Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Science Fiction and Fantasy Novels

by White, Gwynn

  “Here we go,” Hank said. “Time to pull it in.”

  * * *

  Gragos Cairn stood within the protective cocoon of his security detail as the speaking order was finalized. His people had regarded the mayor’s invitation to join him as he addressed the citizens of Meridia from Faust’s Bargain with suspicion, to be sure. They would have precious little time to vet the situation or the gathered crowd, they had warned him, let alone secure the perimeter to their satisfaction. They could not, in short, guarantee their kovar’s safety. But what choice did he have? His people had perished by the dozens this day, and there was nothing to suggest the attacks had stopped. At best, he could hope only for a pause long enough to allow PWD and the mayor’s so-called spectors to bring the perpetrators to justice. If not, he was certain it was only a matter of time until another attack targeted his people’s already diminished numbers.

  Among the three ruling species in Meridia, the gargoyles were the minority. There were any number of reasons for this, though chief among them was that a great many had perished during the Nothnocti Wars. While his kind were fierce warriors, the vampires had come in great waves, crashing upon their lines one after another. And their poison—how it sapped the will and slowed the mind. Even the most hardened and determined of their warriors had little hope of standing against a prolonged assault once that poison had entered their veins. Those who lived were often paralyzed by the toxins; typically, they begged for death, and even those who could no longer speak found a way to communicate their desire for release.

  Another reason for the disparity in their numbers was strictly biological in nature. His kind simply did not feel the same imperative or urgency to reproduce that vampires and humans did. Rarely did gargoyles engage in copulation outside of the breeding seasons, believing that within those short windows lay the most ideal conditions to produce strong, healthy offspring. Indeed, the very idea of spontaneous, nonstop, year-round coupling was distasteful to many within their community, evidence that wights and vampires alike were incapable of controlling their basest urges. His people’s offended sensibilities notwithstanding, there could be no debate that their mating practices were holding back the growth of their community.

  As for the budding triumvirate at work, Gragos was of mixed emotions. While there was no love lost between him and Erastes Ensanguine, he could detect no ulterior motive lurking beneath the strigoi lord’s offer to temporarily join together in service of their mutual interests. The vampires were duplicitous, but there was a certain unabashed honesty to their duplicity that somehow made it more tolerable.

  Then there were the wights, whose duplicity was of an entirely different sort; who, unable to defeat the gargoyles with what their Maker had provided them, turned to weapons of an unholy provenance. Phosphorus rounds were a particularly vile species of projectile, the jacketed, hollow-point rounds among the few powerful enough to pierce gargoyle skin. Worse, the phosphorus ignited once it was inside the body, burning tissue, muscles, and organs alike with no distinction. Even a poorly placed round was often enough to incapacitate; a dozen or more were capable of immolating his kind from the inside out.

  Yet even the phosphorous rounds paled in comparison to the amount of damage that could be wrought by one solar flare. He had seen as much himself, had held his only daughter’s broken, mineralized face in his own hands. The flare’s light had been so bright at its epicenter that it had not only petrified its victims, but scoured them smooth. Many had been rendered unidentifiable through conventional means. Sinnestra had taken the worst of the blast, her once lovely face polished featureless. He hoped to piece her back together, to construct some sort of shrine or monument around the statue she had been made into, but it remained to be seen whether enough of her remains had been recovered.

  And yet, there he stood, preparing to tell the people of Meridia that they were one. Of one mind, one body, one spirit. The truth was much more complicated, of course. The very notion of partnering with such vile monsters turned all but one of his stomachs (the last presently engaged in digesting a large helping of kabash, a delicacy composed largely of human bone marrow), but the necessity was not lost on him. The sentiment was more important than the truth, at least in the short run.

  As for the long run, only time would tell.

  At last, his security detail informed him that they were ready to proceed.

