seemed nothing else would get him through the misery of his existence. Nothing—until he met Aimee.

  At the thought of Aimee, the image of her blue eyes looking up at him—eyes as dark and deep as the waters of the Lethe itself—flashed through his mind. Since the day Orias turned thirteen and realized what he was, he had lived as a spider lives: spinning webs of seduction to entangle his hapless admirers, draining them until they were wasted husks and then casting them aside—sometimes for money, sometimes for lust, sometimes for influence, and sometimes just for fun. But in all this time, he’d never encountered anyone like Aimee Banfield. When he looked into her eyes, he saw himself reflected there. All his wickedness, his unmitigated selfishness, his crushing loneliness were laid bare before her innocence. And when he kissed her, he’d felt something . . . strange. There was no use denying it. He’d felt a stirring of hope—and it was terrifying.

  Traveling with her—teleporting—all through the night had been amazing. First, they went to New York, and he left her for her for an hour to soak in a bubble bath in his penthouse on Manhattan’s Upper West Side while he went out and bought evening clothes for her. When she was dressed, he brushed her hair, wriggling his fingers through the strands until it draped, as if by magic, into a stylish updo. And bare-chested, in bare feet, wearing only his tuxedo trousers and suspenders, he’d applied her makeup and painted her fingernails and toenails blood red. When she expressed surprise at his cosmetological prowess, he’d told her his ancestors had been the ones to teach women how to adorn themselves with face paint and jewels. He’d heard the stories often—even read them in scholarly texts—but now, for the first time, he understood why they’d done it. It was, even in his wide experience, the most intimate interaction he’d ever had with a female.

  He took her to a party, where he was the guest of honor, and those who’d already chosen him over Oberon bowed to him (and to Aimee) and gave offerings of wine and gemstones. Then, when everyone left, he took her to the rooftop restaurant where, enclosed in the establishment’s giant retracting, Plexiglas bubble to protect them from the winter wind, they danced under a brilliant canopy of twinkling stars. As they’d looked down on the magnificent view of Central Park and the city surrounding it, he’d kissed her with renewed passion and instantly they were in Paris, standing atop the Eiffel Tower. In Venice they shared a gondola in the moonlight. Next they went to Rome, but he’d had to explain to her that they couldn’t go inside Vatican City because he couldn’t stand on hallowed ground. Another of the curses his father had bequeathed him.

  It was no wonder he hated his father, Orias thought now, staring out the dining room window at the last few straggling snowflakes drifting down in the deepening gray twilight. The hate was part of his father’s legacy—and his mother’s. The bitterness of his existence stabbed at his soul again.

  They had done this to him. They had bequeathed to him the biggest curse of all. To despise what you love and long eternally for that which you despise—that was the way of the fallen, and that was his heritage. To have all the mortality—eventually—of a human being, with none of the blissful ignorance.

  At first, his feelings for Aimee had terrified him. For love, he knew, was weakness, and weakness was death. How could an insignificant human female give him even the faintest glimmer of hope? There was no hope—and there certainly was no love—for him.

  He would allow no one to corrupt him with weakness, especially some foolish little high-school girl who had the audacity to be concerned about his soul—what there was of it. All the lines he’d fed her had started out as so much romantic drivel, designed to seduce her into bending to his will so that she would retrieve the treasure for him. But somewhere along the way, it had changed. He had started to care what happened to her. That was not only weak—it was futile.

  If he loved her, all the more reason to destroy her. So, after Aimee had served her purpose, he would dispose of her as he had all the others.

  Unless, he thought absently . . . unless he decided to keep her around for a while, just for his own amusement. And as he thought of her now, sleeping on the old couch in the parlor after eating a fruit cup steeped in a teaspoon of his libation, he realized how much he wanted to keep her. Even if he soon would have no need of her.

  Soon, she would place it in his hands—the treasure Oberon had spent eons searching for, preparing for. How ironic that his despised half-breed son was going to step in at the last minute and claim all the glory. The prospec
t of his father’s coming rage made Orias chuckle as he took another sip of his wine.

  A loud knock came at the door, and Orias glanced at his watch. Uphir was right on time. He drained his chalice and, after looking in on Aimee for a moment, he closed the door to the parlor and went to greet the demon doctor.

