The Lycan Rebirth (The Flux Age Book 3) (7 page)

“Then why do you draw an entire aquilan army toward us?” asked the large spider. Its tone was without rancor but somehow made Florence feel intensely guilty. She decided it was time for some honesty.

“My name is Florence Underwood, formerly of the Lycan Society. I have been recruiting lycans on New Providence so that the Society can one day continue its pledge to protect humans. We were attacked by the aquila and driven here. I’m sorry if our actions have put your kind in harm’s way.”

That familiar clicking sound resonated from deep within the spider’s fearsome maw. Was the thing scolding her or simply laughing.

“Allow me to be candid in return, lycan,” came the creepy reply. “My respect for Mother Aurora is the only reason every single one of you is not dead.”

“Then surely we should work together for our mutual benefit,” Florence pointed out. “The Mother could only approve were she here right now.”

The arachne considered Florence for several tense seconds.

“Relations between lycan and spider have never been good,” the spider retorted. “Your kind exterminated several arachne nests during the Dark Ages. We are not simply a mindless nest of spiders, lycan. We have kept records of the past and they speak ill of your kind.”

Florence looked closely at the arachne leader. She sensed immense intelligence, the kind that could achieve miracles in certain diplomatic circles. There was pride in the thing’s stance, perhaps a certain decency also. Florence decided to trust the beast right there and then.

“We are, for all intents and purposes, a dead race,” Florence said quietly. “These two trainees are all that is left of our nursery. The ghouls of the Berlin Club took
everything
. Including the dark tissue that enables us to live on after each Flux Age has ended.”

“The lycans have jealously protected their stores of dark tissue for several millennia,” the black spider intoned. “Let’s not pretend that things would be any different if your kin were still alive.”

Florence nodded, pinned by the harsh truth. “I cannot deny that, spider,” she eventually said. “But I also believe that the Lycan Society will never again be the sole protector of the human race.”

The spider considered Florence’s reply. “Your words do you credit, lycan, for they are both wise and clever. It is traditional for the arachne to follow somewhat darker stars. The vampyra, for instance. Or the night wraiths. What do you say to that?”

“I say that this is the 21st century and the arachne have changed,” Florence said confidently. “I say that the arachne should be more closely aligned with naturebound species, other creatures of the forest. Creatures like lycans. Sooner or later we’re all gonna need to protect our homes. Better to do that shoulder to shoulder, don’t you think?”

The spider’s many eyes blinked all at once. “Indeed,” it clicked. “I believe our interests are synchronized, at least for the short term. We will take you to our home.”

Florence sighed deeply, not realizing how tense she had become. She shared a glance with Julian, who shook his head in obvious relief.

“By the way,” the huge black spider said. “My name is Gustav Almasy. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Florence Underwood. Come. We have much work to do.”

5

Rocky Mountains, USA

Jack suddenly wished he had his backpack with him - he needed something to hold this most precious of all treasures. Still unable to believe he was actually holding some dark tissue, he tucked the box under a hairy arm and hurled himself through Hector Caliri’s window. All lycans had powerful frames rippling with muscle, and a two-storey fall was generally no problem. But lycans also had all the nerve endings that most mammals possessed. When Jack struck a rock on the point of his shoulder he howled in ragged pain. The fact that the blow would’ve killed a human outright didn’t come into it. It was a desperately unlucky blow because it cost him valuable seconds as he staggered to his feet.

The aquilan hideaway of Pinehaven was now awash with frenetic activity. A warning bell rang from the centuries old tower to the west. Two aquilans peered from Hector’s office window and fired silver six-shooters at him. The bullets went wide as Jack hared into the woods.

In theory, a lycan should be able to outrun an aquilan, even a battalion of them. But Jack hadn’t counted on the sheer bloody-minded determination of Hector, a most venerated leader. The burly aquilan must’ve been out for a minute at best, because he was now leading the chase with a squad of some twenty aquilan troops.

The wind whistled past Jack’s ears as he hurled himself over the soft, luxuriant woodland undergrowth.

