by Jory Strong
Caphriel’s Pawn
RADEK’S palms were slick. The green thermos nearly slipped as he pulled it from the knapsack.
At the sound of rustling paper he startled guiltily, heart racing. It was only the map spread out on the ground next to him, lifting and dropping with a small breeze.
Sweat slid down the back of his neck. He felt eyes on him.
A glance over his shoulder told him he wasn’t imagining it. Captain Nagy leaned against the rear of the Hummer, a cigarette between his lips, watching.
Two other militiamen wearing the Ivanov crest were a short distance away. Alert, but at ease, playing dice on the hood of the vehicle as he’d given them all permission to do when he told them he needed a few minutes to study the map and take a water sample from the small pond.
Radek licked his lips. His heart stuttered in his chest.
His gaze went to hoof tracks captured in the mud. Elk. He was pretty sure of it. They matched the picture he’d slipped from his pocket and studied surreptitiously.
The thermos in his hand trembled. Inside it was the subtle movement of liquid.
He set it down on the ground before him. Losing his nerve for opening it and emptying the smart-virus into the pond.
What if the scientists were wrong? What if the virus mutated into something that affected humans?
Radek took several deep breaths. He pulled the map over in front of him, pretended to be concentrating on it, but instead of seeing elevation markings and penciled-in notations of where man had once built, he looked into his memory.
The laboratory was exactly where the file he’d recovered from the safe and decoded said it would be. It’d taken less than a day for the convict workers to get to it, and none of them had seen him remove something from the site.
So far he’d uncovered three canisters, unmarked except for a symbol indicating the virus’s ultimate target. Each coming with a sealed data file containing information on how the scientists planned to use the weapon they’d created in the event the Weres emerged from hiding.
Radek picked up the thermos. His stomach churned.
Activating the virus had been relatively simple. The scientists had factored in lack of technology and the possible collapse of civilization when they designed their postwar weapon.
Having the courage to use it was more difficult than Radek had envisioned in the safety of his private quarters. He closed his eyes and sank into a dream that had changed from one involving discovery and riches to one of glory.
The tightness in his chest eased as he imagined the crowds chanting his name. Heard again his father calling him a hero to the human race.
Courage returned. Nervousness became anticipation.
Radek opened his eyes and got to his feet. He knelt next to the pond. By his calculations, the smart-virus targeting werewolves by using elk as a vector should reproduce and be present in every mouthful of water by nightfall.
He uncapped the thermos. Submerged it in the pond so the watching militiamen would see what they expected to.
Fear returned with the irreversibility of his actions, the possibility he might be unleashing another plague on mankind.
Vomit rose in his throat.
He swallowed it down.
Drew strength from the golden dream of power and wealth and glory.
“I’m doing what needs to be done,” he whispered.
Seven
THE smell of slow, horrifying death drifted through the dense foliage of trees hiding Phaedra’s house. It blanketed the Jaguar camp in a noxious, unseen cloud of puss and raw flesh, exposed muscle and the scent of voided bodies.
Anywhere other than a Jaguar’s lair the smell would have drawn every scavenger in the forest. Already, some of the pack members couldn’t be trusted not to lash out, driven by an instinct at the core of their being that said none but the strongest deserved to survive.
Only those wearing a human form could enter the house and be in the presence of the cubs. And had the five boys been allowed to emerge from their drugged, pain-free cocoons, their mewling cries would have been unbearable, adding to the helpless torment, the edge of violence seething in the Jaguars.
Aryck knelt next to the pallet where one of the cubs lay. The slow spread of whatever was eating through skin and into muscle, devouring them while they still lived, put them at risk of greater infection if they were moved to their own homes.
They were like burn victims, only nothing Phaedra had tried, no potion or salve handed down in the oral tradition of their kind, worked. Nothing known by the Lion healer had helped either.
Locked in their furred forms, the four cubs were denied the chance to talk to their parents, to find comfort in words where touch was increasingly denied as their injuries worsened.
Rage ate at Aryck but he had no way to strike out at the long-dead humans who had created such a horrible weapon. His fury was fueled by a helplessness to change the course of events, by the heartrending knowledge that ultimately, when all hope of survival ended and they could no longer be shielded from the pain, the cubs would be killed to end their suffering.
He moved to the pallet were the Tiger cub lay still as death. For his bravery, for changing into a human form so he could help the others, Caius’s condition worsened more quickly than that of the others, probably because whatever was eating him alive had been keyed to and designed for mankind, with animals just collateral damage.
Grief welled up inside Aryck, obliterating his rage and bringing guilt with it. He should have recognized Caius’s quiet courage and the strength of spirit allowing him to rebound despite repeatedly being left out of Jaguar play. He should have made more of an effort to befriend this lone Tiger cub and in doing so help him fit more quickly into the pack.
It was rare for Weres to mate outside their species, but because they shared a human form, it was possible. Caius’s mother had done so, disappearing when Aryck was a teen only to come back recently with a white Tiger cub at her side and no mate.
Aryck reached out, pushing the boy’s hair off his forehead. He should have done more for this cub who’d lost his father to death and his mother to her grief.
