Vampire Down (Blood Skies, Book 7) (25 page)

“
I’m surprised you heard about that already,” Ronan said.  The cup was warm against his hands, and the steam felt good on his chapped and scarred face.

“
That hurts,” Abraham smiled.  “You know I know people.”

“
And things that aren’t people,” Ronan said with a nod.  Abraham had contacts everywhere, and he was remarkably good at maintaining a low profile – he knew black market smugglers, high-ranking officers in the Coalition, members of the White Children, scavengers, bandits, even vampires and undead out of both the Ebon Kingdoms and New Koth. 
And if any of those contacts guessed at how much he knew, he’d be dead meat. 
“That’s why I came.”  Ronan nodded at his pack.  “There’s a bundle near the top of my pack that’s for you.”

“
What is it?” Abraham asked. 

“
Take a look.”

“
I trust you.”

Like hell you do
, Ronan thought.  He knew there was a full-bodied flame ghost in an overhead compartment, which Abraham’s witch girlfriend Ice had bound to his will a long time ago.  If that wasn’t bad enough, Abraham was an ex-Southern Claw Hunter who’d served along the front lines in Blackmarsh, so he was more than capable of handling himself, and Ronan didn’t doubt there was at least a pair of bodyguards waiting in the next room. 

“
Gold,” Ronan said.  “Two bars.  Courtesy of our friend Rage.”

It was easy to tell when Abraham was pleased, because he always stopped smiling.  He pulled his barstool away from the table and sat down on his hands. 

“You have my attention,” he said.

“
I’m looking for a girl,” Ronan said.

“
I’ve got plenty of those.”

“
Not this one.  She’s going to Bloodhollow.”

“
Then she’s insane,” Abraham said matter-of-factly.  “Shit, you know that place is just a fuckin’ fairy tale.  Why would you even…”

“
The
why
is my business,” Ronan said.  “But here’s the thing – the Marauders knew some other mercs who were going there.  A black market dealer had set things up for them, and they said that dealer happened to be
you
.”  He fixed Abraham with a cold stare.  “What can you tell me about that?”

Abraham watched him, and after a moment he slowly removed his sunglasses.  The air turned suddenly quiet.

“You sure you want to know this?” Abraham asked.

“
I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t,” Ronan said.

Abraham pursed his lips.  His voice was cracked, and he spoke in a measured tone – the tone he always used when things turned serious.

“How long we been friends?” he asked.

Ronan probed a painful tooth while he stared at the other man.

“I don’t have friends, Abe,” he said.  “But we’ve known each other a long time.”

“
A long time,” Abraham said with a nod.  “A long time.  And you know I would do anything for you.”

“
Then tell me how to get to Bloodhollow,” Ronan said.  “A girl’s life is in danger.”

“
Suppose I said that’s too bad,” Abraham said after a pause.  “Suppose I said some things are off limits.  Even for you.”

Ronan watched him carefully.  A beat of silence passed, and then another. 

“Then I’d have to do something neither of us wants me to,” Ronan said at last.  “And that would be too bad, so it would be easier if you just told me.”

More silence.  Everything seemed to fade.

“All right,” Abraham said with a nod, and Ronan felt the air in the room shift moments before the flame spirit descended.

He knew the attack was coming, and his katana leapt into his hand.  The weapon was so familiar it was like an extension of his arm.  It wasn’t magical, but his training with the Crimson Triangle made it like magic in his hands.  He knew the precise angles and areas to cut so he could maximize damage to undead opponents, and he was just as adept at destroying the living.

The ghost rained down like molten jet.  Ronan tasted burning air, saw pinprick white eyes in the roiling body of orange flames.  His skin sun-cracked as heat washed down over him, a bed of fire and smoke.  The katana curved upwards, seared straight through the elemental’s core and halved it.  Ghostly screams echoed as flames seared out and skipped across the ground, catching on the black drapes and setting them alight.  Unguent of the discarded wastelands soul washed over Ronan in a bitter tide. 

Abraham had his gun in hand, and as Ronan had guessed a pair of bodyguards ran into the room, large men in dark leather armor, HK416s held before them.  Ronan gazed through the flames.  Everything slowed.  The world bled grey, a haze of smoke and dust.  He felt his heart beat like a hollow drum, dissonant and cold.

He’d entered the Deadlands without even intending to.

Ronan moved as if in a dream, his speed ten times that of his opponents.  Abraham raised the shotgun but Ronan had already released a throwing knife which took his old friend in the forearm.  The gun fell and fired, and shot ricocheted off the walls. 

The HK416s ripped to life.  Ronan moved out of their line of fire and behind the weapon racks, passing through the flames just long enough to feel his skin blister.  Fire smoke filled the air, and even in the tight confines of the room it was easy to get lost in the labyrinth of shelves and smoke.  Ronan reached out with his unnatural senses, found three heartbeats in the chaos. 

A bullet glanced his shoulder, drawing blood but no pain.  He caught sight of himself in a mirror moments before it shattered and saw a monster looking out through a mask of flesh, trapped and dead inside his own skin. 

The world shrunk.  There was just he and the flames and the shadowy heartbeats.  Ronan’s arms swept up, sawing through the first man’s throat; he rotated the blade all of the way around the neck, cutting him from one end to the other, an orbiting slice that spilled blood and fatty tissue.

Walls of fire loomed in around them.  Ronan crouched low, trying not to breathe in the smoke, but it was a struggle.  He was in the Deadlands, and getting out wasn’t going to be easy. 

He pushed forward, driven by instinct.  A single bullet struck his leg and made it buckle, forcing him to his knees.  It occurred to him even as he tried to regain the strength to stand that he was still waiting to feel the pain.

