Promise: Caulborn #2 (3 page)

“Put your arms down, boy.” The gateway and hellhound were gone. I lowered my arms and turned to Forculus. He’d put his feet down and was rubbing the heels of his palms against his forehead. He lowered his hands and regarded me, disgust plain on his face. “That was pathetic,” he said.

“Well excuse me for not having a couple of millennia’s worth of practice sealing gateways.”

“Do you mean to say that you’ve never opened a gateway, Corinthos? How do you visit your followers on the Bright Side?”

“Phasilion.”

“Ah, those living gateways. Yes, I’ve heard of them.” Forculus picked up his donut and munched thoughtfully. “So you tell them where to open for you. That’s not a bad start.”

“No,” I said. “Each phasilion opens to a specific location. I go to the one that opens in the heart of the Urisk city.”

Forculus’s jaw dropped. Tiny crumbs of donut were stuck in his salt-and-pepper beard, and his face was a mask of disbelief. “You go to the one that opens where you want to go,” he said flatly. “You’ve never commanded one to open?”

“Well, there was one time.” I told Forculus about the time I’d telepathically dominated an unfriendly phasilion named Grenlori into opening to a specific location.

“Hera’s frosty crotch, boy,” Forculus swore. “You think you telepathically dominated it? You have the domain of doors,” he enunciated every word carefully, like he was explaining to a simpleton. “That means doors obey your every whim. The phasilion is a living door. It had to obey you. Did you at least have it open to your desired location?”

“Mostly.”

Forculus rolled his eyes as he stuffed the last of his donut into his mouth. “That’s something, I suppose. Come on, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t your adviser tell you? I’m going to teach you how to make gateways of your own. And from what I can see, it’s not going to be easy. Go get dressed and come back here.” Once I’d geared up and rejoined him, Forculus waved his hand and another gateway sprang into existence. This one opened onto a grove of fig trees. “Follow me.” We stepped through and the temperature difference was striking on the other side. It’d been about seventy degrees in my apartment, but this was at least eighty. The sun was lower in the sky. The air was sweet, but there was tang of salt in the air, too. All around me, short trees with nearly white trunks stretched their pale branches to the sky, and their vibrant green leaves swished in a gentle, warm breeze.

“Where are we?”

“Sicily,” Forculus smiled as he plucked a fig off a branch. He bit into it and smiled. “Ah, yes. You don’t get stuff like this in America, Corinthos. Try one.” I bit into the fig. It was sweet. The only time I’d ever had figs before was in Newtons. This was really good.

“Hang on a sec,” I said. “Sicily and Boston are pretty close, latitude-wise. Shouldn’t it be winter here, too?”

Forculus picked a bit of fig out of his teeth. “This is my domain,” he said, waving a hand around. “It’s only winter here if I want it to be. Now then, enough chatter about the weather. Let’s talk gateways.” Forculus rolled his shoulders like a fighter warming up for a match. “The obvious advantage to controlling gateways is the freedom it provides you. You don’t need these mechanized contraptions that humans rely on to fly from point to point, or those clumsy mechanical chariots. Just think about where you want to go and poof, you’re there.” He held up a finger to me. “But, for the clever, there’s more to gateways than just travel. Gateways can be effective weapons when employed properly.”

“You mean like sending an enemy directly into Hell?”

Forculus pursed his lips. “That would work, I suppose, but it lacks style, and those who reside in the Pit do not appreciate unexpected guests. Pull a stunt like that and you’ll likely find your adversary returned and a throng of angry demons charging you as well.” He shook his head. “No, the combat potential of a gateway is something else entirely. Allow me to demonstrate.”

Forculus snapped his fingers, and a small gateway, about the size of a dinner plate, popped open to his left. It was angled such that I couldn’t see where it led. He threw a fig through it—

—and something struck me on the back of the head. I spun around and found a fig on the ground behind me. A second gateway hung open in the air, level with my head. Through it I could see Forculus. I turned to him. “So you split the gateway. Put the entry point in front of you and the exit behind me.”

