The Bone Triangle

by B. V. Larson

  BOOKS BY B. V. LARSON

  UNSPEAKABLE THINGS SERIES

  TECHNOMANCER

  THE BONE TRIANGLE

  STAR FORCE SERIES

  SWARM

  EXTINCTION

  REBELLION

  CONQUEST

  BATTLE STATION

  EMPIRE

  IMPERIUM SERIES

  MECH ZERO: THE DOMINANT

  MECH 1: THE PARENT

  MECH 2: THE SAVANT

  MECH 3: THE EMPRESS

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 B. V. Larson

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781612182339

  ISBN-10: 161218233X

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012948735

  To Dan and Nancy, for all their hard work

  CONTENTS

  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

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The first assassin came to my house on a moonless night in June. I heard a cracking sound that evening, followed by a tinkling shower of broken glass. I investigated the kitchen and discovered a woman breaking in through a window—a woman with long black hair and matching fingernails.

  My house isn’t a typical tract house. The place is two stories high—three if you count the extensive basement under the kitchen. It was unusual for houses in Nevada to have big basements, but then the people who’d built my home hadn’t been normal. All told, the walls of the house enclosed a space that measured more than ten thousand square feet. In fact, I would classify it as a small, run-down mansion.

  Every inch had once been full of tasteful furniture, but I’d fallen on hard economic times lately and sold most of it. The interior still displayed expensive finishes. Carved stone pillars, polished marble tiles, and elaborate lighting fixtures were everywhere. The ceilings were vaulted, and at the top of each room a lonely fan spun.

  The assassin who crawled into my window wasn’t exactly human, but she was a pretty close approximation and would pass a casual inspection. She gave away her alien nature when she crouched in response to my challenging shout. Crouching required that she bend her knees, and the joints angled the wrong way. Her kneecaps pointed behind her, rather than forward. Her flowing taffeta dress had probably covered this while she traveled the city, but in the excitement of combat, she’d forgotten to fake it and went into a feral, animal-like stance. She didn’t hiss or growl, but she didn’t have to. Those backward knees, like the legs of a cat, were disturbing enough all by themselves.

  The cat-lady hopped up onto the center island, and we regarded one another.

  “Meng sent you, didn’t she?” I demanded of the thing.

  She made no intelligible response. I hadn’t expected her to be in the mood for conversation, but I thought I’d give it a try. I doubted she could even speak English, and my mind was already working on the answer to my own question. If she couldn’t speak, I calculated, this immediately suggested Dr. Meng’s involvement. Meng had the power to cloud the minds of other beings, and language barriers didn’t stop her. More importantly, she hated me.

  I reached for the light switch, flipping it up. Apparently, the woman on my countertop didn’t like bright light. She flipped the switch down again just by looking at it. Then more objects around the room began to move by themselves, while the cat-lady, whom I’d now upgraded in my mind to the rank of cat-witch, leaned back her head and grimaced in concentration.

  My enemies knew very well by now that I was immune to direct attacks using mental energy or tricks of physics, so this assassin took a unique approach. She threw things at me, apparently with her mind. This might not sound too dangerous, but my home has a very large kitchen and the previous tenants had collected an unusual number of knives. These came off magnetic racks and lifted themselves out of drawers, which popped open at a glance from the crouching, two-legged cat-freak that stalked me.

  My kitchen countertops were made of onyx, which was lit from below. Usually, the countertops provided the kitchen with a beautiful, stylish look, but tonight they gave the assassin an even more menacing aspect as she crouched atop them and willed objects to rain in my direction. She resembled a demon in the ghostly light, standing up there on her oddly posed legs.

  I ducked a few knives and a spinning wok before I was able to draw my gun. I lifted it to aim at her, but the coffee machine twirled toward me and knocked it away. Java beans splashed the walls and rattled as they fell to the floor in a spiraling shower. In the dark, I wasn’t even sure where my gun had landed.

  A moment later, a boning knife grazed my shoulder, giving me a nasty slash. Finding myself unarmed and facing a lot of airborne cutlery, I retreated into the adjacent living room.

  They call me a rogue for good reasons. Rogues were wanderers with minor powers. We could do things other people couldn’t. My kind is known for our minor powers, our mobility, and our general sneakiness. Those with more impressive powers tended to sit in their domains, never daring to come out and play. They preferred to send minions like this hostile visitor.

  I thought of Meng again as I ran from the assassin. How could I not? After our last encounter, I’d always suspected she would recover and return to the game in a bad mood. After all, I’d almost killed her inside her own domain several months ago, which had been both frightening and humiliating to someone of her status.

  The cat-lady made a few choice sounds, calling after me. They reminded me of burbling snarls. I had no doubt that she was calling me a coward and worse things. This didn’t bother me. I reached out to a nearby door and threw it shut, letting it slam. Then I padded to stand at a corner with a metal lamp in my hand. It was an unwieldy weapon, but it was handy. I waited there, hoping she would assume I was running and hiding in one of the many rooms. It was time for her to seek.

