Shadowstorm (The Storm Chronicles Book 4)

by Skye Knizley

  He pulled a long, thin cigar from his coat, his first in months, and lit it with a wooden match. The tobacco caught easily and he dragged on the end until the tip was an inferno and he saw lights behind his eyes.

  “You smoking again?” Frost asked. “This must be bad.”

  “Church is in there,” Storm said.

  Frost flicked away his cigarette in disgust. “Come on, Mace, not this again.”

  “He’s in there, Frosty. Dead or alive I’m bringing him in. Tonight.”

  Frost rubbed his hair, hair that was lightening to a bright shade of white with every passing day. “Okay. But this is the last time. The last ghost chase.”

  Storm took another puff and nodded. “Bring the ammo Thad made for you. Just in case.”

  “The ones that kill vamps? What do we need those for?” Frost asked.

  Storm gave him a look and he shrugged. A moment later he’d exchanged magazines in his pistol. When he looked ready, Storm crossed the street and tested the gate in front of the building. It was locked with a sturdy chain and padlock. Storm pulled his pistol and fired a single round through the lock. It popped open on impact and he pulled the chain free.

  The gate opened with a loud creaking noise and Storm passed through to the tower entrance. They were wooden doors carved with petroglyphs he wasn’t familiar with and both had bronze faces set in the center. Storm pushed on them and they came open revealing the tower’s inner chamber. To Storm’s surprise it was built like an old medieval tower; it was almost entirely hollow with a staircase rising along the inner wall, broken only by a variety of landings until it reached the top ten stories above the ground.

  “Tell me there’s an elevator,” Frost said.

  “I don’t think so, Chris,” Storm said. “I think we’re hoofing it. Keep your eyes open, Church could be anywhere.”

  “You owe me a case of beer after this,” Frost said.

  The climb was slow going. The steps were made from metal grating that was painted black making them hard to see in the darkness of the tower. They were also slick with some kind of mucus that clung and dripped unpredictably.

  Five minutes later they reached the first landing. It was a wide circular pad made of the same porous metal as the steps. Three oblong wooden boxes had been arranged in the middle along with a variety of antique furniture that made it seem almost homey.

  “This is weird, Mace,” Frost said. “This looks like vamp central, maybe we shouldn’t be here.”

  Storm’s answer was to move across the platform in a silent cross step. Frost swore and followed, his own pistol aimed at the shadows.

  “Pretty pretty mans come into my larder,” a voice screeched. “Sisters will be sorry they missed, but more for me.”

  A creature that could only be called female because of the atrophied breasts that dangled from its chest scuttled into the room on all fours. Lank red blonde hair hung from its nearly bald pate and wickedly curved claws protruded from its fingers and toes.

  “Stay back,” Storm said. “Where is Church?”

  The thing cocked its head and glared with baleful yellow eyes. “Church slave is above, making ready for the Master. But that is not for you. Yours is to be eaten and not question why.”

  “What is she?” Frost asked.

  Storm shook his head. “I’ve no idea.”

  “No one is being eaten,” Frost said. “By the power of the Chicago Police I order you to go back into your box or to the next convenient parallel dimension.”

  Storm looked at him.

  Frost shrugged and said, “I saw it in a movie. It didn’t work for him, either.”

  “Thanks, Frosty, I’m sure that will help.”

  “What are you speaking of, mans?” the thing asked. “Food is talking too much.”

  The creature sprang at Frost, claws extended. It grabbed him by the shoulder and its jaw unhinged like that of a snake. It extended a tongue like appendage and licked Frost’s neck, drawing blood.

  Storm sighted down his pistol’s barrel and he squeezed the trigger. His first shot took the creature’s head off. The second and third punctured its chest and it began to smolder. Frost dropped to his knees next to it, one hand going to his neck.

  “Are you okay, Frosty?” Storm asked.

  Frost began to shake. He looked at Storm with wide eyes. “I feel cold, numb. What’s happening, Mace?”

  “Don’t worry, partner, I’m going to get you out of here.”

