The Brimstone Network (Brimstone Network Trilogy) (5 page)

Clothes designed for the most frigid of temperatures hung waiting to be worn, thick boots and snowshoes on the floor beneath them. The man removed the heavy, hooded coat hanging upon the door, and froze at the sight of his reflection in the full-length mirror hanging there.

At first there was shock, followed by disgust.

He did not remember himself this way, but realized that he had no clear vision of how he was supposed to look.

His naked body was pale and covered with thick, pink scars: around his neck, wrists, arms, and shoulders, around his legs, knees, and feet. It was as if he’d been put together—assembled—from pieces, and suddenly he remembered, a bubble of memory rising to the surface.

Those who had made him called him Stitch, and he had indeed been made from pieces, body parts of those who had fallen in battle against the forces of darkness. From those who had died in service to the Brimstone Network, the ultimate agent had been constructed.

Without another moment’s hesitation the patchwork man pulled the heavy clothes from their hangers and started to dress.

There wasn’t a moment to lose.

B
ram walked quickly along the echoing corridors of P’Yon Kep, his thoughts racing.

Over the last week his training sessions had intensified, the monks of P’Yon Kep forcing him to face the side of his nature that he would rather forget. But they
would not allow him to ignore his other, more feral side. Day after day they pushed him, forced him to set it free, forced him to see it not as some horrible thing living inside him, but as part of himself, part of his nature.

Part of what he would need to keep the world safe.

They were preparing him for the future; the entire reason why his father had sent him to this isolated place of learning. Bram often wondered with a certain amount of foreboding when he would know his purpose, when he would learn what he was being prepared for.

As he hurried down the cold, stone corridor of the monastery, he felt deep in his gut that today might very well be the day.

After his latest training exercise Master Po had come to the chamber, dismissing the others and wishing to speak to him in private. Bram had thought that he was about to be scolded for something he had done, or something he hadn’t done, but it was neither.

The Abbot had come to tell him that he had a visitor from the outside world, from his father.

His father had sent someone? But, why? Was his education here done?

That thought filled him with fear, for although he had
learned much, he felt far from ready. There was still more to learn before he could fully accept the other half of his nature.

The entrance to the main hall loomed ahead of him and he found his pace slowing.

What if his father was sick? What if this person had been sent by the Network to bring him home to care for the sick man before he …

No!
His father was strong, as healthy as a horse. If he’d been sick, Bram would have known it, would have noticed something the last time he had seen his father.

The question hit like a bolt of lightning.

When was the last time I saw my father?

He tried to remember. It seemed to be not long after he’d come to P’Yon Kep.

That can’t be right.
Bram stopped short, rummaging through his memories.
There has to have been a time since then.

He recalled that his father had sent an astral projection on his birthday, a ghostly message sent across the world apologizing for not coming in person, and wishing him a happy day. But that was the last time he had seen or heard from his father.

Bram entered the main hall, normally used for large gatherings of all who called the P’Yon Kep monastery home. The monks had lit a huge blaze in the stone fireplace at the far end of the hall, chasing away the cold that normally chilled the air in here.

A lone figure stood before that roaring fire, his back to Bram. He was tall, wearing heavy woolen pants and a long waistcoat: warm clothing to protect against the harsh Tibetan elements. He wore his dark hair long, pulled back in a ponytail that dangled below his broad shoulders.

“Excuse me,” Bram said, mentally preparing himself for the worst. “You wanted to see me?”

The tall man flinched at the sound of Bram’s voice invading the tranquility of the hall.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle … ,” Bram began, but the words caught in his throat when the mysterious figure turned.

“Abraham Stone, I presume,” the man said, his voice low and rumbling, with the hint of an English accent.

“Y-yes, sir,” Bram stammered, completely taken back by the man’s appearance.

His skin was an unhealthy gray, the color of something seldom touched by the sun, or dead, which made the stark
blackness of his receding hair, pulled back tight upon his head, stand out even more. And his eyes … one was blue, the other brown.

