Awen Storm Page 8

  The red-nailed Draco leaned forward and pressed thin lips to the microphone. “Attention Dracos and support staff. Nergal, your commander, is dead.”

  A murmur went through the hall. Some were getting the news for the first time.

  “SILENCE, measly worms!”

  An uneasy quiet settled upon the room. Ishkur shifted his weight. His left haunch ached, having been injured a few days earlier when a clever Ecthelion got the jump on him. The hung-over Ishkur had overpowered the fierce creature, making a meal of its innards and brains. His stomach growled, reminding him of the carcass still hanging in his berth.

  “I am Maw, right hand to Commander Shibboleth. He is here from World Headquarters in Irkalla, and will address Xibalba IX.”

  The applause was sketchy.

  The malevolent Draco scowled and arched his back. “I repeat, Commander Shibboleth will now address Xibalba IX.”

  This time, an explosion of applause greeted his words. Even Ishkur clapped and stomped his feet. He didn’t want to lose his position, or his life. He had heard that Shibboleth was more ruthless than Nergal. Which was hard to imagine.

  “Silence!”

  The room quieted as the sinister Draco ceded the microphone to Commander Shibboleth. Although shorter and narrower of form than his spokesman, Shibboleth was an impressive specimen. Rumor had it, the commander was over ten thousand years old. He had aged well, looking no more than a few thousand.

  But if the truth be told, the commander wasn’t all that terrifying. Until he opened his mouth, revealing a full complement of the sharpest teeth Ishkur had ever seen.

  “Major, step forward,” Shibboleth barked.

  Ishkur imagined the major’s turmoil as he stepped toward Shibboleth, exposing Ishkur. The warlord held out a claw as if to clasp the major’s. Instead, he yanked him forward and ripped his throat from earhole to earhole. The room exploded in an uproar as Shibboleth raised his bloody hand in victory.

  Shocked, Ishkur suppressed the urge to attack. Dread curdled his gut. He was next in line.

  Sure enough, Shibboleth called on Ishkur. “Vice-major, report.”

  Knees shaking uncharacteristically, Ishkur stepped forward. Shoulders square, he stood before Shibboleth, eyes downcast. It wouldn’t do to let him see his fear.

  When Shibboleth reached out a great, clawed hand, Ishkur hesitated. Then releasing a pent-up breath, he looked into the warlord’s eyes and held out his claw. If it was his time to die, then so be it. Shibboleth grasped Ishkur’s hand and pulled him to the microphone beside him.

  “Ishkur, am I to understand that you are the overseer for the Human Domination project?”

  Not knowing what was happening, Ishkur responded, “Yessir.”

  “Am I also to understand that the idea to link with influential humans was your idea?”

  Ishkur gulped. He was about to die. “No sir, it was General Nergal’s. He tasked me with engineering the program.”

  Shibboleth turned to address the hall. “Let’s give this Draco a hand. Well done, Vice-Major Ishkur.” There was a pattering of applause. Shibboleth muttered to Ishkur, “Fall back in formation.”

  Alarmed, but relieved, Ishkur moved back in line.

  Shibboleth continued. “Fellow Draconians, support staff. It is reported that Nergal was mounting an insurgency to overtake my command.” A hubbub ensued. Shibboleth glared at the offenders until they quieted.

  “An order for his arrest had been issued and a reward offered for his return to Irkalla. Yesterday, we got word that the general is dead. An investigation is underway and you can rest assured those responsible for General Nergal’s death will be dealt with swiftly and without mercy.”

  The applause was thunderous. Ishkur refrained and stood tall, clawed hands behind his back. Good thing, too. All around him, those clapping crumpled to the ground. The thuds of falling bodies filled the room.

  What was this madness?

  Shaking in earnest, Ishkur kept his eyes on the Commander. Shibboleth towered above the room, a sneer twisting his stern countenance. Behind him stood Maw and another, equally-offensive Draco. Shibboleth’s Death Bringers. The rest of Shibboleth’s soldiers fanned out behind them.

  Ishkur knew, without twisting his head to look, that he was one of but a few left standing.

  Shibboleth ordered one of his soldiers to the front. His head was larger and his height nearly half that of most Dracos. Well-developed muscles rippled beneath his scarred vest, and the belt slung low across powerful hips.

