Bay of Sighs (22 page)

T
he Andre Malmon who moved into the Degli Dei wasn't the same man who'd adjusted his black tie one fateful evening in London. He was no longer altogether a man.

And he liked it.

He liked the strength and the appetites that grew inside him. He'd even come to enjoy the pain that struck quick and fierce in his spine, as if two vicious hands wrung it like a wet rag.

If he'd developed a taste for blood and flesh, he had the means to indulge it. As he had with the whore he'd killed and drained on his last night in London.

He was becoming. Nerezza had given him this gift, and the promise of eternity and power—once he'd completed his tasks. And he could have and do with the six guardians whatever he liked, once he'd secured the stars.

Then he and Nerezza would rule all the worlds for all time. Together.

He'd considered just what he would do with the guardians. He wanted the compass—that was principle—just as he wanted to kill the annoying yokel who held it. Slowly, of course, and painfully.

He would hunt the inestimable Dr. Gwin, and force her to lead him to her pack. Just the thought of owning a pack of werewolves delighted him. Sell off some of the young, breed more, and have hunts for centuries.

The mermaid he intended to keep for his own. She would make a lovely display. The sorcerer—likely a quick death there. The seer he'd hoped to capture and keep, but they would see, as Nerezza wanted her destroyed.

And the immortal. Ah, once shackled and held, such a creature
would provide decades of entertainment in the torture chamber even now being built for that purpose.

He would never be bored again.

Now, sipping a Bloody Mary mixed as a transforming demon preferred, he gazed out over the sunstruck view from the terrace. As the veins in his arms tended to bulge and pulse, he wore a long-sleeved shirt and dark glasses, as the brilliant sun irritated his eyes.

A small price to pay.

For tonight, Nerezza would come to him, and she would take him places with her body beyond pain, beyond pleasure.

But today, there was work to be done.

“Sir.”

His head turned, several degrees beyond the human, but the servant didn't blink or cringe. One who had, in London, had never been seen again.

“Commander Trake has arrived.”

“I'll see him in my office.” Malmon set the half-empty glass aside, walked away.

The servant allowed himself one small shudder as he picked up the glass to take to the kitchen.

John Trake, fit, forty, fiercely handsome with the curved scar down his rugged right cheek only adding a dangerous appeal, walked briskly into Malmon's office on boots polished to a mirror shine.

He believed in discipline, in order, was quick to mete out punishment to any under his command who failed to maintain his standards.

Killing was simply a by-product of command, and while he also believed, strongly, in profit for work done well, he would—and had—killed for free.

A contract with Malmon inevitably led to profit. For this new work, so elaborate, so far-reaching, so challenging, he'd already banked a million euros. Each capture of the six targets would bring another million, with a bonus of ten more upon successful completion.

Six captures, and the three stars (he assumed them jewels) Malmon wanted for his own.

He had sixty men under his command, and twenty more civilian workers. In taking the contract, he'd agreed to work with, coordinate with Eli Yadin and Franz Berger, both specialists.

He considered Yadin a psychopath, and Berger undisciplined, but had respect for their work and the results of it.

Though nothing showed in his face, Malmon's appearance surprised him. Pale as parchment, thin enough that the shirt hung loose over his torso, Malmon sat behind a large desk, eyes shielded with dark glasses.

“Commander.”

“Mr. Malmon.”

“I trust everything is on schedule.”

“It is. The holding center will be completed tomorrow, on schedule. Yadin arrived yesterday, and is already supervising his own areas. We expect Berger by eighteen hundred hours.”

“Excellent. I expect you to put the holding center to good use, and quickly.”

“I look to report the first capture within thirty-six hours.”

“Alive, Commander. Alive is essential to my needs.”

“Understood.”

“And where are they now?”

Trake took a device from his pocket, consulted it. “Their boat is anchored off the southeast coast. Do you want the coordinates?”

Once a man who gathered and examined all details, Malmon just flicked a hand. “Not necessary at this time. As soon as their accommodations are ready, take them.”

“Within thirty-six, sir.”

“You've never disappointed me, Commander.” As Malmon stared, a dull yellow glow seemed to pulse behind the dark glasses. “Don't let this be the exception to that rule.”

“I'll complete my mission.”

“I depend on it.” Malmon smiled, showing incisors longer, sharper, than they should have been. “Contact me when the tank is ready. I'm particularly interested.”

A
fter another long day in and on the water, Sawyer grabbed a shower, a beer, and headed straight to the radio and recorder he'd set up.

A few minutes later, Riley leaned over his shoulder, one hand braced on his back, listening as he did.

“Rewind. Doyle and Bran are winding down playing pool. I'll get them, and the others.”

When they all crowded in, Sawyer held up a hand. “Nothing from the parlor yet, and no conversations from the bedroom—just moving around, probably staff unpacking for him. But we hit in the office. First came in about eleven fifteen. It's Malmon and Trake—I think Trake.”

“It's Trake,” Riley confirmed. “I recognized his voice. And word is he's calling himself commander now. Gave himself a promotion. Play it back, Sawyer.”

The quality leaned toward tinny, but the words came through clearly.

“Capture, not kill.” Bran considered that when Sawyer stopped the recording. “Sensible, controlled. Wipe us out, and it's more difficult to find the star we already have.”