The stranger crossed the room in three powerful strides and extended his hand in greeting. “A pleasure, young sir.”

Tentatively reaching to take the offered hand, Bram noticed that the man’s sleeve had ridden up to reveal a thick scar encircling his wrist.

The man’s hand was huge, and engulfed Bram’s in a powerful grip.

“You can call me Mr. Stitch,” he said with a crooked smile and a wink from his brown eye as they shook hands.

Stitch released him and Bram took his hand back, giving it a shake to get the blood flowing in his fingers again. “The Abbot said that my father sent you. Is there anything wrong?”

The smile quickly disappeared from Mr. Stitch’s face. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Abraham, but I’m afraid the answer to your question is yes. Something is very wrong.”

“What?” Bram asked, his heart starting to race. “Is my father all right? Is he sick? Does he need me to come home?”

Stitch sighed, reaching out with his two powerful hands and clamping them down upon the boy’s shoulders.

“I’m gonna need ye to be strong, lad,” he growled.

“Tell me,” Bram demanded, looking up into the ugly man’s multicolored eyes.

“Your father is dead.”

Bram brushed Stitch’s hands from his shoulders. “You’re lying,” he cried.

“I wish it were,” Stitch said with a sad shake of his head. “But I was only to be animated at your father’s passing.”

It felt as though the world was collapsing in on him. Bram started to shake, his eyes welling up with scalding tears. He knew the kind of life his father led, and as much as he didn’t want to believe it, he knew that it was more than possible for this to have happened.

“How did he die?” he asked, trying to keep his voice from cracking.

“I don’t know the specifics, but I do know that it was an attack on the entire Brimstone Network. All around the planet, every Brimstone installation was attacked, every agent was killed.”

Bram couldn’t believe his ears. It was bad enough that his father was gone, but to learn that the agency
he commanded, that kept the world safe, had been targeted as well …

It was almost too much for him to take.

But he was a Stone, and would not allow himself to crumble.

“Who did this?” he asked, his thoughts racing with questions.

Stitch shrugged his powerful shoulders. “Any number of ghoulie, ghostie, or long-legged beastie would have liked to see them finished,” he said. “The Network had enemies to spare, but this bit of business took some real devilry to pull off.”

Bram breathed deeply, trying to calm his fraying emotions.

“You’re going to find out who’s responsible, right?” he asked Stitch. “And when you do, you’ll put an end to them.”

Stitch slowly shook his head. “I personally will not,” he said, his stare intense. “But you and I together, we will rebuild the Network.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in.

“We?” Bram questioned. “What do you mean
we
?”

“Don’t be daft, son,” the man said. “It’s the entire reason I’m here. The world can’t survive without a Brimstone
Network, and I’ve been created to protect and guide you through the difficult process of pulling a new Network together.”

“Created?”

“Yes, created,” Stitch said as he removed his long coat, tossing it on the floor. “From parts of the finest Brimstone agents fallen in service,” he explained, unbuttoning and then removing his shirt, exposing his pale, scarred flesh.

Bram gasped at the sight.

“Your father had me made,” the pale-skinned man continued. “He’d hoped that I would never be necessary.”

Bram continued to stare at Stitch’s scarred body.

“I know,” he said, reaching down to pick up his discarded shirt. “I won’t be winning any beauty contests in the foreseeable future.”

“My father had you built to … to protect me?”

“And to counsel you,” Stitch said buttoning his shirt, covering his scars. “The experiences of over fifty Brimstone agents are inside this jigsaw puzzle of a body … experiences that your father hoped would help you with the dangerous task that lies ahead.”

Stitch retrieved his waistcoat, slipping that on as well.

“Your father had always planned on you being the future
of the Network,” he said. “Poor bugger just didn’t know how quick the future would arrive.”

Bram found himself backing toward the exit. It was too much, and he felt as though he might just drown beneath an ocean of sorrow.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered.