  “Not leaving so soon are you, Mr. Storm Or do you prefer Wulf? I believe you used to go by your middle name Beowulf, didn’t you? A fine, strong name. I hear you named your daughter Erszebet. That took guts.”

  Storm turned and spotted Quentin Swales on the stairs. He was an older man, pushing sixty, with hair the color of molten lead and blue eyes that glowed with an eerie light.

  “Church,” Storm said.

  Church bowed. “In the flesh, Mr. Storm. As you can see I am none the worse for wear since our last meeting.”

  “I plan to remedy that,” Storm said.

  Church laughed and stepped onto the platform opposite Storm. “You? Mr. Storm, you don’t even know what I am.”

  “You’re a disease, Church,” Storm said. “A plague. And I’m the cure.”

  He let go of Frost and started shooting, the big pistol bucking in his hands. He watched as the bullets seemingly went through Church’s chest. Church laughed and brushed down his shirt, which was clean as a whistle.

  “Still think you’re the cure?”

  Church extended his hands and long, thin appendages extended from his palms, their jaws snapping. Storm shot one, blowing the pincer into oblivion and he caught the other in his left hand. Church stumbled in surprise and tried to pull his hand free.

  “My turn,” Storm said.

  He started shooting at Church’s immobilized hand and he didn’t stop until the Automag was empty and Church’s arm was nothing but a stump dripping clear ichor and insects. Storm dropped the tentacle he’d been holding and reloaded his pistol.

  “I did my homework, Church,” Storm said. “I may not be able to kill you, but I can hurt you. And I can go on hurting you until you crawl back into whatever hole vomited you into this world.”

  Church took a step forward and Storm shot him in the foot. It exploded into a shower of dead insects and Church squealed in pain, a sound like tortured metal.

  “Wait,” Church said. “You’re a constable, a policeman, you can’t do this!”

  “Not tonight I’m not,” Storm said. “Tonight I’m a father. You threatened my daughter. Twice.”

  Storm fired at Church’s right hand and then his foot, immobilizing him. He then aimed at Church’s head and watched the creature fall to his knees.

  “You scurry back to your master and tell him to stay away from my town and my family.”

  He squeezed the trigger and blew what there was of Church’s head all over the wall. When the smoke cleared all that was left was a large cockroach covered in gelatinous goo. It scuttled away between the gaps in the floor and vanished before he could get off a final shot.

  “Did we win?” Frost asked.

  Storm turned and walked to Frost’s side.

  “No,” he said. “It was a draw. He’ll be back. Come on, let’s get you to the hospital.”

  “Then what?” Frost asked.

  “Then I’m going home to hug my daughter.”

  CHICAGO O’HARE AIRPORT

  PRESENT DAY

  THE STORM CONTINUED UNABATED AND the police radio was repeating a message that the state was shut down due to a snow emergency. Raven couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

  They were nearing the exit when Raven noticed one of the city’s huge airport plows clearing a runway in front of a four-engine cargo plane. The large white aircraft was just starting to move with its rear cargo door still partway open, spilling warm golden light into the stygian dark.

  Aspen had been typing on her tablet. She turned in her
seat and pointed. “There she is! That plane is coming up registered to Black Mast.”

  Raven nodded and swerved, guiding the Jeep down a taxiway at an insane speed.

  “Ray, what are you thinking?” Aspen asked.

  “We have to stop them.”

  “If you’re thinking about trying to cut the off or ram them, forget it. They outweigh us and have the height advantage. They’ll squish us and be in Moline in time for breakfast.”

  “I know. Take the wheel.”

  Aspen shook her head, but slid over to sit in Raven’s lap. Raven squirmed out from behind her and took the passenger’s seat, still watching the plane.

  “It’s stupid,” Aspen said.

  “What is?” Raven asked.

  “Whatever you’re planning. It’s stupid and probably crazy,” Aspen said.

  Raven pulled her hair out of her face and tied it into a ponytail. “Do you have a better idea?”

  Aspen threw her hands up in exasperation. “No. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Think of something that isn’t likely to get you killed!”

  “No time,” Raven said. “Get me close to the back of the plane.”