“Give it up, Jack,” called Hector from somewhere behind him. “Give it up and we won’t torture you.”

Jack grinned at the gallows humor. He wasn’t surprised at the level of commitment in capturing him. For starters, he may well have been the last living lycan. Well, the last lycan from the old Society, anyway. Second, the dark tissue he held firmly was enough to use as an establishing colony. He wasn’t an expert on how the mysterious tissue worked, but he knew that an entire cercarium could be cultivated from a relatively small sample of tissue. Given enough time. Perhaps decades. But there was no doubt that what Jack had stolen was priceless. He had effectively stolen the aquilans’ future from them.

Jack eased into maximum speed, traversing the light woodland with ease. Keeping one eye on the sky, he wondered at the lack of eagle scouts up there. There was certainly a ground pursuit, as the occasional gunshot suggested, but the lack of air support was somewhat disturbing. What did Hector have up his sleeve?

Changing course in case he was loping straight into a trap, Jack turned down a deer trail that held an easterly direction. The terrain undulated into a low, moist valley south of Pinehaven. The roar of white water rapids assailed his ears as he picked his way through the dark fernery.

Up ahead a crumbling dam wall spanned a swirling, fast-flowing river. It was the MacDowell, and it ran all the way south to Mount McGuire. Grateful for the option to cross the river, Jack leaped onto the wall and skilfully moved along its precarious edge. White water foamed and spat less than a yard below him. The river had penetrated the wall in several places, far too strong and persistent for the century-old concrete. Jack jumped over the gaps with effortless agility. Keeping one eye on the fragile dam wall, Jack didn’t notice the figure standing on the opposite bank until it was too late. It was Hector, standing alone with his wings spread. The effect was humbling. The magnificent avian creature pointed a silver six shooter at Jack’s chest without so much as a word. Jack cursed vehemently under his breath. He should’ve known that at least one aquilan might try and cut off this escape route. Whereas Jack had sprinted round the long way, all the burly aquilan had to do was soar down the cliff face at the back of Pinehaven. All in all, Jack had to applaud the aquilan for his clever reading of the play. The eagle had him stone cold.

“I’m gonna drop this box straight into the fucking river,” Jack said spitefully. He couldn’t handle the idea of Caliri being the one to end his long, lycan existence.

Much to his chagrin, Hector merely shrugged. “You think that’s some cheap grocery box?” he asked with an infuriating sneer. “I don’t see how a little white water could possibly get in there.”

Jack believed the aquilan - he didn’t seem like the type to skimp on whatever contained his precious dark tissue. Worse still, Jack had no time to open the thing and carry out his threat. Hector would’ve sent bullets through his skull while he fumbled with the latch.

“Well then,” the werewolf said in a softer tone. “Looks like you got me.”

Hector smiled and winked, which made Jack hate him more than ever.

“Yeah,” said the aquilan. “Looks like I do. Throw the box to me.”

Now it was Jack’s turn to smile. “I don’t think so. And fuck you.”

Hector fired a single silver bullet into Jack’s torso. It struck him just above the heart and it felt like someone shoving a jagged poker straight through there. Jack felt himself falling to the side and then a bubbly, fizzing coldness enveloped his ailing body.

Fighting to keep the agonizing pain in his chest at bay, Jack was vaguely aware of being swept along the river bottom. He got a glimpse of smooth, polished stones on the river bed before he was tossed against a series of boulders like a pinball. The blows hurt but they were nothing against the throbbing fury of his bullet wound. Jack’s body surged again, taken by the current. In the red mist of his fight for life Jack clutched desperately to a single concept - a firm grip on the box. Even if he copped a hammering from the boulders strewn throughout the river, Jack protected the box with his back and shoulders. After what seemed an eternity Jack was suddenly thrown around like a rag doll as another set of rapids ensnared him. He held his arms to either side of his head in a classic boxer’s defensive stance, worried that a flush hit against one of those boulders would knock him out.

