Awen Storm Page 13

  “I’m named after my totem. You call him Corr the Crane, but his Iroquois name is Khenko. Spelled with a capital kay-aitch-ee. Not kay-aye, like the office store.”

  “Ahh,” she breathed. “My given name is Emily. Emily Hester. Or so I’ve recently learned.”

  “Well,” Khenko chuckled. “Nice to meet you, Emily Hester.” His gaze traveled to the hand he knew was ringless. “Are you married?” The corners of her eyes crinkled. “No?” He smiled uneasily. He was experiencing an odd attraction to the redhead. “Dating?”

  Emily recoiled, if only slightly.

  “Okay, okay,” Khenko chuckled. “Sorry, I got carried away.”

  “Could you tell me where I am?” She looked past him toward the window. “I was in a cave. And there was a…” Her brows knit, then her cute, uptilted nose scrunched.

  “What? There was a what?” Did she remember the dragon?

  But his patient changed the subject. “Why were you asking me all those things?”

  He decided to let it go for the moment. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually into women. I need a cup of coffee. Let’s start again. You’ve been in a coma. How do you feel, Emily Hester?”

  She stretched beneath the covers, groaning in stretch-ese. Slowly, she moved her hips and shoulders and neck as if trying them out for the first time. “I’m stiff. Sore. A bit lightheaded. And my bladder is about to explode. Is there a bathroom?”

  “Of course. I’ll help you.”

  Khenko lifted Emily out of bed and steadied her. She took a halting step, leaning heavily on him. After a couple more, he wrapped her arm around his waist and half-carried her to the bathroom.

  Soon, the toilet flushed and water ran in the sink. The door opened. Emily stood, holding onto the doorknob. Her quick smile flashed and his heart went kaboom.

  “Hungry?” He held his hand out to her.

  “Famished.” She let him help her to the kitchen where the smell of fresh-brewed coffee greeted them. He steadied her while she lowered to a chair, then pushed it to the table.

  “I’m afraid there’s not much. I missed market-day waiting for you at the blue hole.” The auburn eyebrows raised, but he didn’t bother explaining. “I have oranges, pineapple, apples.” He gathered the ingredients. “How about a smoothie? It’s nutritious and easy to digest. Especially after not eating for a couple of days.”

  “Mmm.” Her eyes brightened. “Do you have coconut?”

  Khenko grabbed a fresh carton of coconut milk and the jar of coconut butter. Ladling each ingredient into the blender, he added spinach and several tablespoons of hemp seeds. Blending it to liquid, he handed Emily the tumbler, wondering how much she remembered.

  Agartha

  Upon arrival in Agartha, Ishkur’s contingent was delayed. Ishkur was whisked to the base expecting to be presented with the human Shibboleth had questioned the night before. He clicked down a polished corridor, flanked by the warlord’s troops.

  Unbeknownst to him, a decree had been issued the day before. Officials previously under Nergal’s command must be accompanied by Shibboleth’s guard. Ishkur’s blood boiled at this latest travesty. He turned a sharp corner, and one of them clipped him from behind.

  Striking instinctively, Ishkur slashed the idiot’s chest. Not deep enough to be deadly, but severe enough to put him out of commission for a few days, and to teach them all a lesson.

  Feeling better having exerted his power, Ishkur signaled the guards to tend to the Draco. Which left fewer tagging along behind Ishkur. He stood tall as he swept into the Agarthan command center, identical to the one in Xibalba IX. The major who’d been responsible for capturing the young male saluted Ishkur, as did the others in the room.

  Hungover and fifty thousand credits poorer after a night in the game car, Ishkur was not in the mood for pleasantries. “Bring the prisoner to me.”

  The major nodded to his vice-major. The smaller Draco saluted and left the room. The remaining guards continued to stand at attention, staring straight ahead. Ishkur signaled them to stand down. The guards remained at attention.

  Not bothering to hide his displeasure, Ishkur turned his back to access his handheld. He skimmed through the meager information on the prisoner. The boy’s father was listed as a missing person, the mother as a journalist somewhere in Europe. The boy currently resided with an uncle who had been injured in the earthquake. Ishkur studied the photographs, noting the familial resemblance.