“That's what Yadin's for. Torture.” Since it was handy, Riley took a swig from Sawyer's beer. “We give up the location of the first, any information we have on the other two.”

“But we won't.” Annika looked from face to face. “We swore an oath.”

“I'm not saying we'll wrap it up in a bow, but Yadin's really good
in his chosen field. We don't want to be taken to wherever this holding center is. We don't want Yadin to start working on us. Within thirty-six,” Riley added. “At least the wait for that's almost over.”

“He knew our coordinates,” Doyle pointed out. “So they've got a GPS on the boat. It won't be hard to locate now that we know about it.” He looked at Bran. “How far could you . . . relocate it?”

“How's New Zealand?”

Doyle gave one of his quick, rare smiles. “Should be far enough.”

“It won't stop them,” Sawyer said, “but it's a finger in their eye, so I like it. Holding center. It could be anywhere, but I'm putting my money on the cave. Sasha got vibes there.”

“Maybe Bran should set off that chain reaction. Finger in the eye,” Riley commented, “and a boot in the balls.”

“The boot's wasted if we're wrong,” Doyle pointed out.

“I can shift up there, take a quick look.”

“No.” Sasha cut off Sawyer's suggestion sharply. “You need to stay away from there. And it's not time. I can't tell you why or how I know that. It's just not time.”

“Okay. We save the boot in the balls. And we listen.” Sawyer tapped the recorder. “We keep listening.”

“A bit more,” Bran corrected. “Tonight, all weapons, all ammunition. We'll be adding power there, and draw the light from the moon to seal it.”

T
he ritual, while simple enough, required all six, the potion Bran had brewed for days, and faith.

“You want us to put all our weapons into a big pot of goo.”

Bran arched his scarred eyebrow at Riley. “It's a cauldron, and it's hardly goo.”

She leaned over the cauldron, studied the thick blue liquid. “It looks like goo. A little like what my great-aunt Selma puts in her hair.”

“Hair, or fur?” Sawyer wondered, and got a sneer.

“It's pure,” Bran explained, “and powerful. Not so very different from the light bombs, but in another form. This will coat blade, bullet, bolt—bracelet, and what is used to propel them, with that light and power.”

Annika laid her right hand on her left bracelet—only she could remove what Bran and Sasha had created for her. “It takes trust.” She unclasped the left bracelet, then the other. Held them out.

“With your hand, your faith, put them in.”

Carefully, Annika laid the bracelets on the surface of the liquid, watched them sink beneath.

“Well, hell.” Sawyer took his combat knife, his dive knife, followed suit. And with some reservation, unholstered both his guns.

“You have to believe,” Annika commanded.

“Yeah. Yeah. Well, I've never believed in anybody the way I believe in the five of you. So . . .” He put his guns in the cauldron, added all his ammo.

Sasha put in her bolts. “The crossbow won't fit all the way under.”

Bran brushed a hand over her hair. “It will.”

With a nod, she set it in, bow first, and realized she shouldn't have been surprised when it simply slid in, vanished beneath the blue.

“Okay, here goes. You're one hell of a wizard, Irish. If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't be here.” Riley added knives—three—guns—two—ammo. Then pulled out her pocket knife. “Might as well hit them all.”

“Didn't think of that.” Sawyer added his multitool. “You never know.”

“I've had this sword longer than any of you have been alive. Longer than your parents and grandparents have lived. So trust me, this is faith.” Doyle lowered his blade into the cauldron, then his bow and bolts, his knives, his gun, ammo.

Finally, they added the underwater weaponry.

“It's the clown car of cauldrons,” Sawyer decided, and made Riley hoot out a laugh.

“Here is trust,” Bran began. “Here is unity. And here is power.” He pointed at the moon. “The goddesses three created the stars. The goddesses three set us on this path. They guard, and now we guard against the dark, against all who would twist the pure into the profane.”

He lifted his other hand, began to draw it back slowly, as if pulling a great weight. As he pulled, white light spread over the blue. And now his voice reverberated, shook the air.

“In this place, in this hour, we call upon your light and power. Celene, Luna, Arianrhod, hear us, moon daughters, through air and earth and waters, and stir this brew with light, brilliant and bright. And with these weapons we employ, only evil to destroy. So pledge I, your son.”

He looked to Sasha, took her hand. “So pledge I,” she said, “your daughter.” And took Doyle's.

So they took their oath, one by one, in a circle around the cauldron, bubbling thick and slow.

And Bran raised both arms. “As we will, so mote it be.”

Three sharp beams of light shot from the moon, arrowed into the cauldron. Sparks of it flew like stars, whirled above, dived below.

Then all went quiet.

“It's tough not to applaud,” Riley said after a moment. “You put on a hell of a show, Irish.”

“This one took the six of us, so well done, all.”

“Yeah, everybody take a bow. Now, what do we do?” Riley wondered. “Just reach into the goo—magick goo,” she added, “and take everything out?”

Bran simply turned his palms up, raised his hands. Guns, clips, knives, bows, swords floated up.

Without hesitation, Annika reached for her bracelets. “They're still so pretty, and don't feel any different.”

“They will,” Bran told her, “when you need them to.”