Reviled (Frankenstein Book 2)

by Dean C. Moore

  Now that Soren’s chest was exposed, she dipped the “stick” she was wielding into the mound on Soren’s gut. And she visualized the little metal spiders crawling up the stick.

  Well, what do you know? They were responding to her directive—or perhaps to the beast’s, to put an end to her. Or…did Player gift her with access to all of his elemental magic, at least within this room? Naomi! Of course. She must have been keeping them connected to one another as a workaround now that the family was seldom in the same room. She must not have entirely trusted Soren’s nanites for doing that—the ones she had directed Natura to implant in each of their brains to maintain a connection between them—a communications channel that the beast may well have already shut down.

  The nanites weren’t migrating up the stick in any great number; that they were at all had to do with Player’s way with metals. But either the mandala shapes, or the unique alloys of the metals themselves in the diverse number of players in those mounds adorning Soren’s body…. Shit, Naomi had even bridged Stealy’s mind to some of Soren’s scientific aptitudes—the old Soren, who existed back when Naomi had last been intimate with him. Probably more of a disadvantage than an asset right now, that link to his mind, considering Stealy really didn’t have time to make sense of things. Just to act.

  She visualized what she wanted the nanites to do—taking advantage of Soren’s scientific aptitudes, after all—or at least his psychic connection to those nanites—and of Cypher’s cabbalistic sophistication with taking a guess at what those figures represented. And she had them convert her pylon into a more sophisticated weapon that was also easier to wield. The club in her hand scaled down in size; it was more like a blind man’s cane now that could telescope much further out.

  But that was only half of the mad idea taking shape in her head—drawing on Soren’s and the beast’s ability to formulate new science and new killing strategies on the fly. Shit, had Naomi connected Stealy to the merged creature’s cabbalistic magic as well? Or was this more of Stealy’s own stealy magic kicking in, with its innate ability to attune to the most precious treasure inside any vault—even the vault of the human body?

  If only the monster would stand still long enough….

  The earth magic that Stealy had access to through Player…. Crystal was growing up around Soren, like the roots of a tree, imprisoning him. The crystal prison was made of solid diamond. Still, she doubted it would hold him long. She had to strike now.

  She jabbed the tip of her “magic wand” keeping her well out of arm’s reach of the monster, sending the nanites Stealy just converted back into him.

  The monster screamed, started to lose integrity, even as it writhed free of the constraints, shattering the diamond casing, and then disappeared.

  Had that thing been just a thought projection all along? No, Soren had learned to be in multiple places at once. He was also still inside that tank. Shiiiit! The way he and the monster, fused together like that, had of understanding the truth of a situation instantly—fuck me; what a weapon that was in and of itself. The two together could advance magic and science both now on the fly—which was the only thing that had saved Soren from the tip of her wand. A part of her must have known that, right? Which is why she did what she did? Sure, Stealy, you just keep telling yourself that. After all, this is supposed to be a character-building exercise for you. God help you if you’re turning into even more of a deceiver than you are now.

  Player joined her at her side, finally, protected by a column of wind he kept about him. “Took you long enough.”

  “I was coming up with a plan of attack.”

  “Say no more. Brainiac that you are, surprised you’re still not in the tent.”

  “I’ll have you know I can laugh off a crack like that now, without having to blow you to hell and back. That shows real character growth, I think.”

  “So, I guess I’ll have to take a rain check on you not running out on me.”

  “Who do you think was supplying you with all the elemental magic? Once I realized we were psychically connected by way of Naomi….”

  “Huh. I thought that stuff was all running on autopilot.”

  “Yeah, right. I honestly wouldn’t be able to do that without being psychically linked with you to know what you needed when….” He nodded, realizing. “Naomi. I guess we’re both right in our interpretations.”

  Stealy retracted the cane that had gone limp in her hands. Accepting its new role as a whip, she coiled the nano-leather in her hands and hung it off her belt. “Think we should report back to the others what we’ve learned?”

  “Why? If Naomi is connected to us psychically, she already knows everything we do. I suggest we use our time to take our game up a level. Something tells me you don’t get to fend off the beast with the same tricks a second time.”

  “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said yet.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  The pig’s squealing was driving Natura out of her mind. She ran in the direction of the outcries, but sounds could be tricky, depending on what surfaces they’d bounced off of en route to her ears. When she finally caught up with the animal it was surrounded by humans with pitchforks and lances and sneers on their faces. And they were getting ready for the strike that would end all the animal’s outcries in one crescendoing note.

  Natura extended her fingers, extruding the nanites that Soren had gifted her with for occasions like this. They beat their tiny wings and burrowed their way into the pig like so many carpenter bees.

  And then, the pig said to the ones threatening it, “I’ll make you a deal.”

  “Did that pig just talk?” the man holding the pitchfork asked, stabbing the air as if still trying to keep the truth away from him with it.

  “We’re so hungry, we’re hallucinating,” the man with the lance he must have raided some museum for said. He rotated the spear in his hands in case perhaps the corckscrewing actions of the tip could burst the bubble of the illusion.