  He recognized the man on the stoop immediately. It was the bald attendant from the gas station down the street; Orias had seen him several times when he’d gone to fill up. But when Orias looked into his eyes, the man blinked—and his eyes were no longer human. The pupils were elliptical, like a cat’s, and they were orange. A roiling black steam emanated from the top of his head and hung above him and, superimposed over his face, nine sets of eyes and nine snarling mouths slowly coalesced into one set of arched eyebrows, one matching pair of cunning, dark human eyes and one pencil-thin mustache set over thick, moist lips the color of raw liver.

  “Dr. Uphir,” Orias said and extended his hand. “How nice to see you.”

  The doctor bowed from the waist and kissed Orias’s ring. “And you,” he responded pleasantly.

  “That’s a nice vessel you’ve got there,” Orias mocked, eyeing Uphir’s large, gas-station attendant gut as he led him into the parlor. “Will you be giving it back in time for me to fill up my car?”

  Uphir laughed. “Fill it up with piss, for all I care,” he sneered. “Cars—damn filthy means of transport.” He looked down at his wrinkled button-up shirt with the name Don stitched over the pocket, his tattered denim jacket, and his protruding stomach. “And this is a disgusting mantle,” he added with distaste. “Most undignified. I shall enjoy being rid of it.”

  There was a strange dissonant harmony to his voice, as if eight other people were also talking.

  “I see you brought friends,” Orias observed.

  “Well, restoring the sight of a fallen angel is no simple matter—even for the greatest of demon physicians. Where is he?”

  “In the tower. But before we go up—will you have him unconscious for the procedure?”

  Uphir shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me—he doesn’t need to be. It will be painful, but your father’s a creature of pain. He can take it.”

  Orias reached into the interior pocket of his sport coat and took out two thick packets of one-hundred dollar bills. “Here’s your fee,” he said, giving Uphir the first packet. When he held out the second, he added, “This is to make sure he’s unconscious until we leave the room. You’ll see why when you get up there.”

  Uphir grinned as he took the money. “It sounds like there’s trickery afoot in the House of Morrow,” he said, his amusement evident. “I adore trickery. But your father and I go way back, boy, and he’s the one who sent for me. Why should I take orders from you?”

  Orias closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his strength. Then he raised both arms out to his sides, level with his shoulders. When he opened his eyes, an unearthly, red glow emanated from them and a dark, foggy mist filled the hallway and swirled around the now cringing demon. Everything in the hallway rattled: the paintings on the walls, the hutch by the door, the chairs along the walls, the crystals in the chandelier. Orias snarled and the rattling became more violent, until at last a whimper of fear escaped the doctor. Satisfied, Orias took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the red light was gone and the fog dissipated. He lowered his arms.

  “My time is coming, Uphir,” he said, grasping the devil doctor by the throat with one powerful hand and lifting him about three feet. “Oberon’s power is waning and mine is growing stronger. Align yourself wisely, demon, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Oh—certainly. Certainly,” Uphir choked out nervously and then, as Orias lowered him to the floor, his face split again, into nine leering grins. Nine pairs of eyes squinted with silent glee. “Like father, like son,” all nine voices said in unison. Then they became one, and Uphir added, “We have a deal. Now, if you will take me to him, we can begin.”

  

  Oberon was sitting on the bed when Orias and the doctor entered the small, round tower room.

  “Uphir,” Oberon growled. “You’re late.”

  “And you’re ugly,” Uphir replied. “Uglier than ever, if that’s possible.”

  “Save the jokes. Let’s get this done.”

  “You’ll have to reveal yourself,” Uphir said. “You know the drill. But first—your absence at the conclave was sorely felt. Azaziel wanted me to deliver that message personally. I think he means you should be at the next one, no matter what.”

  “I know what he means,” growled Oberon.

  “Hey—I’m just saying,” Uphir told him. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Okay—go ahead. Whenever you’re ready.”

  Oberon took a deep breath and when he exhaled his true form became visible—those glorious black wings, the onyx-like skin covered with glistening scales. Truly, Orias thought, with the same awe he’d felt as a child, my father is terrible and beautiful to behold. The only flaw was his eyes; their sockets were still jagged, empty craters.

  “Will you give yourself over to my ministrations?” Uphir asked.

  “I will,” Oberon replied.