Given time, the Jaguar cubs would have accepted Caius, but now …
A hand touched Aryck’s shoulder. He looked up into Phaedra’s age-lined face and saw compassion there.
“Leave,” she said. “Don’t come here anymore or torment yourself. There is nothing any of us could have done to prevent this. I played in those ruins as a child; so did you, so did your father, and his, and the ones before, all the way back to the claiming of this land for the Jaguars. It is in the hands of the ancestors now.”
Aryck rose from his crouch. As he did so, his father’s voice sounded in his mind. The council of elders gathers in the circle. Tell Phaedra we meet, then join us.
Seven old men and five old women sat on seats made from the branches of the trees in the sacred place where the Jaguar dead were placed. They were the oldest members of the pack, seemingly ancient and feeble in body but with minds that were an immense library of Were history.
They had no authority. But an alpha would be foolish not to ask for their opinion on important matters, and heed it unless there was a compelling reason to do otherwise.
Aryck took up his position next to his father. Phaedra sat on the ground beside one of the elders.
Nahuatl stood with his back to a small fire. It crackled in the center of the circle, signaling a meeting of importance. He was dressed in the light loincloth he favored but he carried a staff made of Jaguar bone and skull, signifying his position and that he would speak as a representative of the ancestors.
Beyond him, members of the pack gathered, called there by curiosity instead of the alpha. Melina appeared, shifting easily from jaguar to human form and placing herself so Aryck couldn’t avoid seeing her naked breasts and the tuft of pubic hair arrowing down to draw attention to her vulva.
Several males jostled into position next to her, touching th
eir bare skin to hers. Aryck turned his head to look at his father, wondering at the purpose for being called here.
Koren addressed the elders, saying, “Nahuatl came to me with a vision sent by the ancestors. They have shown him a face and given him the name of a woman capable of healing our cubs.”
Outside the circle, murmurs met his announcement. Like a fever, hope sped through those gathered. Inside the circle, the elders remained stoic, waiting as Aryck did, knowing there was more to the vision.
“She is human,” Koren said. “Gifted.”
Hope became edged with fear and distrust. Whispers held anger and hate but were silenced with a glance from Koren.
“And the cost to us if we bring this human into our midst?” one of the elders asked, his voice querulous.
Nahuatl tapped his staff on the ground, drawing every eye to him. “The ancestors have bid me to say this: The decision must be made quickly, and it is the enforcer who must be sent for her. They also issue a warning. If she does not agree to providing aid, then Aryck will die before returning to Jaguar lands.”
Those gathered in the circle weighed what was said, to what lengths they should go to save the cubs, but for Aryck the decision was easy. “I will go for the healer.”
Murmurs met his declaration, but none of the elders objected. Koren placed his hand on Aryck’s shoulder. “It will be done then, and the cubs healed because of it. Melina will accompany you.”
REBEKKA emerged from the thorn-lined path and onto a broken, cracked sidewalk a block away from the Wainwright house and on a different street. Hidden beneath her shirt, the dream catcher-like amulet was warm against her skin.
She reached up and touched it, grateful for its presence. The cold blossoming in her chest hadn’t reappeared when she passed beyond the wards protecting the witches.
Fear gnawed at her stomach at the thought of returning to the brothel. Denial continued to scream through her with the witch’s claim she was fathered by a demon.
She wouldn’t believe it. Couldn’t without seeking answers from her mother.
A glance at the sky confirmed it was too late to cross the Barrens. Even if she had the courage to enter the wasteland of burned and collapsed buildings by herself, she’d never reach the Fellowship settlement where her mother lived before nightfall.
She couldn’t return to the brothel, not until she knew she wouldn’t draw disease there. And she didn’t dare go to her homesteaded house in the area set aside for the gifted while she was being hunted.
Rebekka glanced at the sky again. If she hurried she could make it to Levi’s lair in the woods.
It could be secured at night. And at least she wouldn’t put anyone else at risk there.
She began running, part of her recognizing the danger of it, how moving quickly would draw more attention to herself. But the intense desire to escape the nightmare that had begun with the demon Abijah’s appearance, and grown worse with dreams and memories of the urchin, rode her.
Where it was possible she remained in shadow, using vegetation and the piled debris that had once been houses to shield her from the street and the places reclaimed by humans.
Sticker bushes tore at her clothing, scratching at bare skin. Still, she hurried. Driven, hoping to outrun her thoughts and fears.
Over the pounding of her heart she heard the rumble of an engine drawing closer. It could be anyone, she told herself. In Oakland the rich and powerful often sought out the gifted.
They bought the services and products of those they required to live apart, just as easily and openly as they entered the red zone, arriving in chauffer-driven cars to indulge in their chosen vices.
She forced herself to slow long enough to look around, and cursed herself for a fool when she saw the darting movement of a street child taking cover, this one older than the one she’d seen watching the Wainwright house.
Renewed fear spiked through her, bringing with it a surge of adrenaline. For enough coin to pay for a meal or buy shelter for the night, the boy would point her out to anyone hunting her then turn away, uncaring what his actions meant for her.