  “At least it’s not taking out its ass, which is more than I can say for you,” the one holding a fire poker said, standing toward the rear end of the pig.

  “Well you four brainiacs quiet yourselves long enough so I can figure how to roust you up some food?” the pig commanded. “This operation definitely needs someone to mastermind things, and it sure as hell ain’t any of you.”

  “Shit, it really does talk,” the pitchfork wielder said, chuckling with anxiety; the laughter was more like a pressure-relief valve venting his fears over his own sanity.

  “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” the pig instructed. “You, with the lance and the pie pan face…”

  “Hey!” Pie Pan squawked.

  The others laughed. “It’s true, friend, been meaning to ask you how long it was baking in that oven before someone took it out.”

  “You any good with that lance?” the pig asked, ignoring the ad lib.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Think you can hit a werewolf with it?”

  “No way!”

  “Not when it’s on the move, you idiot,” the pig snorted, “when it’s morphing into wolf form.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Good, because I can smell them when they’re gonna change. And that guy up the alley, he’s gonna change any minute.”

  “Hey, I ain’t killing any guy.”

  “Look, genius,” the pig said with a sigh, “God, this is like teaching remedial English—the less werewolves around, the better any of your chances of not getting eaten. Get it, or not yet?”

  The pig took a couple deep breaths. “Wait till I tell ya. You don’t want to throw too soon, as you want him in wolf form. More meat that way, and it’ll be supercharged with energy. You can get yourselves good and drunk on the hormones at the same time.”

  The three humans in the circle about the pig nodded; the idea seemed to go over well with all of them from Natura’s perch in the distance, even if she was having trouble making out their expression
s.

  The square-jawed, muscular human with the thick black moustache and sideburns and shaved face whose stubble was erupting just minutes after being shaved—Natura could smell the shaving cream on him—started morphing, giving only a cursory glance back the foursome’s direction, but they were covered in shade by this point and standing fairly still. Lancer readied himself with the lance. “Wait,” the pig whispered. “Wait. Now!”

  The spear caught the guy the second he changed—turning back to the group as he took his first leap in their direction—lodging right between the eyes. The werewolf dropped like a stone.

  The three forgot about the pig, running after the werewolf and lowering their larger weapons to pull out their knives. The pig caught up with them. “Not here, you idiots, where everyone can see and fight you for the harvest. Let’s drag the body out of sight.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Pitchfork Guy said.

  “Glad you agree, porcupine face,” the pig said.

  The others laughed. The guy did have sharply bristled hair on his chin, up his sideburns, and on his head. About an inch long.

  The strongest of the lot managed to lift the werewolf singlehandedly, while the others cleared the way for him, one opening the nearest door, and the other running up ahead to make sure the coast was clear. The one to make it to the top first yelled down. “This is perfect. Abandoned weeks ago.”

  “Alright, hatchet jaw, you’re not going to get a better invitation than that,” the pig said. Even the one holding the werewolf, to which he was referring, had to smile at that one. He had to squeeze his body—wider than the doorway—in sideways, after tossing the werewolf up the stairs just so—in order to get it to fit through. Once inside the stairwell, where he had more room to navigate, he picked the wolf up, throwing it over his shoulder and taking the stairs two at a time.

  Once the pig was in the upstairs flat, looking out the window, he said, “Oh, yeah, this is perfect. I can see a big chunk of the city from here. That’ll make plotting and scheming so much easier.”

  “You already working on our next meal?” Square Jaw said, dropping the wolf on the floor.

  “Better that than have you eying me up, drooling. Besides, you think you can eat… which reminds me, don’t go getting any ideas about hogging that wolf to yourselves. I get a fair share from now on.”

  The men looked at one another, made conciliatory faces, and nodded. “Yeah, that works.”

  ***

  Slinking away from the scene with the pig, Natura felt more enervated than ever. It wasn’t so much that saving the pig’s life had drained her; it was not knowing if she should have used her magic on him. Usually she did a mind-meld with the creature first, holding on to the sides of its head, getting a sense of it, to know just how to infuse the creature with her magic. That pig might well have needed a personality makeover to go with his new talking abilities. Hence, she couldn’t be sure if she’d done the right thing. It was the worrying sapping her energy now, more than the cold, more than depleting her body of nanites. But she wouldn’t be in a position to be sure about every animal. And so long as they were her priority….

  Whether or not she had the right to always come down on the side of the animals…. It had always been something she’d taken for granted before. But now, forced to consider that she might be wrong to think that way…. It was a burden she wasn’t sure she was ready to take on, or a truth she was ready to face.

  Mercifully, the down and dirty job of saving the planet and Soren would leave little time for reflection and the guilt that came with it. Maybe when the dust settled…. She had to hope when she got the chance to circle back around, to consider what additional parenting and nurturing was needed with her uplifted animals, there wouldn’t be too much damage to undo. And if there was… There’d be plenty of time for remorse then.

  Not that the guilt wasn’t costing her now, on some level. Enervated like this, there was no feeding the world with her nature magic now. The best she could do was keep elevating the animals like the pig to assist the humans in their trying times.

