The Shroud of A'Ranka (Brimstone Network Trilogy) (13 page)

Sitting outside, atop one of the Ravenschild castle towers, she attempted to focus, trying to quiet the wildness of the beast that threatened to take control.

She wanted to leave a note for her parents, just in case something should happen to her while away on this latest mission. But the pen felt awkward in her grip. With a rumbling growl she started to break the pen, then managed to stop herself, pulling hard on the reins of her anger. She threw the pen to the floor next to her notebook.

She brought her fingers to her throat, gently probing at
the two punctures on the flesh beneath the thick coat of fur. The wounds throbbed with the excited racing of her heart. If there was a chance she could stop this, that she could again get the wolf under control, she would take it, no matter the risk.

But before she left on this potentially dangerous mission, Emily wanted to let her parents know how much she loved them and hoped that they could still love her.

Emily saw her parents’ faces again, in the kitchen of their home, fear and disgust in equal measures as they saw what their daughter had become.

She had never seen them look like that before. Sure, they’d been annoyed with her in the past, maybe even a little disappointed when she’d fouled something up around the house, or messed up at school, but most of the time all she’d had to do was look in their eyes and she would know.

Emily would know she was loved. But that was then.

She felt ashamed of what she was.

And with that shame, there was anger. The wolf’s anger.

It wanted to go to them … her parents…. It wanted to show them how angry it was. The bestial thoughts made her want to throw up, and she actually stifled a gag as she
leaned over the edge of the tower and looked down at the roiling ocean below.

She could never hurt them, even if they didn’t love her anymore. But the wolf …

“Emily?” asked a voice behind her.

The wolf reacted, spinning around, lips pulling back in a snarl of complete savagery.

For a moment she didn’t recognize him—the wolf not wanting to bother to recognize him—but she quickly regained control.

“Sorry, Bram,” she said, fighting to keep from losing it.

“Are you all right?” he asked, stepping out onto the tower with her. “You left the meeting so quickly.”

She turned back to the view, back to the restless sea, bony, furred elbows resting on the tower’s sill.

“Does it really matter?” she asked. “Sounds like it’s my only chance to return to normal …” She glanced quickly over her shoulder at him. “For what that’s worth.”

“Believe me, I tried every angle, and this was the only one that made any sense to me,” Bram explained, coming closer. “The only chance we have of stopping Vladek and Gideon and curing your infection is to destroy the vampire’s heart.”

Emily heard the sound of her pen being kicked across the stone floor and turned to see Bram reaching down to pick it and the notebook up.

“Were you going to write something?” he asked.

She nodded. “I was trying, but …” She looked down at her hands, flexing the clawed, dark-skinned fingers. “It’s become sort of difficult.”

He stepped closer. “Do you want me to help?”

The anger flared again and the wolf almost lashed out at the boy, but the girl found herself quite touched by his offer and managed to keep control.

“Would you mind?” she asked him.

“Not at all.” He smiled.

“I’d like to write a letter to my parents.”

Stitch stood before his bed, admiring the arsenal of weapons that were on display there.

“These should do just fine,” he said, his eyes brushing over each of the instruments of battle.

As soon as Bram had informed them all of his plan, Stitch made a mental note to visit the Brimstone facility’s arsenal. His hand, which had once belonged to a high-ranking officer in the Network, had remembered where
it was, and had even recalled the personal combination needed to open the doors.

Almost everything they’d need to wage a war against the forces of evil could be found behind the twelve-inch-thick carabendium steel doors. Over the centuries the Brimstone Network weaponsmiths had spent a great deal of time studying the various supernatural enemies often loosed upon the world, and they had crafted weaponry accordingly.

Stitch picked up a handheld crossbow from the bed, aiming down the length of the weapon. Imagining that a vampire had sprung up from behind the bed’s headboard, he squeezed the trigger, letting fly the wooden shaft.

He grunted, pleased with the result; if there had been a vampire, it wouldn’t have been there anymore, a wooden shaft to the chest reducing the blood-drinker to ashes.