  “You’re insane!” Aspen yelled. “I’m falling in love with an insane woman!”

  She jerked the wheel and the Jeep roared over a snowbank and onto the runway. In no time at all they were gaining on the cargo plane. Raven rolled her window down and climbed out onto the Jeep’s running board. The bitter wind and biting snow tore through her, but she hung on. A heartbeat later they were next to the cargo door. Raven looked at Aspen through the windshield one more time then turned away and jumped. The Jeep’s momentum carried her through the door where she landed heavily on a mix of hard steel and Kevlar webbing used to secure cargos. She crawled to the top of the ramp and looked into the airplane’s hold. Drakulia’s coffin sat in the middle, secured by a pair of straps. She could also see several smaller crates lashed to the walls, each with customs stickers and each marked with the word ‘valuable’.

  Raven drew her pistol and moved toward the cabin. She knew Bathory was on the plane, she could smell her.

  She was reaching for the cabin hatch when Bathory said, “looking for me, Ravenel?”

  Raven turned, but she wasn’t fast enough. Bathory kicked the pistol out of her hand and swung the short sword she was brandishing. Raven ducked the wild swing and dodged away, trying to put distance between her and the older vampire.

  “I’m going to gut you and bleed you for my husband’s pleasure,” she said.

  “That’s not much of a wedding present,” Raven said. “I bet he’d much prefer a subscription to Sports Illustrated and his own bathroom.”

  “You have a joke for everything, don’t you, Ravenel?” Bathory said.

  “I find it lightens the mood,” Raven quipped. “I think people take their violence too seriously these days.”

  “You will not be laughing when I lace my boots with your intestines.”

  Raven made a face. “You monsters and your stupid ideas. Intestines make lousy bootlaces. You should use my hamstrings.”

  Bathory roared and swung her sword so fast it whistled through the air. Raven dodged the attack and spun, sweeping Bathory’s legs. Bathory jumped and somersaulted over Raven to land between her and Drakulia’s coffin.

  Bathory split her sword into two blades and flourished them. “Perhaps I will have your eyes for earrings.”

  “That’s just gross. Come get them if you can, Countess.”

  Bathory growled and charged. Raven met her head on, ducking the vampire’s swing to come up fighting. The hard edge of her palm caught Bathory in the nose, breaking it and sending the cartilage up into her brain. Bathory staggered away in pain and confusion and Raven took the opportunity to wrest one of the blades from her.

  Bathory recovered with blinding speed and turned to block Raven’s attack, a swing that would have decapitated her.

  “I am not that easy to kill, half-breed.”

  “A girl can hope,” Raven replied.

  Bathory swung again and the battle was rejoined. Raven parried and thrust, finding that Bathory was a more talented duelist than she’d thought.

  “You let me win,” she said after a few moments.

  Bathory smiled showing two sets of fangs. “I thought the good loss and your mother’s pathetic mercy was better than killing you.”

  Raven circled, watching Bathory’s eyes. “My mother thought the same thing about you. Guess you were both wrong.”

  She jumped forward and her boot caught Bathory in the chest. Bathory spun with the impact and her elbow collided with the small of Raven’s back in a mirror image of the move she’d used during their first encounter. Raven felt her legs go numb and she stumbled forward to fall once again onto the cargo door. She rolled over and looked up at Bathory who was now holding her sword like a spear.

  “You lose, Ravenel.”

  Raven heard the roar of an engine and she looked up to see Aspen’s Jeep behind the plane. The little SUV accelerated and rumbled up the ramp. Raven rolled out of the way and covered her head. A second later the Jeep careened into Bathory and sent her flying into the coffin.

  Raven climbed to her feet and felt the sickening lurch of the plane leaving the ground. She looked back to see the snow-covered runway disappearing beneath them.

  Aspen was grinning from ear to ear when she came around the Jeep. “I kept beeping the horn and yelling at you to move.”

  “It’s hard to hear when someone is trying to cut your head off,” Raven replied. “Have you been practicing driving, too?”

  “No, that was all natural Raven-inspired talent,” Aspen laughed.