  Ultimately, it was decided that Dolan would speak first. Erastes would follow, as it had been his idea to issue the call for unity. Last but not least, Gragos would remind Meridia’s citizens of the severity of the attacks directed against his people. Their hope was to encourage anyone with information on the attacks to come forward. Whether that proved to be the case remained to be seen, but at this point Gragos was willing to try virtually anything. His presence at the event should have been enough to underscore that in and of itself, but reality often played second fiddle to preconceived notions during periods of great strife.

  Dolan stepped up to the altar of microphones, waving down a small ovation from the wights in attendance. Typically, the mayor started slowly at these events, praising the accomplishments of his administration while undermining his opponents with all the flair and panache of a seasoned orator. With the groundwork lain, he would build to a rollicking crescendo certain to bring the wights to their feet. Not today. Today, he was facing a disparate strata of the citizenry, Meridia at her finest and most unforgiving.

  He spoke only briefly, condemning the attacks and those behind them in no uncertain terms. He praised Erastes and Gragos for demonstrating the spirit of their fine city by coming together in the wake of the attacks, rather than allowing their communities to be further torn apart. Finally, he declared that his administration stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the strigoi and gargoyle communities and would vigorously pursue the apprehension and prosecution of the responsible parties so long as he was still mayor of Meridia.

  A fine speech, all things considered. Gragos allowed himself a measure of cautious optimism. Could the solution to the horrors visited upon their peoples this day really be something so simple as a joint call for peace?

  Dolan stepped away from the microphones, stopping briefly to shake hands with Erastes. The two exchanged a few words, careful to keep their voices pitched low lest they be picked up by the hot mics, then Erastes took his place at the array. He thanked Dolan and Gragos for their willingness to leave the past in the past. The present, he argued, was in all of their hands, and together they could become masters of their own destinies and banish the forces that threatened them from within.

  A brief round of applause ensued. Erastes smiled, drinking it all in, before continuing.

  He was barely halfway through his next sentence when the statue of Adrina Faust exploded behind them.

  The detonation splintered the statue, sending heavy shards of concrete flying in every direction. The audience wasted no time in turning and running pell-mell from the scene even as those seated in the first several rows were pelted with debris and trampled. Erastes, meanwhile, had taken flight out of the blast zone, his stunted wings proving remarkably effective in short bursts. Gragos was about to do the same when, through the cloud of smoke and fury settling over Faust’s Bargain, he spied Dolan flailing about, searching for cover. He must have been blinded by the blast, unable to see the debris hurtling toward him.

  Without thinking, Gragos launched himself forward and tackled Dolan. The mayor yelped and thrashed, unable to grasp his savior’s intentions even as Gragos held him prostrate and wrapped him within the protective shell of his wings. A moment later, the severed head of Adrina Faust’s statue slammed down on his bunkered backside with all the force of a second blast.

  * * *

  Dolan was still walking on air when the statue exploded. Erastes was mid-speech at the microphones, already ramping up to a rhetorical flourish, but Dolan heard not a word, too busy replaying his own speech in his mind’s eye. There he stood, handsome, commanding, unbowe
d by the moment or the weight of its significance. He spoke with authority and sincerity. He was sympathetic to those who were grieving, unapologetic to those who would tear them apart, and emphatic in every phase of his delivery. It was, in short, the most important speech of his political career, and he had risen to the occasion and then some. He was just coming back down to earth once more when the force of the blast rocked him off his heels and ripped the air right out of his lungs.

  That quickly, Dolan was back in the shit, the explosion triggering a flashback so real and visceral that it blocked out his present reality. In that moment, he was suddenly back in the service, his convoy being ripped to shreds by an improvised explosive device. His ears were filled with blaring static, his mouth with hot ash and smoke. Debris and other fine detritus clung to his nostrils and caked his eyes. Distantly, he heard a monstrous shrieking. Then, right on top of them, not distant at all, the sound was drowned out by a furious ringing in his ears. He groped for his sidearm but found nothing. He tried to crawl away from the wreck but was trapped, his foot caught somehow underneath his upturned vehicle. The shrieking was renewed, louder now, filling his ears, forcing out the static and the thundering sound of his own blood, blood he refused to let become a feast for those goddamned things. Nor did he have much desire to become one of their servants.