  Uphir placed one of the gas station attendant’s grease-stained hands on Oberon’s head. “First, you will sleep,” he whispered. Instantly, Oberon’s body relaxed. Uphir guided him backward, easing him down on the bed and gently folding his wings beneath him. When he was satisfied Oberon was unconscious, Uphir took a moment to glance around the room at the writing that covered every inch of the ceiling, walls and floor. Even the door was covered, now; Orias had finished it.

  “Well, well,” Uphir said smugly. “It is rare that a half-breed gets the drop on a prince like Oberon. I’d love to see the look on his face when he opens his new eyes. What have you been up to?”

  “Sorry to deprive you,” Orias said. “We’ll both be on the other side of that door, with it locked securely behind us.”

  “Betraying a fallen angel is a tricky business, Orias,” Uphir warned. “And dangerous—especially for so small a fee.”

  “Yes,” Orias agreed coldly. “My father and his kind are dangerous—but so are their sons.”

  Uphir’s expression darkened. “I’d need more money—at least twenty thousand. I want to put distance between myself and Oberon before he wakes up, just in case. I’ll have to hide and I want to hide in comfort.”

  Demons, Orias thought with contempt. Their obsession with human money was pathetic.

  “Agreed,” he said impatiently. “Now get it done, before he wakes up and destroys us both.” As the doctor turned back to his patient, Orias retreated to a chair in the corner to watch.

  Uphir began by chanting. It was a horrible language—it sounded more like he was vomiting than speaking—but all the languages of the Pit were like that. It was the worst part of the Dark Territory, a place, Orias knew, where not even one as powerful as his father would venture. But the incantation was working. Slowly Oberon levitated off the bed.

  Now, Uphir opened his mouth wide, unnaturally wide, and eight demons in their spirit forms—as ethereal as shadows—emerged from the gas station attendant’s mouth and whirled around Oberon, spinning faster and faster until four of them were holding him up, one at each arm and each leg. Another grabbed his torso from above and another from below, all of them clutching him at once, gouging him with their fearsome black claws, until Oberon’s mouth snapped open, and, even unconscious, he was shouting in agony. The remaining two spirit-demons shot down his throat, and Uphir reached over and forced Oberon’s mouth closed. Orias saw the glow they cast through the cracks between the scales that covered his father’s skin: two points of red light, rippling back and forth within his body like fire. Uphir, meanwhile, continued chanting, swaying, moving, as if performing some kind of primitive, terrifying rain dance.

  Finally, both sparks o
f red fire moved upward, into Oberon’s head. Lights the color of flames shone from his nose, his ears, his blasted eye sockets and, when Uphir released his jaw, from his screaming mouth. The light intensified, and from the way Oberon was bellowing and writhing, Orias knew it was incredibly painful—but he took only a little satisfaction from that. The best was yet to come.

  “The pain is normal,” Uphir told him. “My little friends are rewiring his brain to function with his new spirit eyes. It’s all part of the process.”

  “I don’t care,” Orias shot back. “Hurt him all you want.”

  Uphir raised both his hands over his head and finished with a guttural shout. Six of the demons swarmed back into his mouth, and Oberon fell back to the bed, already reverting to his human form. He looked terribly mortal, terribly frail. Cautiously, Orias approached the bed.

  “His eyes still look the same,” he said. It was true: his father’s eye sockets remained empty, livid red holes filled with shiny scar tissue.

  “The fleshly damage was caused by the All,” Uphir said. “There’s nothing I can do about that. But look again.”

  Orias looked, and this time he saw two ghostly, transparent eyes floating in Oberon’s eye sockets. One looked vaguely reptilian, the other round and blue and somehow feminine. “The demon spirits will see for him. Believe me, his sight will be better than the sight of any human. Much better.”

  Orias chuckled. “Won’t win any beauty contests though, will he?”

  Uphir fished into the station attendant’s pocket and came out with a pair of black sunglasses. “No charge,” he said with a cackle as he handed them to Orias.

  Orias placed them on the bedside table. “All right. Let’s get out of here before he wakes up.” He led Uphir into the hallway, shut the door behind them and locked it.

  “Are you sure that spell will hold him?” Uphir asked, one eyebrow quizzically raised.

  “Are you questioning my abilities, doctor?” Orias looked at him sternly. “Would you like another demonstration?”