Rebekka pressed a hand to her side. Ran again, lungs and muscles burning with the effort.
She reached the place where the gifted section bordered that of the non-gifted instead of the red zone. Despite what the witches said, she couldn’t discount the possibility it was the vice lords who had benefited from the maze who now hunted her.
Piles of stone and rusted metal hidden by curling, tangled vines made it treacherous to stray too far from livestock paths used by those who took their animals to graze during the day. She did it anyway. Taking cover when the sound of an engine drew closer like a hungry mechanical bloodhound on her trail.
The street boy came into view, panting. She became aware of her own harsh breathing and pulled her shirt away from her body, pressed the material to her mouth in an effort to mute any sound that might give her away.
Moments later a sleek silver car drew alongside the boy. The backseat window rolled down, and Rebekka stifled a gasp when she saw the man’s profile. The port-wine stain on the left side of his face made him unforgettable. He was one of the men who’d attacked near the brothel, the only one to escape.
He turned his head, following the direction the boy pointed. She huddled deeper into her hiding place as two additional boys joined the first. One of them was the boy outside the Wainwright house. It made her sure he was the one she’d seen the night before.
The boys held out their hands for payment. The man glanced at the sky and cursed as he dropped coins into their hands before rolling up the window.
They fanned out as the car drove away. Rebekka remained hidden, not daring to make any movement at all, not daring even to close her eyes.
The car disappeared from sight but the sound of it lingered. Each moment slowed to feel like a hundred of them. When the car reappeared it kept going, heading in the direction she’d come from. The boys gathered a short time later and did the same.
She couldn’t be sure they were calling off their search so they could get to shelter before night fell, or if they were lying in wait, knowing she was defenseless against them, that even to save her life, she couldn’t inflict harm, not without it turning her gift into something evil.
Rebekka shivered, sweat cold against her skin, the amulet warm, as if reminding her that with the appearance of the urchin, her gift was already changed, perhaps tainted.
The distinctive rumble of a bus’s engine cut across the waiting silence, bringing the hope of escape—if she dared risk it.
In her mind she traveled the distance to the nearest stop. Imagined herself climbing into the bus and going to a place few in the red zone went to willingly—the building housing the police and guard.
Her pulse accelerated and her breathing grew shallow thinking about it. She wavered, considered returning to the Wainwright house and seeking shelter with the witches. Discarded the idea. Even if she could reach them, their protection would come at a price she didn’t want to pay.
Before the fear could build, Rebekka broke from cover, running toward the bus stop.
A cry went up from one of the boys.
She didn’t look back. Didn’t slow as she pulled the dollar bills tucked away for emergencies from a pocket as she rounded a corner and saw the bus.
It slowed to a stop, disgorged its passengers.
She sped up, racing, knowing this was the last bus of the day and if it began moving, the driver wouldn’t stop for her.
If not for an old woman who had to be helped down the stairs, Rebekka never would have made it in time. She clambered on before the driver could close the door and lock her out in his desire to finish work and get home before dark.
She paid and took a seat on the empty bus. Looked out the window.
All three of the boys were visible. One looked angry. He said something to the other two, then turned and ran.
Terror gripped Rebekka. Only days past, she and Levi had
taken this same bus on their way to the Mission and found enemies waiting for them. If they hadn’t gotten off at an earlier stop, they would have ended up in the maze or dead.
In escaping that fate she’d found herself a prisoner of the Iberás—though they’d labeled her a guest. And now, because of those events, she sought refuge with them.
Rebekka reached up and touched the amulet through her shirt. Was it wrong to put those at the Iberá estate at risk?
I have no choice, she told herself as the bus picked up speed.
She remained tensed, half expecting the silver car with the assailant from the night before to intercept the bus. If it happened the bus driver would hand her over without question, without reporting the incident if told not to by someone with authority or who offered money for his silence on behalf of a vice lord.
Outside the window the bus skirted the area where the wealthy and powerful lived. Downtown came into view along with her last memory of it, when her attention had been caught by a flag fluttering on the antenna of a black sedan—a red lion rampant centered on an elaborate shield design and set against a gold background—the heraldic crest of the Iberás, though she didn’t know it at the time.
Fear returned in a rush. What if Enzo Iberá wasn’t at the guard headquarters? Or if he was, what if he turned her away, refused to take her to his family’s estate? Where would she find shelter for the night?
The stop closest to the building housing the guard drew near. Rebekka reached up and pulled the cable, signaling she wanted to get off.
When her feet touched the sidewalk she hurried forward. The hope for safety grew with each step, swelling and nearly edging out the fear of being turned out at dusk.
She entered the building, and after a brief phone call, the man on duty summoned another to take her to General Iberá’s office.
Their footsteps echoed in a hallway lined with framed photographs of men in guardsmen uniforms. The pictures continued up the stairway and onto the next floor.
Rebekka forced steel in her spine and courage into each step forward. Both deserted her when her escort stopped in an open doorway and she saw the black-robed Father Ursu waiting there alongside Enzo Iberá.