Stitch’s pallid face screwed up in confusion. “What do you mean, you can’t?” he growled. “There isn’t any choice. Darkness is on the rise, son, and your father was depending on you to hold it back.”

Bram shook his head, turning away from the scarred man and leaving the great hall. He didn’t want to hear anymore.

“You are the Brimstone Network now, Abraham Stone.”

Mr. Stitch’s final words followed him down the ancient corridor.

And Bram began to run.

4.
THROUGH P’YON KEP’S WINDING CORRIDORS BRAM
ran, the words of a man made from the body parts of others echoing inside his head.

You are the Brimstone Network.

It felt as though a storm raged inside his head. To learn that his father had been killed was bad enough, but to expect that Bram would now pick up where he left off?

That was just crazy. He was only thirteen years old!

Bram reached his room and slammed the door behind him.

He paced, trying to calm the storm inside his head.

It had always been just Bram and his father. He had never known his mother. And suddenly the memory of
that afternoon when he’d learned who and what he was flew into his mind.

He was only six or seven, and he was playing with the family cat, a fluffy Persian named Purty. He had been overly affectionate with the temperamental animal, and it had shown its displeasure by scratching his face. Bram’s anger had flared, and he found himself floating above the playroom, chasing the terrified cat.

He hated to think what would have happened to poor old Purty if his father hadn’t come into the room to check on the ruckus.

Seeing him there, hovering above the room in a fit of rage, must have been quite a sight, but his father was always in control. He had remained perfectly calm, coaxing Bram down to the floor, and quieting his anger.

Bram remembered the confusion and fear, the tears when he’d realized how close he had come to hurting his beloved pet. Then his father had sat him on his knee and explained why Bram was different.

He had never spoken of her before, brushing off Bram’s questions by telling him she simply could not be a part of their lives. But now, Elijah told his son the truth. Bram’s mother was a Specter. A race of supernatural
warriors, one of the first that humanity had contact with as the barriers between worlds came down. The Specter were aggressive beings. They had the ability to make themselves immaterial—ghostlike—and, in this form, were extremely dangerous.

And they perceived humanity to be a threat.

Conflict seemed inevitable. But Bram’s father had learned of an obscure Specter custom, one in which a high-ranking official of both worlds could marry, unifying the two kingdoms to avoid a war.

And so, the commander of the Brimstone Network, Elijah Stone, wed the leader of the most powerful of the Specter tribes, Ligeia—Bram’s mother.

Bram had never even seen his mother, but her warrior’s legacy was with him every day.

Desperate to get out.

That was why he had been sent here, to the monastery of P’Yon Kep, among other places, hidden away in the icy folds of the Himalayan cliffs, to be taught how to control his more dangerous half—to accept and unify—much as the human race and the Specter had been forced to do when his father wed Ligeia.

He had always felt the pangs of loneliness as his father
moved him from school to school. But usually, just when things were becoming too much, and he was certain that he would die of isolation, his father would be there to refill his heart.

But that was over. Now he was truly alone.

He sat down on the mat that served as his bed, grabbing the blanket where it had been rolled into a ball, and draping it over his shoulders. Suddenly his room—and the world—seemed much colder.

Finally he was able to cry, the tears streaming down his face in hot rivulets. It had been a long time since he’d cried like this, he thought as he lay upon his mat, letting the sadness flow out of him.

H
ours later, lying upon the mat, exhausted by the emotional onslaught, Bram found himself dreaming of the past.

He’d only been a little kid, awakened in the middle of the night to the sound of something scratching, somewhere inside his darkened room.

Bram twitched in his sleep, his face contorting as he remembered his fear, the fear of the unknown lurking in the darkness, the fear of being alone.

What if Nanny Pearl and his father left him alone, and never came back?

He actually remembered thinking that as he lay in his bed, his covers up to his face, the tears starting to fall from his eyes.

How scary it was to be alone.