  One last hope, then: the utility knife clipped to his belt. He found it still attached, unclipped it and opened the blade. He pressed it to his neck where they had shown him all the way back in boot and was about to tap the keg when everything went abruptly black.

  Dolan crashed back to reality hard. He came to in a void, black and stifling. The air in that space was thick and humid, rank with a leathery musk. He coughed and choked, certain he was suffocating on that fetid air. He tried to move his arms and legs, to scramble away, but he was wrapped up tight as if he’d been cocooned. Beyond that strange space were the sounds of chaos. Screaming and shrieking. Conflicting orders being called to and fro. The rumble of dozens if not hundreds of souls in confused retreat. A battle? Its aftermath, perhaps?

  Dolan was just beginning to get a sense of his surroundings when a tremendous force slammed down upon the carapace he was entombed within. For the second time in only minutes his breath was stolen from his lungs and his entire body was slammed flat against the punishing turf. The detonation seemed to have cracked his carapace, or at least shaken it. Slowly, the thing peeled away, unfolding and rearranging itself to reveal…

  “Gragos?”

  Governor Cairn stretched to his full height, growling low and shaking off a coating of debris from his wings. At his feet rested the charred and pitted head of Adrina Faust’s statue, the base of its neck still smoking. As Dolan looked from Gragos to the decapitated statuary and back again, a realization asserted itself with tremendous clarity.

  The kovar of the Gargoyle Gjunta had almost certainly saved his life.

  “Mister Mayor!”

  Cato’s voice rose above the chaos surrounding them, the sound of his hurried footsteps following in quick succession. He was there a moment later, patting down Dolan for wounds before helping him to his feet when no injuries presented themselves. “Are you all right? You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” Dolan confirmed. “I think… I think Kovar Cairn saved me.”

  “I did only what the situation required,” Gragos said.

  “Call it what you will.” With a grateful nod, Dolan looked to Cato. “What the hell happened?”

  “Explosions, a couple of them. You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “I said I’m fine. Where’s Hank?”

  “Said he saw someone suspicious slipping away from the crowd right before the bombing. I told him to go after them.” Cato did a quick sweep of the perimeter to get his bearings before taking Dolan by the arm and leading him from the scene. “We need to get out of here, get you somewhere safe, sir.”

  “Right, good thinking,” Dolan said, still somewhat dazed. He turned to find no sign whatsoever of the Gragos or his security detail. Evidently, they had already gotten their leader to ground. Then Dolan was being led away by what remained of his own security detail, the two of them breaking into a jog as they made their way back to Cato’s roadster.

  * * *

  Hank spotted the bomber even before they triggered the blast, his eagle eyes keen as ever despite his age. Knowing that Cato’s first priority would be to secure Dolan, Hank hadn’t hesitated to sprint after his quarry. The bomber was at a distinct advantage, with several layers of panicking crowd between the two of them, but Hank was dogged in his pursuit. He pushed through the tide of the fleeing crowd and emerged on the other side to follow the bomber across the narrow strip of turf separating the lawn around Adrina Faust’s statue and into the massive outdoor bazaar across the way.

  During that mad dash, Hank caught the attention of three PWD officers working the perimeter. He gestured for them to follow and they fell in line, recognizing him as part of the mayor’s security detail. They kept pace easily as the four of them reached the outskirts of the sprawling bazaar. Hank kept one of the officers for backup and sent the other two several lanes down to cover more ground.