Forculus smiled. “That’s exactly right. Thank goodness. I was afraid I’d need a puppet show to explain it to you. Now then, your initial gateways will only open to places you know very well, or places you can see. This limits their utility, but make no mistake, for the clever, even these hobbled gateways can be used in a variety of ways. Let’s start with something small. Open a gateway that leads to that stone over there.” He pointed to a gray and blue rock about ten feet away. “Relax your mind and picture an opening from point A to point B.”

I cleared my head and looked at the rock. I imagined a doorway with square edges and clean lines forming in front of me. Nothing happened. I tried again, this time envisioning a circular portal. Nothing. “For someone who’s supposed to be my tutor, you’re not saying a whole lot,” I called. Forculus sat down and leaned back against the trunk of the fig tree.

“There’s nothing more to explain, Corinthos. Either you can open gates or you can’t. Your adviser thought you had the potential, but perhaps he was mistaken. Maybe the human blood in your veins is preventing you from an ability that should be your birthright. I never did understand what Janus saw in human women. They always seemed so inferior, and the offspring they gave were nothing more than trouble.”

Forculus had just committed one of the three classic blunders. The first two—never get into a land war in Asia and never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line—are pretty easy to avoid. However, number three is never insult my mother. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to reach out and tear Forculus’s head off. Something inside me cracked, and a ripping sound, like ten thousand sheets of paper being torn at once, shattered the still air. A tear in reality opened before me, an angry red gash about ten feet tall. It opened into blackness, and cold poured out of it.

Frost suddenly rimed the nearby fig trees and the scent of decay, like rotting meat, spoiled the sweetness of the grove. In my mind’s eye, something alien, something with tentacles and claws lurked just beyond the rip. It was snaking toward me, ready to—

Forculus was next to me in a flash and opened a gateway of his own, facing the tear. The alien monstrosity bolted through the tear and shot right into his gateway, which he slammed shut. He slapped me across the face, and the sudden shock forced me to release the tear, which sealed itself. The other god ran a hand through his hair. “Well that was fun,” he said. “Lesson one, Corinthos, always keep you mind focused on where you want your gateway to lead. If you get distracted, your gate may not open where you’re expecting.”

I nodded, then punched him as hard as I could in the mouth. His head snapped back and he fell, but instead of hitting the ground, he opened a gateway, fell through—

—and landed on top of me. Surprising me like he had, Forculus had no trouble pinning me. “Now then,” he said. “None of that. I apologize for what I said about your mother. Sometimes it’s necessary to arouse emotion to fuel your abilities, and that is all that comment was, nothing more.”

Part of me wanted to immolate him, and that must have shown in my expression. He got off me and put up his hands. “You mother is a lovely woman, Vincent. I had dinner with her and Janus several times while they were courting. I assure you I won’t say anything like that again. Now that we know you have the ability, there’s no need. You just need to practice.”

For the next two hours, I tried opening gateways. All I succeeded in doing was creating tears back to that dark, cold dimension. Finally Forculus had me stop. “All right, Corinthos, that’s enough for today. I’ll be back in a few days so we can work more on this. In the meantime, don’t try to open any gateways without me here.” He opened a gateway back to my kitchen.

I really needed to learn how to do this; it would make my life so much easier. I nodded my thanks and stepped through the portal. I grabbed my jacket and headed out the door. Time to go to work.

I was just stepping out of the train station when my phone chirped out “Smaug’s Theme” from
The Hobbit
. “Hello, Cather,” I said.

“Vincent Corinthos,” came the smooth voice from the other end. “It has been a long time since we’ve chatted. Are you free for a short visit?”

Cather, a dragon living in human form, often served as an informant to the Caulborn. He was well connected to the movers and shakers in the Undercity, and the information he provided was almost always good. I checked my watch. “Yeah,” I replied. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

“I shall await your arrival with bated breath.”

I tucked my phone into my pocket and headed back down the steps into the train station. A hundred years ago, the Mass Bay Transit Association built the subway tunnels that make up the T’s lines. On paper, some of those tunnels were closed due to structural concerns or safety issues. The real reason they were closed is that there were a bunch of paranormals in the city that didn’t have a place to go, so Frank Allen, a governor with ties to the Caulborn, had closed down those tunnels and built the Undercity to house them. I walked down the train platform, passed a guy playing “Enter Sandman” on a violin, tossed a buck in his case, and proceeded to a battered metal door marked Employees Only. I held my badge up to the scanner, and the door clicked open a second later. Then I hustled down a narrow spiral concrete staircase lit by naked bulbs spaced out every fifteen feet.