  The trick worked surprisingly well. She hopped down from the center island and came after me. I could tell by the sound of her feet she wasn’t wearing shoes. Her feet didn’t produce the soft sound a human’s should have. What I heard was more like the slap of a predator’s paws. I vaguely wondered what her legs looked like. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find fur, claws, and leathery footpads.

  The moment she poked her nose around the corner, I bashed her with the lamp. I’ll admit it wasn’t chivalrous, but I wasn’t t
he one chasing her around her house, in her world.

  My strike elicited a new, angry noise. It was a sort of growling cough, the heavy sound a sabertooth might have made in millennia past. The noise was distinctly alien, and it made my neck crawl with dread.

  Steeling myself, I came around the corner, lifting the lamp for another blow. There she was, lying on the floor.

  “I’ll let you run, if you—” I began, stupidly trying to be a nice guy.

  Suddenly, the lamp in my hands twisted with violent force, crashing down on my skull. It felt as if a powerful hand had grabbed the top of it and levered it downward. I staggered, stunned, and felt the lamp shift in my grip, going for another strike. I twisted my head out of the way instinctively and took the second blow in the shoulder. I stumbled and threw the lamp behind me.

  Sensing I was weak, she came in for the kill. I lunged for her, reaching for her throat. She did the same, eyes intense in the half-light of my living room. I saw then that her pupils were vertical slits, like those of a cat or a snake. She gripped my neck, and I gripped hers. We both squeezed. I was shocked by her strength. Apparently, females from her world were no pushovers.

  While we struggled, I half expected more flying objects to come crashing down on my head. Fortunately, it seemed that she required some level of concentration to perform this trick. At this moment, all she could do was squeeze my throat.

  I saw red, then purple, then black. Could she be stronger than I was? I thought maybe she was, although I’m an athletic man. If this was Meng’s work, I knew it might be a type of maniacal strength. People under her sway often had the strength of raving lunatics.

  I realized one of us was going to die soon, and I didn’t want to kill this creature or die by her hand. I heaved upward and regained my feet. She still hung on, sensing victory. She was lighter than I was, so I dragged her several feet toward the cellar door. She didn’t seem to mind until she saw the yawning doorway and the steps that led downward. She fought me then, reaching up with one of those hind legs. I learned in a most painful way that she was equipped with claws. They raked my left hip, cutting right through my jeans. I felt blood trickle down my leg and pool up in my shoe.

  With a final heave, I threw her into the cellar. She rolled only halfway down the stairs before catching herself like an acrobat and springing to her feet. I slammed the door as she charged. She bashed herself against it, snarling like a wild thing. I kept my shoulder there and gasped, twisting the lock. She was trapped.

  Wiping away blood and sweat, I found my phone and called Detective McKesson. He answered on the third ring.

  “Do you know what time it is?” he asked.

  “I’ve got a freak in my basement. Some kind of assassin, I think. Did you detect anything unusual in the area of my house tonight?”

  He didn’t answer for a few seconds. “I’m on my way,” he said finally.

  I hung up and leaned against the cellar door while the wild woman on the other side tore at it. McKesson and I had a strange relationship. We had grudging admiration for one another and often worked together, but there wasn’t a lot of trust between us. I counted him as the only man in the Las Vegas PD who knew more about these occurrences than I did.

  After about five minutes, the snarls and thumping stopped. I wasn’t fooled. The cellar was locked up tight, and there was no way I was going to go down there by myself. My cat-lady was going to have to wait until help arrived. I wondered vaguely how it was going to go if McKesson tried to put cuffs on her. That wasn’t going to be easy.

  When McKesson finally arrived, he looked me up and down with raised eyebrows.

  “Whatever this thing is, it looks like he did a number on you.”

  “It’s a she.”

  McKesson chuckled and drew his weapon. I did the same. We crossed the marble foyer and headed to the cellar door next to the kitchen. He put his hand on the door and yanked it open.

  We walked down the steps tensely, searching every room down there. It had once been full of expensive wines, but I’d sold off the ones I hadn’t consumed. After about five minutes, we were both sure the creature was gone.

  “Everything was locked?” McKesson asked, frowning.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you see any rips?”

  “No, nothing. If she’d stepped out to another world, wouldn’t the rip still be here?”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  A rip was a hole between the fabric of our world and some other place. These places were numerous, and some of them were quite alien. Most of my troubles had stepped out of rips. This house had a rich history of visitors from very odd places, which was why I’d been given a bargain price on it.

  At last, we gave up. The cat-creature had left no trail other than some splintered wood on the steps leading down into the cellar. After another ten minutes, McKesson left.