“That section of wall won’t be giving you any more trouble, I hope,” Bram said from the doorway.

Stitch chuckled, setting the weapon down upon the bed.

“Went shopping, I see,” Bram continued as he came to stand beside the patchwork man.

“Everything that the two teams might need,” Stitch replied. “If it’s not here, then it isn’t necessary.”

The boy reached out, picking up a dagger from the bed, admiring how the blade glinted in the fluorescent light from the ceiling.

“That blade has been blessed by four of the holiest men on the planet,” Stitch informed him. “The blessings are like poison to the unclean.”

“Handy.” Bram set the blade back beside four others.

“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” the young leader then asked. He was admiring one of the pistol-style crossbows with its ammunition clip of wooden shafts.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Stitch said. “You’re our leader. Our job is to follow your orders.”

“I need to know. Do you think I’m just sending us off to be killed?”

Stitch smiled. “If I thought you were sending us out to be killed, I would indeed say something, whether or not you’re our leader.”

“So the plan doesn’t stink?”

The patchwork man shook his head. “It’s a plan that your father might have come up with.”

Bram shook his head. “Then why don’t I feel good about all this?”

“I didn’t say the plan was foolproof,” Stitch said. “It is
rife with danger, and there’s just as much of a chance of us failing than succeeding.”

Bram sat down carefully on the corner of the bed. “Doesn’t sound like a very good plan to me.”

“Sad to say, son, but it’s the only one we have.”

They were silent for a while, but Stitch could tell that Bram wanted to say more. Patiently, he took a backpack from the floor and began to load it with supplies.

“Think I might’ve been too hard on Bogey,” Bram finally said.

Stitch smiled some more as he made sure that a flashlight was working. “The Mauthe Dhoog is young, but he thinks he’s old and has seen it all. You were right to be firm with him. If Bogey wants to be a part of the Network, he has to get used to following orders.”

“And Emily?” Bram asked.

Stitch hesitated a moment. She was an important member of the team, but in the state she was in … “I wish we could leave her behind,” he said.

Bram nodded. “She’s really afraid of losing control, but your team needs her.”

“You’re right,” Stitch agreed. He finished loading one of the packs and started on another.

“She could become dangerous,” Bram said, his tone very serious. “Dangerous to you, Bogey, and the mission.”

“I know that.” Stitch placed the second pack on the floor beside the first.

“You should have some sort of a plan,” Bram began.

Stitch reached across the bed for an automatic pistol. He held it before him, ejecting the ammunition clip, then held it out for Bram to see what it was loaded with.

Silver bullets.

“I already do.”

Dez’s legs hurt.

He sat in his wheelchair and carefully stretched them out. The pain was pretty bad.

“I’m not sure I can use the crutches,” he said, reaching down to massage the aching muscles in his thighs.

“You’ll be fine,” his father said cheerily. The man was busily moving around the room, getting ready for their trip to the jungle.

Desmond watched him and tried to imagine life without him. The thought hurt him more than the pain in his legs.

“Sunscreen,” his father said, placing his hands on his hips. “We don’t have any, do we?”

Dez shook his head.

“Maybe we can get Bogey to rift us over to a twenty-four-hour drugstore before we have to leave,” Douglas said, stroking his chin in thought, wiping off the makeup that covered the injuries he’d received on their last mission.

The injuries that would not heal.

Dez knew that Bram was waiting for him to shut off the part of his brain that kept his father with them, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Painfully he pulled his legs back in.

“A hat,” Douglas suddenly said.

“A hat?” Dez questioned.

“You’re going to need one. All we need is to be in the middle of our mission and have you come down with a case of sunstroke. Maybe Bogey could help us with that, too.”

His father went back to rifling through their belongings.

For a moment Dez found himself becoming angry at Bram and the others for entering his life and screwing it all up, but he knew that was just stupid. His life had been pretty much screwed up the moment he had realized that his brain could do things that no one else’s could.