  The bazaar covered the equivalent of several square city blocks. More than a simple market, it teemed with activity regardless of the time of day. All species and strata of Meridia were welcome, with gargoyles, vamps, and wights alike mixing freely among its many tents and kiosks. Even client species like the succubi, who mostly served the strigoi and rarely ventured outside of Tanglereave, could find respite and service within that space. The trick was finding one’s way through the labyrinth-like lanes, a task made all the more difficult by the constantly shifting spots and stalls flanking them. Some likened the bazaar to a living, breathing entity, though in reality the reason for the constant turnover was to make it that much harder for PWD to crack down on counterfeiters and snake oil peddlers. Either way, it made tracking a suspect through the maze of consumption not so much challenging as nearly impossible.

  Not to be deterred, Hank led his posse into the mix. Even with the city under threat of attack and an unprecedented gathering just yards away, the market had been active right up until the moment of the blast. Now it was a virtual ghost town. Items had been scattered to and fro, transactions left half-completed during the sudden exodus. Some merchants and market-goers had taken refuge together at the sound of the explosion, huddling under whatever flimsy protection was offered by the tables and countertops from which business was done. Every few moments one of the merchants would peer out as Hank and his PWD backup moved through the market, only to quickly duck out of sight again.

  The assortment of merchandise on display was dizzying. They passed racks of homespun fashions in all sizes and shapes, and a blacksmith tent offering bespoke melee weapons of varying make and lethality. They passed apothecaries and alchemists offering various tonics, trifles, and trinkets to cure whatever malady ailed you. They passed noodle huts, speakeasy tents, and poorly disguised skooga dens, the distinctive reek of smoke and body odor a dead giveaway.

  Human organs and other cast-off bits in particular seemed to be particularly popular in the darker corners of the bazaar. A small cluster of kiosks boasted everything from the mundane (fingernails and toenails, locks of hair, the occasional petrified turd) to more exotic items (bile ducts, gallbladders, mucous glands, placental tissue)—and that was just the beginning. Most items on offer were dried or preserved, but Hank had little doubt that fresher stock could be acquired—for the right price, of course. Perhaps most disturbingly, the merchants themselves were not just human, but hale and hearty humans, to boot. Wherever they were getting their supply, it certainly wasn’t homegrown.

  For all that Hank observed as he searched, he saw no sign of the bomber. Had they slipped through his fingers? Made it out the other side, into the warren of alleys and throughways connecting Faust’s Bargain to the city proper? Could they have gone to ground like the merchants?
Perhaps even taken a hostage to compel some unlucky person’s silence? Hank’s head spun with the possibilities. Rubbing at his chin, he lifted his gaze to catch a glimpse of himself in one of the polished steel mirrors that many of the merchants hung above their shingles to keep an eye out for shoplifters plying their trade. In the mirror’s dented, pitted surface, he saw not only the frustration on his face, but something even more surprising.

  He saw the reflection of the bomber’s eyes.

  “There!” Hank said, turning on his heel and jabbing a finger at the tent reflected in the mirror.

  A flurry of movement behind the tent’s flap was all the probable cause Hank needed. He stormed across the narrow lane and through the flap a moment later, but he found the tent empty and the opposite canvas wall slashed from top to bottom. “He’s around back! Don’t lose him!”

  The bomber proved faster than he expected, leading Hank and his backup on a breakneck chase through one of the bazaar’s main arteries. There was no more cause for stealth, only the bomber’s desperate desire to escape the bazaar and disappear into the city. That was when Hank’s hustle started to fail him, a stitch in his side suddenly bringing his stride up short.

  “Call for more backup!” Hank shouted to the officers ahead as they outpaced him. “We can’t lose him!”

  The bazaar ended abruptly at a heavy wrought iron fence that surrounded the space allotted to honor Faust’s Bargain. Peering through the neatly spaced bars, Hank could see his PWD backup still giving chase across the highway dividing Faust’s Bargain from the city beyond.

  “Son of a bitch,” he grunted, then reluctantly planted a foot and hoisted himself up onto the bars. His side still burned like hell, but he made it over cleanly on the first try.

  He was about to take off after his backup, just getting his second wind, when a PWD cruiser screeched around the corner and pulled to a stop in front of him.