  “Sweet dreams,” he said, smirking.

  I glared after his squad car, locked the place up tight, and after tending to my wounds I popped open a beer. I thought I should really go to the local ER and get some stitches and antibiotics, but I didn’t bother. One of my best powers was an artifact that promoted fast healing. I knew that by morning the wounds would have sealed over and turned into pink ridges of flesh. In less than a week they’d be gone entirely. It was a power that tended to make a man lazy when it came to infections and scarring.

  Despite counting sheep all night, I didn’t sleep until morning, and I was tired and irritable all the next day.

  After the assassin’s failed attempt to take me out, I no longer felt comfortable living in my home. Not only was I understandably jumpy, but the weather had become unbearably hot. It was the first week of June, and in Las Vegas, that meant it was hot outside. Even at midnight, my air conditioner still thrummed. I couldn’t really afford to keep running the cooler all night, but it was either that or endure more sleepless nights in sweaty sheets.

  I kept my gun with me at all times now, and I checked every door and window to make sure they were locked tight. I even went as far as turning on the alarm system, a precaution I’d never bothered with before.

  A few days later, it was the deep of the night, and I’d finally managed to drift off. I’d been asleep for less than an hour when I was visited by the last being I ever expected to find in my home. This being was not human either—not even remotely so. But at least she wasn’t a cat-lady.

  It was well after midnight, but the night was still strangely hot, even for Vegas. In June, the temperature would usually dip down into the low seventies or even into the sixties before dawn. Tonight, the heat had continued to build and build all evening. I had every window open as it was cooler outside than in. In sun-drenched lands, heat is stored in the roof tiles of your house all day and from there it slowly filters down into the interior during the night. But tonight I was tossing, turning, and sweating more than I should have been.

  I finally fell asleep on my couch sometime after three. I’m not certain when I awoke, but I was sure why I returned to consciousness. It was the heat—and the glow coming from the wine cellar.

  A sprawling home like mine needed a large family to care for it, or at least an army of service people. I had neither. Most of the mansion was empty and echoed as I walked through it. Only the kitchen showed mild use. I lived in the family room. There was a TV embedded in a wall there, in front of which sat a single couch. The bedrooms were all empty—I usually slept on the couch.

  I liked the place, but I’d never really been able to furnish it or care for it properly. I might have done a better job if my girlfriend, Jenna, had stuck around. But, after a few months, she’d gone home to visit her family in the Midwest—and never came back. With her gone, I ran out of interest in decorating. Soon after that I ran out of money.

  While I slept fitfully, sweating under a single sheet, the strange sequence of events began in the cellar. Something was knocked over and clattered to the ground. My eyes snapped open, and I quietly got to my feet. I thr
ew off the moist white sheet that covered me and struggled to my feet. I willed myself awake. Could I still be dreaming?

  Shirtless and barefoot, I squinted at the line of light and padded over the tiles toward it. I walked to the cellar door and examined it closely from a safe distance. The door generally stayed locked, and I hadn’t been down there since the visit from my feline friend. I didn’t want to open it now, so I eyed it critically. There was a significant gap between the bottom edge of the door and the tile floor.

  As I studied the crack beneath the door, I saw a lurid red glow begin to pulse there. I retrieved my .32, which I’d left on the coffee table.

  The glow under the cellar door brightened then ebbed again. I checked my pistol with practiced movements. The magazine was firmly rammed into place. I thumbed off the safety with a tiny click.

  Many odd events had occurred in that basement. Most of them had never been fully explained to my satisfaction by the cultists who had occupied the house before I took possession. It was their involvement with bizarre places and peoples, in fact, that had resulted in my ownership. My patron, a Ukrainian crime lord named Rostok, was among the most powerful citizens of the city. He’d sold the house to me cheaply to station me here. I knew he wanted to set me up as a guardian at this possible invasion point. I’d understood this unspoken detail of the arrangement when I’d taken the keys, but I had hoped my duties would be only perfunctory.

  For months, nothing had occurred that I could classify as otherworldly. I’d relaxed over time. Like a villager settling nervously on the slopes of Mt. Vesuvius, I’d quickly grown complacent. I’d thought the doorway that seemed to exist in the cellar had been closed for good.

  Tonight my luck had run out. There was something in the cellar, something hot, and it wanted to come out and play.

  For the first time, I smelled smoke. I realized there couldn’t be any doubt of it. There was an acrid scent filling the house. I recognized it as the sharp stink of wood smoke. I was surprised the smoke detectors hadn’t gone off. As I became more fully awake, I recalled having removed the batteries from most of the detectors and disconnecting them. A small mansion has an amazing number of smoke detectors these days, and they wouldn’t stop beeping and complaining about their dying batteries. Looking back on my decision to disconnect them all, I thought perhaps that had been a shortsighted policy.