Like keeping his father moving after he died.

Dez tried to remember the man before the heart surgery that had caused his death. He hated to admit it, but his father was a much better person now.

A better father.

“What’s up, sport?” Douglas asked, turning from an open drawer filled with underwear and socks, as if sensing Dez’s quandary.

“I just don’t know if I can do this,” Dez said, thinking of what Bram had told him he must eventually do.

His father came over to him, kneeling beside the wheelchair and throwing a reassuring arm around him.

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” he said, thinking that Dez was talking about their upcoming mission. “If need be, I’ll carry you.”

Dez leaned his head on his father’s shoulder, the strong smell of makeup a cruel reminder of the reality he did not care to face.

LEWIS CAME AWAKE WITH A START, HEAD
pounding as if it were a drum and someone were beating on it with sticks.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom
.

His body twitched violently, and he remembered what had happened.

The plane was crashing. He’d barely had enough time to strap himself into his seat before it went down in the South American jungle.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom
.

His head was throbbing, his heart racing, and he realized that he was upside down inside the fuselage of the plane, held into his seat by his seat belt.

He rubbed the blood and stinging sweat from his eyes and
looked about the cabin. Instantly he was reminded of a roller-coaster ride, screaming passengers raising their arms as they went round and round. But there were no excited screams here, no amusement at all, just dead bodies, drained of their blood, hanging upside down, strapped into their seats.

Lewis fumbled with the buckle at his waist. He had to get out of this flying morgue.

The buckle came loose with a click, and he fell onto what had once been the ceiling but now was the floor. On hands and knees he gazed down the aisle toward the back of the plane. It was missing and he could look out into the thick jungle growth.

He had to be careful, the body of the plane gently swayed from side to side with every one of his movements. All he needed was to move too much, or too fast, and send the whole fuselage crashing down from where it was perched in the treetops. Lewis doubted that his luck would hold out a second time.

Carefully he began to crawl down the length of the plane. It swayed gently with his every move, and the passengers’ dangling hands brushed against his face like jungle vines hanging from trees. He refused to look up at them. All he wanted to do was get out of the plane.

Suddenly, with a moan from the trees upon which it rested, the plane pitched forward and Lewis found himself tumbling toward the jagged opening where the tail used to be. He reached out, grabbing for anything that would stop his fall, managing to take hold of the hand of a dangling corpse, but the dead flesh was slick and his hand slipped through its fingers.

For an instant he was soaring through open space, and then he hit the thick leaves and branches of the trees with bone-jarring stops and starts until he finally landed on the damp, jungle floor.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, afraid to move, afraid that something vital had been broken or punctured on his way down. But finally he gathered his courage and wiggled his fingers and toes, then raised his arms and legs. There was pain, but nothing that he could determine as crippling.

Slowly he climbed to his feet, looking at the dense, tropical forest around him. Up through the trees he could just about make out the body of the plane, and over to his right he could see an engine that had been torn from a wing.

It was a miracle that he had survived, and he immediately wondered if he had been the only one. The jungle was
so dense that it literally blotted out the sun, so if his master had managed to survive the crash he would have been protected from its killing rays. Lewis wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that. A strange kind of bond seemed to be forming between him and the vampire, and he had to wonder if it was more of the blood-drinker’s hypnotic power.

Not having an answer, Lewis started to trudge through the jungle. He had no idea where he was going, but he had to do something. The ground was like a sponge beneath his feet, the years and years of leaves and rotting vegetation making a sort of squishy carpet atop the jungle floor.

“Hello?” he called out as he walked. There was no answer except for the squawk of some exotic jungle life.

Lewis kept on, occasionally finding broken luggage, clothes waving in the humid tropical breeze.

He wasn’t sure why exactly, but eventually he found himself drawn to a particular section of the primordial forest, finally stopping before a curtain of vines. Something told him that he had to get beyond this curtain, a strange urge that he had no real explanation for, except the mental manipulations of the vampire lord Vladek.