  She stopped laughing. Bathory’s bloody arm wrapped around her from behind, her blade to Aspen’s throat.

  “I told you, Ravenel, I do not die so easily.”

  Raven raised her hands. “So I’ve noticed, Countess.”

  “Walk to the edge of the door and jump.”

  “Or?”

  “Or I bleed your familiar dry and cut your heart out for my lord,” Bathory said.

  Raven turned and walked toward the ramp. She was partway down when she turned back.

  “I have your word Aspen won’t be hurt?” Raven asked.

  “I have your word she will die better than you, Ravenel. Now jump!” Bathory yelled.

  Raven met Aspen’s eyes.

  Drop your pistol, she thought.

  Aspen’s eyes widened and she pulled the Walther from her belt.

  “Stop squirming!” Bathory ordered.

  “I can’t help it, your breath smells like corpse, ugh, does toothpaste mean anything to you?”

  Aspen dropped the pistol. It slid down her leg and Raven fell to the ground. Bathory yelled in surprise and Aspen squirmed free, giving Raven a clear shot.

  All six bullets hit Bathory in the eye. Bathory’s head began to smolder and then burn with a dark red flame. Bathory screamed in horror and ran toward the ramp, but there was no time. She exploded halfway down, covering both the ramp and Jeep in flaming ash. In seconds nothing but her clawed hand remained. Raven kicked it out the back of the plane and turned to hug Aspen.

  “You did it!” Aspen said. “You sent me a message.”

  Raven smiled. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Aspen let go and smiled back. Then her face fell.

  “Now what do we do? We’re on a plane bound for Denver.”

  Raven hefted the empty Walther. Her hand was bleeding where the slide had taken a bite out of the soft tissue between her thumb and forefinger. “Do you have any more bullets for this thing?”

  Aspen fished in her jacket and pulled out another magazine. “That’s the last mag. What are you going to do?”

  “Commandeer a plane in the name of the United States Government.”

  Raven climbed the steps to the cabin door and pulled it open. A vampire was standing just inside, holding an Mp5 on the pilots. Raven shot him through the bac
k of the skull without saying a word and crouched between the two pilots.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. So far I’m very impressed with your skills. I suggest you exercise a new one and keep your mouths shut about what you saw tonight.”

  The captain looked at her and Raven could see he was taking in her blood soaked tank, ripped jeans and bandaged hands.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Special Agent Raven Storm,” Raven said. “Believe it or not, we’re the good guys.”

  “We didn’t see nothing,” said the other one. “Just some kooky terrorist with a gun.”

  “Good boy,” Raven said.

  She looked out at the blizzard that was coating the plane’s windows in snow. “Do you think you two can find the lake in this mess? I’ve got an idea.”

  TEN MINUTES LATER ASPEN’S JEEP tumbled out of the plane’s cargo door with Drakulia’s coffin in tow. Raven and Aspen stood on the edge and watched both vanish into the center of the lake.

  “I loved that Jeep,” Aspen said.

  Raven looked at her. “You were insured, right?”

  WEST ERIE STREET, CHICAGO

  TWODAYS LATER

  RAVEN STORM HAD DRESSED IN a flowing gown of black satin that left her cleavage bare and showed off the emerald that hung between her breasts on a silver chain. On her feet were a pair of her favorite Louboutin pumps and she held her mother’s antique clutch. It was the only purse she could find that was big enough to hold her repaired Automag and not look ridiculous with her dress. She still didn’t know how Thad had managed to repair the weapon. He’d said something about the pistol’s properties but wouldn’t explain further. Regardless, she was happy to have it back and willing to suffer with the clutch for one night.

  She stood in the lobby of Wildfire, one of the city’s best steakhouses, rocking one ankle back and forth while she waited for Aspen. As if on cue she appeared, a vision in blue satin. Her gown brushed the floor, but was cut high enough to show the tattoos that crawled up her thigh to a point of speculation. She’d piled her lavender hair atop her head, leaving but a single braid to dangle beside her temple. She hurried up to Raven and took her hand.