Labyrinth: The Keeper Chronicles, a prequel (10 page)

“There. All finished.”

Rebekah blinked. “Huh?” She looked down at her hand where three neat stitches closed her angry flesh.

Lacey squeezed some ointment on a gauze bandage and placed it over the stitches, taping it at the corners. “I'm finished, I said. Now I'm going to wrap the rest of your hand. You'll have to take it easy for a few days. Get someone else to make the beds and straighten up, and then have those stitches removed in about five days. Understand? No lifting or sweeping or cooking. You shouldn't even close your fist. It's easy to get bacteria into cuts like that.”

“I won't. Thank you.”

The front door opened and Lacey's husband stomped inside, shaking the water off his coat and shoes. He clicked the flashlight off. “Nothing out there. At least, not anymore. I walked around the whole house to be certain.”

“Thank you so much.”

His cheeks dimpled when he smiled. “No problem. Good night.”

“Night.” Lacey and her son followed him upstairs.

Cradling her hand to her chest and nursing another beer, Rebekah kept vigil out the bay window for the next few hours as the storm slowly abated its fury. Evenings used to be her favorite. Once the guests had all gone to sleep, her mother and father would sometimes let her sneak out of her room in the basement and come upstairs to sit by the fireplace or play a game of cards. Euchre, canasta, rummy, blackjack—they'd play them all and laugh until the sound was absorbed into the very walls like insulation. Since her mom died, she'd missed those nights the most.

What had always been a loyal, but small, business nearly tripled when Rebekah took over managing the property, making efforts to expand their marketing outreach by using social media and getting one of the local ghost hunting shows to do a special on the supposed hauntings in the attic. That had been a crazy week of cameras and chaos; her father had hid in the lighthouse, not even coming back for meals. Adding an executive chef, Mia, had helped cater to the growing foodie market. They used only local produce and meats, and each morning prepared a unique seven-course breakfast. One guest, thinking to put the claim to a lie, stayed eight nights in a row just waiting for a dish to repeat; he'd brought his wife back every summer since.

Rebekah should be happier. Perhaps even ecstatic at the success.

So why did she feel as though someone had taken a melon baller and scooped out her insides, leaving only a hard shell behind?

A knock on the door startled her awake sometime later.

Blinking, she rubbed her eyes and looked around. The fire had devoured itself into a slow simmer and the lantern's wick was nearly consumed so that only a tiny ring of light circled its base. She glanced at her watch: 2:49 a.m. Her father'd really outdone himself this time. Probably forgot his keys knowing him.

Rebekah stood and walked over to the small table where the lantern rested, twisting the gear to lengthen the wick. Blessed light chased away the shadows. Grabbing a fuzzy, white robe out from its hiding place in the cupboard near the door, she pushed her arms through the soft sleeves and tied the sash closed around her waist. Holding the lantern in the crook of her right elbow, she threw the door open wide.

“What were you
thinking
staying out so late, Dad…” She let the sentence die and hugged her waist with her free arm. In front of her, his hair and clothing dripping from the rain, stood the most attractive man she'd ever seen. “You're…not my father.”

He grinned. “I hope not.” As if realizing what he just said, he blushed and looked at his feet for a second. His eyes impaled her as he looked back up. “My car broke down back the road a ways and my phone's dead. Can I use yours to call a tow truck?”

Chapter Two

It's a little known fact that demons, upon first entering the human world, are drawn to bright light. Keepers have debated many reasons for this over the centuries: that the demons are weakened by the trans-dimensional journey and so can only see very bright lights; that they mistake the bright lights for a sign of a city or other large gathering of food; that, much as a human child might, demons simply liked shiny things. Whatever the cause, it made Gabe's job all that much easier.

Bologna sandwich in one hand, machete in the other, he scanned the waves from beneath the porch of his dilapidated house at the base of the Willamook Light and waited for the first of them to show. The small house, nestled behind the sixty-five-foot tower, was the only patch of dry land on the tiny island off the Oregon coast. Three nights of breakers crashing over the jagged rock and incessant rain had soaked everything, but the tower took the brunt of the attack like the prow of a boat slamming into a wave, slicing it down the middle and protecting the house in its shadow. It was a good thing, too. Weakened from the constant damp, the timbers might collapse if he sneezed hard.

Taking another bite of his sandwich, Gabe chewed mechanically. If tonight was anything like the last two, he'd need his strength. A forked tongue of lightning arched from the clouds, slamming into the ocean. So it began. He had maybe seventy to seventy-five seconds before the first one reached him. Stuffing the rest of his sandwich in his mouth, he put in a pair of ear buds, lowered the goggles over his eyes, and pulled down the hood of his sweater. Two more shots of lightning lit the sky. Thirty seconds. He took out his phone—whoever invented the life-proof case tough enough to be run over by a car or dropped in a bathtub was a genius—and set it to play his Frank Sinatra demon slaying mix.

Twenty.

Gabe did a final check of his weapons: crossbow and spare quivers slung over his back, second machete sheathed on his belt, one curved dagger secured to each thigh, and throwing knives lining his vest above his Green Lantern t-shirt.