As he progressed through the rapids it became apparent that he had no say on where his limbs would go. All he could do was clutch onto the box tightly as he was put through a crazy spin cycle of cold, bracing water and unforgiving rock.

And then suddenly his bruised and battered body was allowed to sink. Not only was he free of the rapids, but the swift current had for the moment forgotten him.

His aching body as responsive as a lead weight, Jack willed himself to the surface, saw a tussock of grass a few yards away and heaved himself over to it. He lifted himself free of the water and lay on the gentle bank. The pain in his shoulder had been sharpened by the rapids experience and Jack wondered if he was going to pass out from the pain. In all his many years of experience that had never happened before, but then again he’d never had a silver bullet lodged barely an inch from his heart. The brutal reality was that he would die in this place. It wasn’t so bad. The sun was shining through the trees, the valley seemed to be a peaceful and isolated sanctuary.

Jack tried to control his breathing and string the process out as long as he could. He was certain the effort was futile, but survival was a relentless instinct within him, as it was with all lycans.

Lying there in the mid-afternoon sun, with the cicadas’ call washing over him in waves, Jack let his eyes close shut for what he presumed would be the last time. He must’ve blacked out for a period because the next thing he knew was he was being dragged by the feet through the undergrowth. His response wasn’t anything like anger or alarm, just a quiet fascination with what was taking place. His eyes fell shut again as a second set of hands held him by the wrists.

The sound of several voices drew him from the black abyss once again. The air was cool and the day’s light was fading fast. Jack saw a brazier silhouetted against the western sky and thought it was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. It occurred to him that he must be feverish. Death can’t be too far away, so why were people trying to help him? He was the definition of damaged goods. A few minutes passed and Jack realized he was now lying in a low cot in a small tent. Through the entrance flap he could see a roaring bonfire. It slowly became apparent that there were several people outside. Whatever they were doing, they were paying
him
no mind.

Jack tried to piece the fragments of his mind back together, glad that he wasn’t dead, but fully aware that whoever held him may not be friendly at all.

A tight bandage had been applied to his wound but judging from the pain it wasn’t gonna do much good. His box was gone. Stifling a wave of anger, he realized his best chance of surviving the coming night was complete rest and that meant leaving the questions till tomorrow.

As Jack pondered his strange new location, a hunched-over old man entered the tent and began stripping back Jack’s bandage. The werewolf was too tired and sick to argue. With a start he also realized he was butt naked. Probably had been since he hauled himself from the river. Oh well, at least he hadn’t soiled himself… he hoped. The old man nodded in satisfaction and dipped a brush into a bowl of white paste. Humming tunelessly, he applied the paste to Jack’s wound. The werewolf was too experienced to give voice to his ridiculous levels of pain. Instead he gripped the edges of the cot and stared daggers at the healer, who simply smiled.

“Did you get the bullet out?” Jack managed to croak.

The healer regarded Jack with twinkling eyes. “It no longer threatens you, wolf,” he said warmly.

Something about the healer made Jack relax a little, and he was content to drift away while the man applied that corrosive paste to his chest wound. Perhaps Jack
would
live. The prospect was eminently appealing but the werewolf couldn’t explore it further due to falling heavily asleep.

The sounds of a vibrant camp at dawn woke Jack from a deep, dreamless sleep. Children were playing somewhere nearby and a dog was chasing a rooster or chicken around. Jack opened his eyes and found the world wasn’t lurching from side to side anymore. He felt a
lot
better now that his fever had broken. What would’ve taken a human a week to get over he had done with one good night’s sleep. Even better, a clean set of clothes were folded at the foot of the bed. They were strangely rough, like they’d been crafted from natural materials found in that mountain valley.

His eyes adjusting to the light, Jack ventured out into the campsite. The sun was climbing above the pine stand to the east and the site was bustling with activity. Jack was surprised to see how big the camp was - it stretched for several hundred yards down the west bank of the MacDowell River. Tents had been arranged in very neat fashion so as to conserve space. A larger, circular tent was positioned amongst the trees to the west.