Blackthorne (The Brotherhood of the Gate Book 1) (11 page)

The man was a European, possibly a Scot, and dressed in the fashion of the Knights of the Crusades…a conflict that had ended 200 years before. The Spaniards strangely enough didn’t kill him on sight for the sin of being not Spaniard. Against the advice of their terrified Indian guides, they allowed the man to approach and even invited him to break his fast with them. He told a strange tale, reproduced in a more modern form here from the journal of one of the priests who had accompanied the group:

“…As the Indians whispered among themselves about a ‘ghost walker’ that fed on the spirit of men and animals, the stranger transfixed us with his beautiful eyes and told a tale of the ruins before us. We did not think to ask how he had come by these words, although I did feel my heart becoming heavier as he spoke. The knight called himself Blackthorne. He told a terrible tale about a once mighty people, lost in the mists of time, who conquered the world by the might of not only its warriors but also its magicians and men of learning. An age of glory overtook the Earth on the heels of this conquest…the height of civilization. The citizens of their beautiful capital, Atlantis, knew no illness or poverty and lived great life spans that dwarfed the lives of those they had conquered.

“I thought the man mad or of sinister purpose. I felt certain that he was using the tale of Plato’s Atlantis to draw us into a trap but I could not speak, my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth as if fastened by nails.

“He spoke of the arrogance of this people and how in the beginning they lusted for power and godhood, searching far and wide for clues to the location of sinews of power that bound our very world together. Then came the day when some of the great minds of the kingdom discovered a means to control the very doors to Hell in order to command the demon hordes to labor for them as did Solomon in later years to build his great temple. I couldn’t help but wonder if the Hebrew king had a similar gate at his disposal. Control of the gates and the demons was accomplished by means of the great crystal skulls the people had crafted and bespelled over many decades. The Atlanteans used the fell beasts of Hell to conquer the known world. But the greed of the people of Atlantis grew. They had wealth and power but still were leveled by the specter of death. The people of Atlantis, swollen with power, sought to use the skulls to cheat death. The powers of Heaven, Earth, and Hell rose up to punish those that would destroy all by destroying the balance of life and death, good and evil. The powers of Heaven shook the earth and ripped the fabric of the sky. Then the Lord of Hell stretched forth his sword and sent forth his minions to destroy many of the survivors and knowledge of Atlantis. Their city was drowned and destroyed, the many tributary lands destroyed in various cataclysms. The gates themselves were scattered throughout the globe, hidden from the greedy eyes of mankind, as were the indestructible crystal skulls that were the keys to each gate. Among the survivors of Atlantis was a great king of much valor and wisdom who, with his loyal servants and warriors, decided to set a guard upon Hell’s Gates against the day when those inside would come forth to try to open them once more, either for their own purposes or for the purposes of the Lord of Hell himself. The king bound himself and those of his blood to the fate of the gates. The lord’s kin and followers were given the secrets of Atlantis, wielding great power against the darkness and were given longevity. Down through the endless years, the mighty heroes of the world have been recruited into this Brotherhood to safeguard the gates and battle the evils that the presence of the gates engenders in the hearts of men. The Brotherhood of the Gate has stood by for millennia to defend the gates until the Last Days when the gates shall fly open and the Last Battle begins.

“Then the storyteller’s eyes began to glow with a blue light in the darkness as he sadly told us that we stood on the brink of one of the gates of Hell and we could not live to tell of it. The knight stood and drew forth a mighty sword and began to slay our people, who all stood, transfixed, except for myself. Like wheat before the scythe they fell beside their baubles gathered from the dust before the gate and he wept as he slew them, even as his sword showed them no pity. I fell to my knees and prayed for our deliverance with my eyes tightly shut against the slaughter of my companions. The sudden silence forced my attention and I opened my eyes to see Blackthorne standing before me with his sword raised.

“‘You, my brother, I will spare,’ he said in his strangely accented Spanish. ‘In honor of the service I once gave your church, go forth and tell none where the gate lies.’

“I fled the field of death, only once looking behind me at the stricken figure of the lone knight kneeling among the dead, his sword thrust into the ground to form a cross. I traveled many months, some of them lost to me in my delirium, until I was found by another group of my countrymen also looking for treasure. From there, I gathered my strength and eventually made my way home to the settlements of our people. And although I did tell story of the treasure, the gate, and the slaughter, I never revealed the location of the battlefield, claiming madness which was easily believed.”