As the music kicked in with its swanky beat, he held his machete between his index and middle finger like a cigarette and danced out into the rain. “My story is much too sad to be told,” he hummed along with the music, stepping up on a small outcropping and scanning the waves. “But practically everything leaves me really cold.”

Seaweed clung to the demon’s arms and legs as it crawled up the jagged rocks, beady eyes glinting red in the darkness. Truly one of the uglier beasts he’d ever seen, the half-crab, half-scorpion demon had patchy, red carapace for skin; two sets of legs; and pinchers the size of a small car. Why did the big ones always come through first?

“I get no kick from champagne,” he continued singing, having missed the rest of the first verse while taking stock of his opponent. “Mere alcohol doesn’t thrill me at all.”

Faster than should have been possible, the demon topped the rocks, perching almost bird like on its legs as it scanned the island. When it spotted Gabe, it gurgle-screeched in joy, snapping its pinchers and pulverizing the rock it stood on. It skittered across the small clearing toward Gabe as a second lightning bolt struck the distant ocean.

Up close, the demon reeked of sulfur and decay in that rotten-egg-two-day-old-road-kill kind of way. It lunged for Gabe mouth first, double rows of razor-sharp teeth glinting golden when the beam from the lighthouse light swept their way.

“So tell me why” —Gabe, instead of dodging, stepped forward into the demon, stabbing his machete through the creature’s neck with a crunch—“it should be true” —holding the hilt in both hands, he twisted the blade, popping the demon’s head clean from its neck as its massive pinchers snapped uselessly at his legs—“that I get a
kick
” —he kicked the carapace-head like it were a soccer ball, sending it back into the waves as the rest of the creature tumbled backward into the surf—“out of you.”

The shriek of an inhuman female voice drew his attention upward and away from his first kill of the night.

Great.

A harpy.

“Some, they may go for cocaine,” he mumbled, flicking the gore off his machete and sheathing it. With the body of a feathered bird and the torso of a woman, the harpy circled the lighthouse tower once, a flying chicken with DDs, blonde curls, and eyes like pools of midnight.

Gabe hated second-order demons. Hated killing something that looked even partially human so much so that he stopped mid-motion. For a terrible moment, the demon looked past him toward the shore and started flapping in that direction.

He was losing it.

“…one sniff,” he mumbled a little too late for his song as he waived his arms in the air, drawing its hunger toward himself. The harpy screamed again and flew toward him, claws extended. “…would bore me terrifically, too.”

Gabe drew his crossbow, readied a bolt, and aimed for the harpy’s eyes. He fired. The harpy flapped to the side, narrowly avoiding the bolt. It shrieked again as more lightning struck the nearby water.

It was fifteen feet away. He positioned another bolt, placed the horn of the crossbow on the ground and stepped on it, then pulled back on the handle until the mechanism clicked in place. Ten feet. Its blonde curls were plastered against the side of its face with water, and the thing was close enough to make out the too-human nipples on its breasts. Gabe shuddered.

He aimed the crossbow and fired the second shot. The creature dropped from the sky like a duck, circling twice before it exploded against a rocky outcropping in a burst of blood and feathers.

His voice fell flat. “Yet I get a kick out of you.”

Before the song ended, he took out one more demon, a three-eyed thing with a humped back and frail arms barely strong enough to climb up the rocks to the tiny island. A butcher could do his work. Or a trash collector. Or anyone handy with a large pair of scissors—like a kindergarten teacher. Gabe chuckled, picturing some young, smiling teacher with a pencil in her hair and paint on her dress out in the storm trying to lull a Gorgon to sleep with a bedtime story.

As the storm kicked into full swing and swells broke against the island like grenades, the music faded to a faint vibration in the back of his head that gave beat to his movements. He didn’t have to think, didn’t have to strategize his next move. He’d been Keeper at this seemingly abandoned light since his sixteenth birthday when his powers first awoke. That was a decade ago. A decade spent killing every time a storm struck.

Time faded out of meaning. The storm raged, each strike of lightning on the water allowing another demon to cross over into the world. Another monstrosity for him to kill like a logger felling trees—only for loggers, the trees didn’t fight back. And so he slaughtered to the beat of “Almost Like Being in Love” and “Can’t We Be Friends” and “I Won’t Dance” and “Come Fly with Me” as he spent an entire quiver of bolts and half his supply of throwing daggers. Foul, putrid green blood dripped from his machetes; when drops hit his skin, they burned in such a way that even rain couldn't wash off.

Each hour he fought, each time he was forced to expend energy healing from a cut or hit or broken bone, weakened him. By the time he'd cycled through his playlist, he'd had his arm broken twice, his calf hamstringed from the pinchers of an enormous scorpion, two serious blows to the head, and been poisoned, burned, and sliced more times than merited counting.