  A buzzer sounded and he looked up from his handheld. The major roared and bolted from the command center. Ishkur followed. He would not be duped, nor allow Shibboleth’s goons to hide whatever mess they made. He would see for himself.

  The guards streamed behind Ishkur as he followed the Agarthan major down one corridor and then another. When the major hopped a chute, Ishkur entered too, and they whisked to a dark, dank part of the compound—the place reserved for prisoners and slaves.

  Without waiting for his entourage, Ishkur followed the major through the torturous turns until they stepped into an open area where pandemonium reigned.

  “What’s going on?” Ishkur roared. The Dracos ran about like disturbed ants. “Silence!” he bellowed. That got their attention.

  They lined up in formation behind their major. Fear and consternation oozed from the lot. From the looks on their faces, Ishkur could tell they had lost the boy. They remained silent, save for the shuffling of feet.

  “Explain!” he commanded.

  His escort arrived and piled into the quad behind Ishkur, fanning out in pecking order. The least of the Dracos were closest to him. He had gotten their attention. When the commotion died down, Shibboleth’s vice-major stepped forward.

  “The prisoner was held in this cell.” He gestured to a small opening. “But when I came to collect him, he was gone.”

  Ishkur roared. “Of all the incompetent, idiotic things you could say to me, ‘he’s gone’ is not the one I would hear. How, in the name of Enki, is that possible? This place is supposed to be an impenetrable fortress. Is it not?”

  The Dracos’ heads hung low.

  “Sir, if I may,” the major began and waited for permission to speak. Ishkur nodded.

  “This has never happened before. I have dispatched my troops to search high and low. There is no other opening in the cell, except the one through which the water flows. At only a few centimeters, unless the human can change into a mouse, there could be no escape.”

  Ishkur sneered. It was ludicrous to think a human could shapeshift, though there were accounts in their history texts. For a child to be accomplished at such a feat was farfetched.

  “Are you certain he is not hiding?” Ishkur stepped inside the cell. The contingent crowded behind him, trying to fit through the door all at once.

  “Stand back!” he barked, shoving the closest guards.

  They left the cell, and Ishkur and the major searched for crevices, footprints, and holes, anything that might give a clue as to the boy’s whereabouts. With one clawed foot, Ishkur felt along the floor line where the water rushed but found no outlet.

  Knowing he would be blamed for losing the prisoner, Ishkur turned on one heel and stomped from the cell. Shibboleth’s arrogant guards lounged in the outer area, poking fun at Nergal’s lax security. Livid, Ishkur tore into the chamber.

  Using claws, teeth, and tail, Ishkur ripped open bellies, throats, and faces, until all that was left in the quad besides Ishkur, were entrails and bloody remains. Satisfied for the first time since Shibboleth’s arrival in Xibalba IX, Ishkur licked his antagonists’ gore from his claws and exited the dungeons.

  He hopped the chute back to the command center and strode to the console. Calling up the schematics for the dungeon and compounds, he combed through them searching for a weakness or escape point.

  “Impenetrable, my ass,” Ishkur muttered. “This is not good. If Agartha is vulnerable, then the other strongholds of UnderEarth are, too. If a human child can find its way out, then others can get in.”

&
nbsp; And that was much worse than losing a human, one that would probably die of starvation, or burn alive in the magma coursing unchecked through the maze of tunnels surrounding the base.

  Alone in the command center, Ishkur unclipped his hip flask and took a generous swig, glad to be shed of Shibboleth’s imbeciles. Their disrespect was infuriating. He settled in front of the console and relayed a message to the warlord about the prisoner’s escape, demanding Shibboleth’s guards be held accountable.

  He eyed the computer curiously. The sophisticated system should have flagged any suspicious activity. He entered a command to begin a new search of the entire Agarthan stronghold. The program began running, and he paced the hall, mind racing.

  If the computer yielded no information about the prisoner’s whereabouts, Ishkur would send his own Dracos to search the compound. Assuming they ever arrived.

  Azi’s Secret

  Azi hung his vest and belt on a hook in his assigned quarters. The suite was large enough to accommodate a family, though Azi had no partner or offspring. He’d been intent on science and electronics, not consorting with females or engaging in the endless drills of brute strength the other Dracos enjoyed.