“Blackthorne. God, I
am
losing my mind.” She spoke angrily out loud. She knocked the book in her hand against the chair arm, as if she could make the tales that shook her disappear.

“That guy a knight. Stupid… What a shame I gave up on that knight in shining armor fantasy last week.” To get her mind off helping Blackthorne out of his armor, Rhi closed her eyes for a minute to rest and imagined what she would do with untold riches. Buy a nice place here as a base with maybe a few horses and a lot of acreage for Ellie to run on. Travel the world. The first stop would have to be Egypt. She sighed. The Pike’s Peak region was a ridiculously big area to canvas for a mythical treasure. She hadn’t had time to fully explore the mountain her house stood on. The other few thousand bumps in the skin of the world would have to wait. Of course she didn’t buy all of the magical mumbo-jumbo, but Rhi was also open-minded enough to realize there was more out there than could rationally be explained.

Not open-minded enough to acknowledge miracles when they happen in front of me, however,
said the nasty little voice of sarcasm in her head.

She picked up the heavy tome that was a late 1800s compilation of the
Cripple Creek Crusher,
one of the first newspapers in the gold rush camp that happened to be still currently in print. She flipped through the pages aimlessly, grimacing at a front-page article detailing the death of an “unfortunate woman” from a “crib,” one of the cell-like rooms on Meyers Avenue in the Red Light district. According to the report, the girl had been nineteen, and completely used up by the men of Cripple Creek. The girl had been reduced to selling her body for less money than the cost of a shot of whiskey.

“The poor thing probably had no choice in the matter, making a living was so limited to women in that era.” When she noticed the manner of the girl’s death, she could feel the color drain from her face.

“…A lovely lady until drink and circumstance exiled her to the cribs of Meyers. An unknown monster butchered the girl who used to drink and dance and make merry in the brightest dance halls on the avenue. Presumably the same unknown monster who has killed five other unfortunate women of our town. A monster rips the beating hearts from these young girls as casually as a butcher would filet a steer. There is a phantom who walks among us as a man by day but walks as a butcher by the light of the moon.”

Her own heart beating like a drum solo from a Van Halen concert, Rhi began to search though the book in earnest—scribbling frantic notes on the legal pad she had nearby.

After an hour, she sat back in amazement. A total of twelve “crib” girls—the lowest on the rung of Cripple Creek’s prostitution trade—had been butchered in the years of 1894, ’95, and ’96. Law enforcement hadn’t taken too much notice of the murders, having—according to the wealth of articles on the subject—been much too busy with an epidemic of rabid animal attacks and bizarre freak weather. When the hunt began for the murderer, it sounded incompetent and disastrous. Men lost in the forests looking for clues were never seen again. Entire elements of the population of the town were excluded from the list of suspects because of their social standing. In exasperation, the prostitutes’ only advocate, a prominent local madam known as Pearl DeVere, hired her own investigators to bring in “The Phantom of Cripple Creek.” When that went nowhere, DeVere further horrified the townsfolk by bringing in one of the witches of Manitou Springs to consult with about the identity of the murderer. With the great fire of 1896, the murders ended and it was assumed the killer had been one of those who died in the conflagration.

“Manitou Springs and witches? Was that what Houston was referring to when he said that this had happened before?”

Rhi looked at the golden light of the afternoon streaming through the windows of her home and then down at the book in her lap. What did she have to do with any of this? She was looking forward to meeting with Houston and Pam that evening after work. Work. Damn. She looked at the silver Fossil watch on her wrist.

“Three o’ clock. Dressing today will be a slash job,” she said.

She dumped the book back on the pile by her desk and staggered to her feet, her legs numbed from sitting so long with her studies.

“Okay, maybe ‘slash’ wasn’t the best choice of words.”

In route, she stopped at the closet and got a shoebox down from the back of the top shelf. Pam was right. It was time to get out the heavy artillery, and her father’s P89 Ruger and several clips would be the kind of security blanket she craved for the evening. Despite her reluctance to use firearms, she was fairly good with them. Although, Rhi reflected as she opened up the box, it might be a good idea to make inquiries about getting a license to carry the damned thing.