  “I present Major Azi,” Shibboleth boomed. “He will take over Vice-Major Ishkur’s duties here in Xibalba IX.”

  Stifling a gasp, Ishkur kept his knees locked and his backbone straight.

  “It will be Azi’s responsibility to ensure the project is operational within one AboveEarth week.”

  Ishkur’s scales prickled and his claws trembled. He clasped them tighter. If Azi was assuming Ishkur’s duty, then what about Ishkur? He needed a drink.

  “Ishkur’s presence is required in Agartha,” the warlord went on. Ishkur’s stomach lurched. “He will lead the investigation into Nergal’s death, supervise the rebuilding of the Agarthan base, and oversee the rescue of any survivors.”

  Ishkur swallowed hard. The warlord might be sparing Ishkur’s life, but he was sentencing him to a sure death in Agartha. Magma still flowed freely through the chute system beneath and around the Agarthan base. Containment had been minimal.

  “Vice-Major,” Shibboleth commanded, “You will take your Dracos and leave today. My onsite contingent will brief you upon arrival. I expect a full report this evening and regular communications thereafter. Dismissed.”

  Ishkur saluted and pivoted to leave. To his dismay, only three other Dracos remained standing. The rest were Fomori, Jahkquadi, and Pindejah.

  Ishkur clicked his heels together, struck his chest in salute, and stepped over the fallen on his way to the door. The other Xibalba IX Dracos followed suit.

  The Package

  The sun was low and after a long day, there was still no sign of the package. Khenko was in Corr’s body staring at the blue hole when a pair of ochre eyes rose from the water. Startled, he leapt into the air and took flight with a sweep of the crane’s thirty-inch wings.

  Circling at a safe distance, he trumpeted loudly when the creature rose from the azure liquid and lumbered to the bank dripping water. Birds and howler monkeys protested noisily and abandoned nearby perches to flee into the jungle. Squawking, he circled once more and settled on the bank.

  The creature ignored him and arranged its bulk in the sand near the jeep. Its neck ended in a tapered head, somewhat like that of a brontosaurus. Only it was brilliantly hued in every color of the rainbow, from its rounded snout to the tip of its powerful-looking tail.

  “Where is the package?” Corr asked without ceremony.

  The dragon blinked its enormous eyes and stared at something behind Corr. He swiveled his long neck. There was nothing there but rocks and jungle. The path leading to the gravel lane was empty as well. Corr turned to the dragon, who polished its jeweled hide and ignored Corr.

  He must have offended it. He’d forgotten how vain dragons were purported to be.

  Bowing low to the ground, he eyed the creature. “Hail mighty one. My name is Corr and I bow to your magnificence.” When the dragon continued ignoring him, Corr added, “I am here to receive a package, a woman possibly wounded and in need of medical attention. I was told she would be here at the Atlantean blue hole. Are you in possession of this package?”

  “Aye,” the dragon rumbled, not bothering to look up.

  Khenko’s annoyance crept into Corr’s raucous cry, “So where is she, then? I’ve been waiting all day.” If the woman wasn’t coming, he would like to go home. He was ready for dinner. And a cocktail. Plus, he needed to answer the email he’d gotten from a group inquiring about a trip to the vortex.

  The dragon rose to its full, impressive height, eyes fixed on Corr. “The druid is
in the caves of the blue hole. She roams the Otherworld teetering between life and death and needs medical attention. I have mended her worst injuries, but have not been able to revive her, Crane.”

  “Can you bring her to me?”

  The dragon shook its head, raining saltwater on Corr and the beach. “I need your help to move her.”

  Corr gazed across the water. So much for Khenko’s evening plans. He morphed into human form and returned to the jeep, where he shimmied into the neoprene one-piece. Strapping the first-aid kit around his waist, he slid a skinning knife in one thigh holster and a water-proof revolver in the other. The stun-gun fit into his pocket beside his ever-present Swiss blade.

  He checked the air gauges before hefting the full tank onto his back and snapped his mask in place. Hoping he had everything, Khenko stepped into his flippers and frog-walked to the dragon, then waited with forced patience until it deigned to look up.

  “Ready?” the dragon asked.