The gunman appeared through the walls of smoke, dark mask fixed in place and goggles over his eyes, reflective armor holding off the flames.  Ronan thought for a second it was the blonde boy, come back to finish the job after all of these years.  Part of him wanted that release.

No.  She’s still out there.  You aren’t allowed to die, not yet.  You have to save Shiv.

Coppery blood swept through his mouth as he threw himself forward.  Gunfire ripped next to his head and deafened him as his thin black blade pierced the man’s gut, splitting him open and sending him to the ground. 

Disorientation hit Ronan like a blast of scalding water.  He sensed that Abraham was no longer there, so he pushed his way out of the room.  The back area of the shop was a smoke-filled office packed with more racks of weapons and barred cages holding rare metals.  Another door led to a long hall. 

Shit.

He was slipping out the Deadlands.  Pain rushed in at him like a tide, and he was suddenly so weak he could barely support himself.  The front room was fully on fire and his pack was still there, by now incinerated with the rest of it. 

Ronan shut the door and pushed himself against the wall.  It was a struggle to keep his eyes open.  Everything was slipping away, and before he could take another step, it did.

“
God dammit, Ronan.  What the fuck is wrong with you?”

His vision faded in, and Ronan found himself staring at the stars.  The air was still and frozen, a shock to his skin.  He was exhausted beyond measure, and even with the icy atmosphere Ronan felt himself barely clinging to consciousness.  His mind was filled with haze and hurt, and voices echoed and faded like he’d fallen into a tunnel. 

He was on a slow-moving truck, lying on the bed of a military grade transport which rumbled along the uneven hills, crushing stones as they drove near rows of dead trees.  Untended fires off the sides of the road burned in the night, and Ronan spied slight warriors armed with razored bows patrolling the wastelands. 

Lith.

Ronan slowly sat up.  He tasted acid on the night current, smelled burning meat.  The moon was full and bright.

There were others on the truck, armed men in dark armor seated in two rows of seats that ran the length of the walls around the bed.  The vehicle shifted violently, but Ronan dragged himself up with aid of the chains on the rear door.  If the half-dozen men didn’t want him to rise they made no motion to stop him.  His clothes were soaked, and there was an uncomfortable tightness in his back.  He felt drugged.

“That was a hell of a nice shop,” Abraham said.  “I ought to take it out of your ass.”

The black marketer sat on the bench next to him, dressed in combat armor, his white eyes bright in the night.  A thick bandage had been wrapped around his forearm where Ronan’s knife had sunk through. 

Ronan rubbed his sore ribs and realized his weapons were gone.

“
What the hell is going on?” he asked. 

“
Lots,” Abraham said.  “Right now, we’re taking a ride.”

Ronan looked out across the broken hills and scattered dead forests. 

“We’re heading towards Seraph,” he said.

“
Close,” Abraham nodded.  “Ath.”

“
Why?” he asked. 

“
You’re not in any position...”

Ronan moved fast.  The man seated behind him wore a Noveske N4 Diplomat slung over one shoulder; fatigued or no, Ronan had spent a lifetime training to kill others, and that meant making sure they couldn’t kill him first, so in a fluid motion he slid the rifle off and away from the other man, cracked his elbow against the soldier’s forehead and turned and aimed the gun at Abraham’s face before anyone else could move.

“I’m in perfect position,” Ronan growled.  “Talk.  Why did you try to kill me back in your shop, why didn’t you finish the job…and what the hell is going on here?”

“
I can answer that,” a woman’s voice said.  “But only if you put down the gun and stop acting like an infant.”

Ronan caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye, a woman near the head of the truck.  Her cloak was black and heavy, and she was surrounded by a tightly wound spirit which uncoiled and spread out in a dissonant grey and green fog.  The specter solidified around her thin body as she stood and stepped forward, unaffected by the rocketing motion.

Ronan had only met her a couple of times before.  He hadn’t trusted her then, and he sure as hell didn’t trust her now.  She’d aged, though that did little to affect her exotic beauty – if anything, it had enhanced it.  Pale skin, deep red hair, emerald eyes that pierced through to his very core.  A serpent tattoo wound its way along her neck.  She exuded raw sexuality, a virulent energy which folded space around her like a burning wave. 

“
Hello, Ronan,” she said.  “Lucky for you I was in town, or else Abraham would have gutted you like a fish after you fell unconscious.”  She smiled demurely.  “I believe you need my help.”

“
Warfield,” he said.  “I’d say it’s nice to see you, but I’d be lying.”  He glanced at Abraham, who smiled.  Ronan breathed deep, decided he was fucked no matter what happened, and lowered the gun.  To his surprise, none of the mercenaries moved.

“
Be nice, Ronan,” she said.  “You and I can help each other.”

“
How’s that?” he asked.

“
You want to find Bloodhollow,” she said.  “And I want you to help me find Eric Cross.”

Ronan blinked. 

“Honey, Cross is dead.  He’s been dead for nearly a decade.”

Warfield just shook her head.

FOURTEEN

FIRES

Year 25 A.B. (After the Black)

Hasker’s unit, The Bloody Teeth, consisted of three-dozen battle-hardened commandos and a handful of Raza and Troj.  Out of an entire army of bad men, they were worst.  Any qualms they might have ever possessed of not killing innocents had been abandoned long ago, and it sometimes seemed they went out of their way to maximize civilian casualties, even if said citizens were supposedly under Coalition protection. 

Two warships accompanied an aerial troop transport, a squat and ugly vehicle that looked like melted sea-glass.  The vessels cut across a sky pregnant with oil clouds and dry storms.  Cross ran a hand through what was left of his short dark hair – he’d cut nearly all of it away since being forced into servitude with the East Claw Coalition – and his fingers passed over the scars on his face and scalp.