At the bottom of the stairs, I stepped out onto a train platform and took a breath of warm air. The platform before me was nearly identical to the one above, save this one looked new. The Gray Line, the subway that connected the Undercity to Boston’s known subways, didn’t have anywhere near the traffic as what was above, and the newness of the place was actually just a lack of wear and tear. Despite the fact that I was several hundred feet underground, the air was fresh and warm. A clever series of heaters and ventilation ducts ran throughout the Undercity, ensuring its occupants always had sufficient heat and clean air. I tucked my gloves into my pockets and looked around. A subway car straight out of the early 1900s sat on the platform. “Hello, Mr. Corinthos,” the conductor called out with a wave.

“Howdy, Deke,” I replied as I stepped from the otherwise empty platform onto the train. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine, fine,” he replied. His gray face was weathered and lined. I’m not sure what species of creature Deke was, but his purple eyes and six-fingered hands would’ve made him a freak in the world above. Down here, he got to drive trains, the thing he loved most in the world. “Important Caulborn business, sir?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye as one of his hands hovered over a red lever.

“Nothing that important,” I said quickly.

Deke’s face fell. “Another time, maybe.” Deke’s hand moved away from the red lever and pulled the plain brown one to its right. The train moved through the tunnels at a good clip, and after a few minutes, we pulled up to the Undercity’s platform. I thanked Deke and hopped out. It was like stepping back in time. The streets were paved with cobblestones, and while the streetlights that lined the walkways were electric, they’d been done to look like the old gas lamps from the early 1900s.

I put my hands into my bomber’s pockets and began walking down one of the streets. I passed an apothecary selling alchemical ingredients, a bookstore advertising new scrolls, and a small grocery store with a two-for-one special on toilet paper.

I caught a horse-and-buggy taxi and gave the driver Cather’s address. We clopped past brick apartment buildings four stories high, each decorated according to the tenants’ desire. Some were adorned with arcane symbols; others had shrunken heads strung from the balconies. The Undercity was a supernatural melting pot and was considered neutral ground by all paranormal citizens. Witches from rival covens could move about freely here without fear of attack. Vampires of different clans could put aside their differences, and werewolves from warring packs could swap flea and tick remedies. In short, the Undercity was a safe haven for Boston’s supernatural.

While the Undercity does have its own police force, the Caulborn make it a point to visit here on a regular basis. Kristin Tanis, one of my colleagues, spends most of her time down here as a Caulborn liaison to the citizens and the police. Cather’d normally contact her first, but she’s on a special assignment in Oklahoma this week.

The apartment buildings gave way to single-family houses as we moved farther from the center of the Undercity. These weren’t much different from neighborhoods you’d see in the suburbs, save that their “lawns” were comprised of lichen and fungus instead of grass. My mind wandered until we came to an imposing structure that looked like a castle turret. It nearly reached the ceiling of the city and was bigger around than most water towers. I paid the driver, hopped down, and approached the double front doors, which were protected by a heavy metal portcullis. This snapped up at my approach with a resounding clang.

A copper-haired man with dazzling green eyes opened the door just before I could knock. “Vincent,” Cather said. “You made great time. Do come in.” Cather is about six inches taller than I am, and with the shoulders he had, he could’ve played football. He wore a laced up white dress shirt and a pair of dark slacks. An actual black velvet cape was slung over one shoulder, its lining as red as blood.

I pointed at it. “You getting fashion tips from the vampires?”

He laughed as he ushered me in. “Close. This cape actually belonged to none other than Mr. Bella Lugosi. It was a custom-tailored affair and planned for the next Dracula film, but unfortunately he passed away before it could be used.” Cather shook his head. “Terrible loss. The man defined the portrayal of cinematic vampirism. Hang on. I’ll drop this in the cloak room, and then we can get down to business.”