  “Ready,” Khenko replied.

  When the dragon stayed put, Khenko lifted the mask. “Something wrong?”

  The dragon’s head swayed, looking at Khenko from different angles. “Do I know you?”

  Khenko shook his head. “Nope. The last recorded dragon sighting was centuries ago. I’m sure I would remember meeting one.” A sensation ran through him, like molten lava was being poured through a hole in the top of Khenko’s head. It trickled down until his entire body burned like fire. He fought the urge to rip the wetsuit off and looked askance at the dragon. Was this his doing?

  “Hers,” the dragon crooned, startling Khenko. The damn thing could read his thoughts.

  “I have decided. We have met before. But since you don’t remember, I will introduce myself.” The dragon bowed. “I am Talav, Queen of the Earth Dragons.”

  Khenko couldn’t help being impressed. He bowed low. “Khenko Blitherstone, cultural anthropologist and Iroquois medicine man. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Queen Talav. You are the most amazing creature I have ever met. I could never forget you.”

  “My dear,” the dragoness crooned, batting impossibly long lashes. “Keep that up and I’ll make sure you don’t.”

  Khenko grinned and felt his ears grow hot. He seated the mask over his eyes to hide his discomfort. The dragon’s leer told him she hadn’t missed a thing.

  “Ready?”

  Khenko nodded.

  Talav swayed on the edge as if loathe to enter, then plunged head-first into the blue, blue water.

  Mother

  Mitchell backed out of the alley and gunned the motor of the G-Series. Which wasn’t saying much. The energy-saving coupe, unlike Mitch, it was built for economy. Which made running through the gears unsatisfactory. But he was headed to his mother’s and it would tickle her pink.

  Rona Wainwright was a staunch proponent of environmental preservation, much to her conservative husband’s chagrin. While he supported most of her causes, this one he opposed. Such was life with Mitch’s father. Mitchell Wainwright Jr. never let anyone forget he was an important man. Not only as a world-class surgeon and Chief of Trauma at Emory University Hospital but also in the community. And worse, in his own mind. The man was a raving narcissist.

  Pulling into Canongate, his parent’s estate, Mitch parked the tin-can car and hurried up the flagstone walkway to the massive front door. Stilton, the butler his father stole from a neighbor soon after Mitch was born, answered the door and greeted Mitch with fond enthusiasm.

  He left his overcoat with Stilton and found his mother in the kitchen, where a symphony of smells greeted Mitch. Despite an entire kitchen staff, she commandeered it often. Mitch admired that in his mother—her complete refusal to conform to societal mores.

  He spied Rona in front of the double ovens, a combustible package with coifed blond hair, startling blue eyes, and a smile that could melt a zombie’s heart. She fixed it on him, beaming past crinkled red cheeks. Her dimples went deeper than he remembered. When had she started looking older?

  “Ma.” He enveloped her in a gentle bear hug, careful not to squeeze too hard. He didn’t want to rouse the air of sadness that had been her companion of late.

  “Mitch,” she sighed, returning the embrace. She held him at arm’s length and studied his face. “My son, how are you?”

  “I’m okay, Ma,” Mitch lied, careful to keep his emotions hidden. She knew him too well—the only woman who ever had. Of course, she was the only one he’d ever let in.

  She shoveled ingredients into a blender and turned it on, eyeing him over the commotion. When she flicked it off and dumped the soup in a bowl, Mitch swallowed hard and attempted a smile.

  “I took Lugh MacBrayer home from the hospital,” he began, but seeing the stricken look that flickered in her eyes, he paused. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course.” She wiped her hands on her apron and turned to the sink. With her back to him, she asked in a low voice, “How is he, hun?”

  Mitch rounded the chopping-block and put his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Lugh’s fine. He always is. A little bruised and shaken up, but past the worst and well enough to be released from the hospital. Finn says he’ll be okay.”

  Rona ducked under Mitch’s arm and returned to her preparations. Her relief was evident. “That’s good news.” She had always liked Lugh and had encouraged their friendship. She’d grown up and gone to school with Lugh’s mom and dad. “And the others? Lugh’s nephew and the Hester girl? I’ve had the news on, but you know how they are. Half is pure conjecture, the other half lies.”