Blood oozed down his right arm from a gash. Pulling his goggles down around his neck, he put his back to the damp walls of his house and sank to the ground. The storm surge nearly topped the base of the island, and soon if it continued, he’d be forced to fight demons from the tower itself. Given the confined space and limited room for movement, it wasn’t a prime spot for killing a cockroach, much less trying to eliminate an errant demon. His other option, the roof of his house, was even less appealing. Although sturdier than it looked from a distance, the sloping roof was difficult to stand on, much less try to fight from. Fleeing to the mainland was always an option; his boat was tied up at the island's small dock, but that meant giving up his post. Without a beacon to attract the demons, they could go anywhere. It might take him days to track them all down. The human causalities would be high, and so would the risk of exposure. No, even if it meant that he had to fight from the beacon room itself, he couldn’t leave. Gabe knew his duty, even if he often didn't like it.

Pulling himself up, he pushed the door of his house open and grabbed the small cooler he’d prepared earlier. He guzzled two energy drinks, crushing the cans easily and tossing them in the recycling bin. Being a Keeper meant he was stronger and faster and had more stamina than the average person; it also gave him heightened senses and a wicked ability to heal. Unfortunately, those gifts left him ravenous. Gabe snatched a protein bar from the cooler and opened it. He ate it in two bites and reached for another. The second he gobbled more slowly, as the gash in his arm mended. The fog in his head from hours of fighting started to lift.

Forcing himself back out into the rain, he did a quick survey of the storm. The waves were still whipped into a frenzy from the winds, but the boom of thunder sounded distant, and the flashes of lighting had moved down the coast. Any demons spawned that far south would have to be handled by some of the other Keepers. Maybe he wouldn’t have to make a last stand at his tower after all. At least not that night.

Gabe stepped over the carapace corpse of a half-man, half-crab demon. He’d deal with the bodies in the morning. What he needed was a good fire to beat away the chill in his bones and dry him out. Despite the storm moving on, the island still might flood, so sleep would have to wait a while. Besides, it was good practice to wait at least an hour after the last bolt of lightning just in case a particularly slow demon hadn't reached his trap yet.

The house was little more than a box with a table and miniature kitchen on the left side, a small bedroom on the right, and a fireplace along the back wall the building shared with the tower. It didn’t take long to get a fire going, and he set his wet things on a rack nearby to dry as he gave his weapons a perfunctory cleaning. He'd be more thorough once he was certain his watch had ended for the night.

Wearing boxers and a fresh t-shirt, he sat at the table and flipped open his laptop. The satellite hookup for internet took a little time, so he radioed in to the park office.

“Willamook reporting in.”

“This is headquarters. You’re clear to talk, over.”

He squeezed the trigger on the hand-held microphone. “The storm’s moved on south. No escapes to report.”

There was a hesitation on the other end. “Keep watch until you get the clear, copy?”

“Copy. Did some get through the perimeter guards?”

“That’s a negative, but Meceta Head’s not responding. I’ve sent a car out to investigate, over.”

Old Mr. Lorek had probably fallen asleep again. The retirement party they'd thrown him should have been enough of a clue that his watch was over. Still, as useless as the old man was, he'd done something Gabe's own parents hadn't had the courage or decency to do: he kept Rebekah from knowing the awful truth. Kept her from living a life about death. Unfortunately, that meant that Gabe himself became unwelcome after a while. He winced. “Want me to head up to shore?”

Please say no.

Another delay. “Negative. We’ll handle it from here.” Static surged through the connection. “And Gabe?”

“Yes?”

“Dinner soon—when the weather breaks? Your father and I miss you.”

He’d rather shove a fork into his eye than have dinner with his father and listen to another hour-long lecture about duty and the safety of the human race and why hadn't Gabe returned his calls. Especially since it took about an hour to get to shore and dock, and another two of driving to reach the regional center. “Of course, Mom. Just say when. Willamook out.”

Standing to find a new pair of pants so he could return to his watch, Gabe froze as a cold chill started at the crown of his head and traveled the length of his body, igniting every nerve ending like Fourth of July fireworks. The sensation stole his breath, and without thinking, he turned back toward the table and grabbed the microphone again.

“Mom? Are you okay?” he asked, a lump in the back of his throat.

Static.

“Mom? Dad? Someone answer me, damn it!”

Gabe punched the table, bloodying his knuckles. Glad for the pain to replace the pit of dread churning in his gut. He couldn't do it. Couldn't live through it again. Not this soon. Not when he'd finally been able to sleep through the night.

“Gabe?” Her voice was as frantic. “Gabe, answer me.”

“Mom. You're alive.”

“Dad and I are fine. Are you okay? I mean…”

He didn't let her finish. “Don't worry about me. Who was it?”

Keepers linked by blood, no matter how old or tenuous the thread, felt that rush of cold when one of their own died. If it hadn't been his parents, it was likely someone else he knew. Someone else's parent or child or wife.

“Not sure. Everyone's accounted for except Lorek and Moore. I hate to ask, but how soon can you get up there?”

“I'll take the Jet Ski. I can be up there in forty-five minutes, and I'll work my way inland from Cape Cove.”

“Okay. Be safe, son.”