She left it on the counter, making a note to herself to get Bobby Wayne to go out in the woods with her to fire a few shots the next day, and headed for the comfort of hot water, steam, and fluffy towels.

»»•««

The gray stones of the house on the cliff were always cold, a ghastly cold that clung to Troy’s bones as he made his way down to the dining room where his master sat, savoring various delicacies and watching one of his favorite television shows. The champagne flute in front of Manius Black held Dom. A beautiful presentation of Oysters Rockefeller sat untouched to the side. Troy ruefully reflected that his master had probably had enough regular food for a while and needed something more “soul satisfying” as he liked to refer to it. He carefully examined his own appearance before approaching his master. The wool slacks and tasseled loafers he wore were immaculate. His oxford shirt and silk tie were spotless and his hands were scrubbed clean, the nails of which had recently been manicured. If only that slut Cassie could see him now. But then, she couldn’t see anything anymore, could she?

“Now Troy, that is not a nice way to think of poor little Cassie. She had her uses, didn’t she?” Manius asked, not bothering to look behind his chair. It still spooked Troy how easily his master could read his mind, even though he knew and accepted the fact that his master’s powers could be awe-inspiring. Manius knew Troy’s every desire, jealousy, and perversion and seemed to be amused by it all. He controlled Troy completely and never let his new little friend forget that he could squash him like a bug at any moment. But the reward Manius promised his slave took Troy’s breath away, like a punch to the stomach, in spite of Manius’ casual cruelty.

He didn’t know where the man got the gold, but the vampire was never without large amounts of the local metal in the form of battered bars inscribed with Spanish words and Roman numerals. When they had made one of their frequent treks down to Colorado Springs or to Denver in the beginning, Manius unerringly had gone straight to a local pawnshop “specializing” in such things. The walking dead man had sucked up modern society and the various conveniences as quickly as a starving man might inhale a hamburger, watching television and trolling the Internet for days on end. He read every book and magazine Troy could find for him while hiding out in an empty Cripple Creek vacation home before going out into the brave new world to appropriate every possible comfort and luxury for both himself and for the uneducated Troy. Clothes, furniture for the new homes they bought and refurbished, delicacies and wines, art, they had everything Troy could imagine wanting.

They began to travel the world together, indulging every vice and causing as much chaos, mischief, and death as possible while waiting for something…but what that something was Troy was not sure of. He got the feeling that his master fed off the pain and fear of others…Manius would become jolly when they were near a war zone. The more vicious the conflict, the happier he was. He was sure that his master wanted more than the boy from Cripple Creek could ever imagine. Manius said it often when he was in a talkative mood…he wanted vengeance and a few other trifles. All of the power and wealth possible and the end of an organization known as the Brotherhood of the Gate.

Now Troy spent nights gazing at the freshly plastered ceiling in the well-appointed bedroom Manius provided to him, dreaming of what he would do once his master unleashed his will on the world. In the old days, the thought that any girl would be his, willing or unwilling, or a new 4x4 he had seen at the Land Rover lot in Colorado Springs, would have been enough to set his hands trembling. But now that he had seen some of the world at his master’s side he could imagine a bit more. After all, if he was going to sell his soul, he should make it worth it.

Upon their return from meddling abroad, the two had spent months looking for signs of something Manius seemed to be anxious about, scouring the town at night, searching the minds of the more susceptible citizens and the homes of the less alert. Then with some kind of deadline looming, Manius had taken him to Denver to find a teenaged girl to bring back to the “Castle” and sacrifice for power, and then another and another. Manius was not ready to hunt openly in the town yet. The butchering of chunky young virgins on a convenient block of granite in the secluded garden did not bother Troy any more than the periodic kidnappings and slayings of the hookers they found and scattered throughout the larger cities they inhabited periodically. It excited him and Manius, if he were feeling magnanimous, would sometimes let Troy play with their victims first. The girls were like bloody weeping dolls, begging for mercy. The power of those moments for Troy was intoxicating. One of the last sacrifices, possessed by whatever forces his master commanded, had spewed the information Manus had been waiting for in a disembodied voice that sounded as if it came from the lowest pit of Hell. Fate was at work again and Rhiannon Brennan had moved to Cripple Creek.