  Mitch chuckled. His mother was right, as she was about most things. “No, Mom. No news. But Lugh saw them go down.”

  Rona winced and hung her head. “And Jake? Are you still looking for him? He should be told about his son.” Jake MacBrayer had been missing for two years. When the federal investigation ended, Mitch began searching. Unofficially, of course. Jake was a friend. And Mitch could never resist a good puzzle. But none of his feelers had panned out.

  “Yes, nothing so far. It doesn’t look good for Jake’s son or the Hester woman, though. The authorities are still combing the wreckage. But the site is unstable. They’re having to shore it up as they go and it’s taking a lot of time.”

  Her face drew into a sad knot as Rona finished Mitch’s unspoken thought. “And time is something those kids don’t have.”

  “Exactly,” Mitch sniffed.

  Friend or Foe?

  Rumbles echoed through the caverns beneath the dungeon. Brian was wondering if they were aftershocks when the door clicked. The aroma of food had him salivating and rising to attention. When a young woman bustled into the cell pushing a cart, he gaped in wonder. Hallelujah. He wasn’t the only human down here. But why would she work for the lizard-men?

  Her face bore a welcoming smile, to which Brian responded with a quick grimace. Was he hallucinating? No mortal could be that gorgeous. Thick, brown hair flowed to just above her shoulders and framed a triangular face that was impish, yet haunted. A cap sat atop her head at an angle. It matched her blue jumpsuit and the biggest eyes Brian had ever seen.

  He tried to read the gold insignia stitched on her uniform and cap, but the letters were unfamiliar.

  “I have food. And medical care.” Her voice was melodic. And she spoke English. Brian breathed a sigh of relief. He eyed the tray of what he hoped was people-food and a pitcher of water.

  “For me?”

  She nodded and pushed the cart to a bench cut into the wall. Brian trailed in the wake of something that smelled wonderfully like chicken. He hadn’t eaten in at least a day. No wonder his legs felt rubbery.

  At the girl’s urging, Brian slid behind the cart onto the bench. When she removed the cover, he almost croaked. Eyeballs stared up at him from the plate.

  “What is it?” he gagged.

  “It’s better than it looks, I promise.” He eyed it with doubt and she prodded his arm. “Go ahead. Take a bite.” He stared at the dish,
nose wrinkled in disdain. She lifted the fork and handed it to him. “Go ahead. You need your strength.”

  In his head, the druid whispered, “She’s right, kid. Better eat. If and when we get out of here, who knows when we’ll get another meal.”

  Brian hesitated. He loved food, but eating new things was not his bag. Especially gross-looking things.

  “Is dying of hunger? Eat. I’m hungry.”

  Ham had a point. With trepidation, Brian held his hand over the eyeballs so he couldn’t see them, scooped a tiny amount, and put it to his lips. The flavor wasn’t bad and his hunger kicked into overdrive. He took a larger bite, then another and another.

  Finally remembering his manners, he glanced up and caught the girl watching him with fascination. She looked away and a pretty shade of pink crept into her delicate features.

  “Thank you,” he said, and stuffed another forkful in his mouth, mindful of not eating like a barbarian.

  “It’s okay. I know you’re hungry. You probably haven’t eaten in a while. I—” She glanced at a camera he hadn’t noticed.

  He ate another bite and tried to ignore the eyes. Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore. Taking a swig of the water, he burped and grabbed his mouth in dismay. Belching was not the way to impress a girl. And he wouldn’t mind impressing this one. Her stifled giggle warmed his heart.

  “I need to check you for injuries.” All serious again, she put her hand to the wall and a keypad appeared. She tapped a button and a ledge bearing a thin mattress shot from the sheer rock face. She motioned Brian to lie down.

  He eyed the bed, then the girl. Her blue eyes reassured. She took a medical bag from a shelf beneath her cart and opened it.

  “Are you human,” he blurted, unable to contain his curiosity any longer. She shook her head vigorously.

  Disappointed, he reluctantly lowered his frame to the lumpy mattress. The girl leaned down to tape a device to the underside of his wrist. It beeped ever so often and zapped him with tiny electrical shocks that made Brian’s teeth vibrate. He was about to complain when she ripped it off.