  They had picked on Azi mercilessly. His brain and head were larger than most Dracos. That and his diminutive stature made Azi a target. His intellect and don’t-give-a-damn attitude infuriated them further.

  A natural scientist, Azi was happiest exploring and pushing the boundaries of the already-vast Reptilian knowledge base. In electronics, he had recently pioneered a self-actualized chute system, the technology of which was being applied to other areas with great success.

  Ideas like that just came to Azi. Usually when he was able to daydream, or as he liked to call it, lollygag. As a result, the credits had accumulated so quickly he had ceased peeking at his rising balance. He was a simple Draco, with simple tastes. All that capital in his account made him nervous.

  He devoured a meal of leftover Ecthelion stored in the cooler, then slipped outside to explore the nearby forest.

  The compound was deserted. Most of Nergal’s personnel had been slain by Shibboleth. Wasteful, considering the Dracos’ ranks were severely depleted. They’d never rebounded from the proton wave directed at them by the Procyon System last century. But Shibboleth had no heart. No mercy. No soul matrix.

  Unfortunately, Azi did. Souls were even more abominable to Dracos than small stature. Should Shibboleth or his minions discover his secret, Azi would likely be executed. Reptilians with souls didn’t live long in UnderEarth. The no-souls found them too human-like to stomach. So, Azi concealed his inner softness.

  A Fomorian scuttled by, head down. Azi thought of its kin, lying supine on the onyx bench plugged into a human host. His heart panged. Did the creature have a family? Did it feel pain? He was pretty sure it did.

  He followed the narrow footpath in the failing light and soon arrived at the watering hole he had seen on the map. The only occupant was an aging Draco from Nergal’s command, a survivor of Shibboleth’s wrath. The old-timer exited the hole quickly for one so ancient. He struck his chest in a sign of respect, then hobbled toward the base.

  Azi slid into the pool feet-first. He submerged his body and swished water in his mouth and through his teeth. Surfacing, he spat it in an arcing stream and rolled to his back. He floated on the surface and stared at the outline of dark clouds unfurling against the inky sky.

  Surely there was a better way to breach the worlds. For thousands of years, the Reptilians and other aliens had been relegated to UnderEarth. For those without developed brains, and some with, that was enough. UnderEarth was beautiful in its own right.

  But there were no real stars in the night sky. Only pretend ones. And endless darkness. Expelling the air from his lungs, Azi sank beneath the water, eyes open. Sparkles of lamplight glittered on the surface—like twinkling stars.

  The memory of celestial lights plagued Azi. His soul yearned to see them again. He wanted, needed, craved, more. Hence the inner void from which the new inventions and discoveries poured.

  Surfacing, Azi hefted his form onto the edge and sat with his legs dangling in the pond. He stayed that way a long time, watching the diamond-stars dance upon the ripples created by his paddling feet.

  Scratching an Itch

  Shalane dug in the drawer for the pain meds. She hadn’t needed them in quite a while, but after the odd visit from Mitch Wainwright, her eye socket raged. Tossing two of the pills on the back of her throat, she swallowed them with her last sip of beer and lobbed the empty bottle at the trash.

  She missed by a good foot. Shalane ignored it and fished another from the fridge, guzzled half, and belched loudly.

  What had possessed her? Why had she invited the attorney here?

  His sexy voice. That was why. Just hearing it on the phone made her orgasm. That’s why she’d invited him. But she was also curious about Emily Hester, aka Ebby Panera.

  Shalane settled on the loveseat, sipping beer and letting her mind wander. It didn’t go far. The headache made sure of that. She wished she hadn’t canceled her appointment at Emory. But she’d had cat scans, pet scans, MRIs, and other tests with elaborate names. All showed her brain was fine.

  When the headache lessened to a dull ache, Shalane’s restlessness returned. She had given her assistant the night off, and Cecil and the crew knew she’d be indisposed. She had not expected the attorney to go cold. She would have to find another way to take the edge off. Someone else to fuck. But first things first.