  ***

  It had been a while since the pig had met up with his four human amigos. In that time, he’d grown quite a lot. He knew that the thought of killing him had to be gaining favor with the group, despite having proven himself time and again as the breadwinner of the band. The fact was, though, he did have an insatiable appetite, and they were getting tired being a slave to it, even if it meant they ate steadier on account of him. Slaughtering him, on the other hand, could provide them with food for months without having to lift a finger hunting for more. Even these dunderheads could figure out how to salt and cure meat to stretch every morsel.

  It had gotten quiet in the room. Too quiet. It usually signaled when they were eying one another and then the pig and daring one or the other to make a move. It had gone on long enough that the pig figured it was time to intercede. He shook his head. “Don’t do it. I know what you’re thinking, but like I said, I’m the brains of this outfit. What you gonna do after you cut off the head? How long do you plan to last then?”

  The rhetoric didn’t work this time. It had worked the last ten times or so. But he knew this day would come, when no amount of salesmanship was going to keep him out of the stewpot. That’s why he’d booby-trapped the place so the instant the four of them jumped him at once, the extra weight would trigger the floor to collapse. Right on cue, they fell through to the second story below. The one the fall didn’t knock out—the really big one—the bricks from the ceiling above finished off.

  Later when the humans came to, the big one, after doing a headcount and arriving at three—the pig was surprised he could count that high—said, “Hey, what happened to Pie Face?”

  “I ate him,” said the pig. “Actions have consequences. Now, the next time one of you tries a stunt like this, just remember the last time you got too full of yourselves. Now you ready to hear the new plan or not?”

  “Yes, sir,” the big one said. The other one, wiping back tears, nodded after taking a second.

  ***

  THE DAY BEFORE…

  “You know this doesn’t end well, right?” Lar gazed at the plank of wood connecting the rooftop he was on with the one next to it. He crossed it like a tightrope walker crosses a tightrope—with both hands out, holding a balance beam—though the plank of wood he was walking was nearly as wide as a sidewalk. Captain Klutz was not going to strike again.

  He made it across the plank and took a few steps back as he marveled at what he’d accomplished, raising the pole in one hand high in the air triumphantly. That’s when he fell through the hole in the roof of the building he was now on, the pole catching to suspend him to his relief. Then he stared at his hands losing their grip and grimaced.

  He fell hard. Was there any other way to fall from a roof? But the dirt and hay on the floor helped to keep his hip from fracturing if it did nothing to bolster his ego. “Nice going, Captain Klutz!” he mumbled, picking himself off the floor and scraping his pants of straw.

  He looked up and around at the terrified faces. The warehouse was packed with illegals—people who knew they shouldn’t be there but were just trying to escape the cold, hoping the landlord stayed away long enough for the wintery spell to wear off. The only thing more noticeable than the terror on their faces was the famine on their bodies. Hunger didn’t wear well on people—though he’d never done a meticulous survey on the subject until now. The local citizens were huddled together for warmth, but that was proving a weak shield against this kind of bitter cold. Some of the teeth chattering registered like rats gnawing on wood. The sneezing and wheezing sounds registered more like orchestral accompaniment to the main voice of the howling winds outside keening through the cracks in the barn.

  Without realizing, he was already mumbling words of power. Food started manifesting—loaves of bread, dried, cooked meats, fresh fruit, vegetables. The gasps of relief and cries and outright screams of excitement were immediate. The magic should hav
e terrified them more. This was Shelley’s London; magic wasn’t much of a thing here, unless you were talking shapeshifter magic or Dr. Frankenstein’s fringe science which appeared to a lot of locals to be pure magic.

  But the food kept coming and coming and Lar couldn’t shut it down. He figured if he stopped mumbling, that might work. It did, but not in time to keep the multiplying food in the warehouse from pinning everyone where they were, eliminating any chance of movement. “Nice one, Lar. Smooth as always.” Strangely, no one was complaining. Everyone seemed content to eat a path clear to their comrades if need be. And they were looking at one another more now like comrades in arms and less like dinner.

  Maybe Captain Klutz isn’t such a loser after all, Lar. If it weren’t for him, you’d never have found these people and you did come out to help people. That was the assignment. When not helping Soren, you’re to act as he would if he were his right self. Mission accomplished for today, I’d say. Now, how the hell do you get out of here without having to put on six hundred pounds of heft to tunnel your way to the front door?

  ***

  PRESENT TIME…

  The glove had a magic kind of sticky fingers. Some collectors had learned to protect their priceless artifacts from Stealy and people like her with a way of getting past most every warding magic and security tech both. Hence the glove. But she’d never used it before. Still, she couldn’t think of a better opportunity than right now.

  She’d throttled down the bike to a mere idle; it purred like a kitten in these howling winds, especially from this kind of distance on her mark. The werewolf was surrounded by the people cowering in fear, or perhaps they were too enervated by hunger to put up much of a fight, and to even bother to run. The wolf was turning about on himself in the circle, as if sampling from the buffet before selecting which human to lunge for first. Perhaps sniffing out the most delectable among them.