  Opening her tablet, Shalane scanned backward through her calendar, searching for references to Emily Hester or Ebby Panera. There was nothing for the last year, but when she accessed the calendar for 2040, there it was—Ebby Panera. The woman had taken a meditation class and then several private lessons.

  She searched the web for Ebby Panera and waded through several pages of sites claiming to provide the dirty on individuals. For a price, of course. Shalane combed through them for valid links. On page seven, she found a reference to one Ebby Panera employed by the U. S. Disaster Recovery Agency out of Los Angeles, California.

  Adding that information to her keyword search, Shalane found a newspaper article about a cyclone in Malaysia that had killed a man named Trey Serra. Ebby Panera’s fiancé. In the photograph, Ebby was wrapped in a silver emergency blanket and huddled in the middle of several people.

  The woman was attractive and Shalane’s junior by a good ten years. She had straight, blond hair that clung to her face. A face Shalane remembered. If only she could bring back the rest.

  She accessed the picture of Emily Hester. The face was the same, thinner maybe. But the hair was different, curly and a shocking shade of red. Shalane would remember that hair, wouldn’t she? Refilling the pipe, she took a hit hoping it would fill the hole in her gut.

  But nothing was helping. Not tonight. She retrieved her phone and called Patty. It went straight to voice mail; Patty’s brother’s wedding was today. Her call to Cecil went to voice mail, too. Shalane hung up without leaving a message.

  Sad, lonely, and deeply dejected, Shalane changed into street clothes, gathered her things and called a security guard to escort her to the tour bus. She removed leftover curry from the refrigerator, popped it in the microwave, and took the meal to her room.

  Thirty minutes later, she was out the door—restless, irritable, and discontent—and seeking a cure. For her, that meant loud music, strong liquor, and wild, wanton sex. She strolled the sidewalk, oblivious to the cars.

  It was after eleven, and Atlanta’s nightlife was going strong. Shalane passed in front of the Fox Theater, surprised to see people still leaving the show. They threaded through a rope line, behind which police held the protesters. She was in full disguise and kept her eyes trained on the sidewalk. It was part of the game. And she wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation.

  Past the theater, she spied a late-night coffee shop. Next to that, a Vietnamese restaurant. Both were full, and neithe
r offered what she needed tonight. At the corner, she surveyed her options. On one side the Georgian Hotel advertised two separate bars. Catty-corner to that was the Emory-affiliated hospital.

  No. And, hell no.

  She turned right and gazed up at the Fox Theater’s soaring parapets. Built more than a hundred years ago in 1929, its Arabic architecture and Yaarab influence were legendary. Shalane had been excited about bringing her tour here, despite the protesters.

  Further down, a blues band played, drawing Shalane’s attention. Patrons spilled onto the sidewalk from an old-fashioned honky-tonk directly below the theater. Jostling her way through the crowd, she batted her eyes and rubbed her boobs on men and women, ignoring the glares from their partners.

  Shalane eyed the couples gyrating on the dance floor, and sidled up to the bar.

  “What ya drinking?” the red-faced bartender growled.

  “Johnny Walker Black. Neat,” she said, then wondered why. She abhorred straight bourbon. He poured and set the drink in front of her, along with the check. A masculine hand reached in and snatched the glass.

  Shalane rounded on the asshole and found herself staring into the steel blue eyes of Mitchell Wainwright.

  “Hi, doll. You look different. Thanks for the drink.” He lifted it in salute.

  She raked him with a withering glare and signaled to the barkeep. This time she ordered her usual scotch. Mitch grinned from the barstool and guzzled her bourbon.

  The bartender returned and Wainwright placed the empty glass and a fifty-dollar bill beside the scotch. In spite of her annoyance, Shalane found the brazen attorney refreshing. Most men, not counting Cecil and her manager, kowtowed to Shalane’s every whim. She loved to be pampered, but sometimes it was nice to be a normal person.

  She nodded a reluctant thanks and turned to watch the band. The guitarist humped his Stratocaster in a rousing rendition of “Superstitious”. Dancers ground against one another in a time-honored ritual.

  Compared to Mitchell, she found the other men lacking. She wasn’t all that impressed by the women either. Shalane downed her drink and signaled the bartender. Mitch slid off the stool.