Vault of Shadows (20 page)

It was all Ramirez could manage to say.

Milo cleared his throat. “I, um, took it off a shocktrooper I kind of ambushed this morning.”

And so there was another piece of the story to explain to the soldiers. He did so very quickly, mindful of their need to flee. When he got to the part about the Huntsman's ship, a dozen of the soldiers stood in a circle around him, eyes and mouths wide, staring at him as if
he
was from another planet.

“It's been a weird week,” Milo concluded.

FROM MILO'S DREAM DIARY

Writing down the story that I dreamed . . .

Once the boy had found the library in the huge, dark, shadowy, dusty old manse, it was clear that he had found a place that had been waiting just for him.

It was the library of Gadfellyn Hall.

A forgotten room in a forgotten wing of a forgotten house. Filled with forgotten books that wanted so desperately to be remembered.

When he stepped inside, he stood for a long, long time just staring at all the books. There were so many of them.

So many.

And so many kinds. Tall volumes bound in carved wood, leather-bound books in groups, stacks of scrolls tied in red ribbon, heaps of tablets made of clay and lead, blocks of stone with writing that looked like pictures, even paperback books that looked too new to belong in such an old library.

So many books on shelves and tables or stacked by themselves in crooked towers. Books on stands or laid open on tables or facedown on the arms of chairs. Books that looked like they were being read by someone who had briefly stepped away and then become distracted and forgotten to return. Books with markers in them—strips of cloth, odd pieces of paper, folded receipts, anything that would remember a place. There were books placed side by side on the table so that the text of one could be easily compared with the other. There were small stacks of books beside chairs or on chair-side tables, patiently waiting their turn. There were books pulled slightly out of place on the shelves as if frozen at the instant of being selected.

Books and books and books.

But no people. No sounds at all other than the excited breathing of the boy who stood and gaped in wonder.

For the first time in a very long while, the sad and lonely boy smiled.

For the first time in a very long while, the sad and lonely boy felt as if he'd found his way home. He loved books. In books anything was possible—even the impossible.

Outside, in the hall, there is a single set of footprints pressed into the dust. The footprints lead to the library door and then through it. Each print is filled with dust now.

No footprints lead away, though many years have passed.

W
ith his eyes still glazed from everything Milo had told him, Sergeant Ramirez led his team away from the clearing and into the woods. The holo-man had been taken down and quickly buried, with nothing more than a fist-sized rock placed over his grave. The idea of a “proper burial” was something Milo knew about only from books. Most of the millions who had been killed during the invasion were never buried at all, and their bones littered the otherwise empty cities of the world.

They went inland, following a path that seemed awkward until Milo realized why. Instead of following any natural path such as an overgrown track, game trail, or deserted road, they went through the densest parts of the forest. The Bugs were highly logical, and if they didn't have an obvious trail, they'd follow the most likely one. It was how the EA teams managed to stay ahead of the Bugs. Two soldiers ranged ahead to pick their trail and watch for trouble; two others worked their back trail, erasing all signs of the platoon's passage. It was done quietly and with great efficiency. Milo knew good woodcraft when he saw it, and these men and women were
every bit as good as the soldiers his mother trained.

When they were a mile from the sad grave, Ramirez said, “This hologram tech is new, and it's scaring me silly. Something's made the Bugs take a jump forward. I mean, the actual tech isn't new, but their applications are smarter, more devious. We're losing too many people lately.”

Milo said, “It's got to be the Huntsman. He was a soldier and part of him is human. Maybe that helps him set better traps.”

“Maybe,” said Ramirez, in a tone that suggested he agreed, although reluctantly. “If that's the case, then we could be in real trouble. I mean, in worse trouble. The Bugs have muscle and numbers, but we were always smarter, trickier. And we've started figuring out how a lot of their tech works. I heard that up in Wyoming our guys are test-flying our own version of barrel-fighters and drop-ships. And there's a Special Ops squad working the outskirts of Philly that had some prototype sky-boards.” He tapped the pulse pistol that was now tucked into his belt. “This thing is an insane find. We've never had a working Bug gun before. Not in all these years. If we can duplicate the tech and figure out how to make those focusing crystals, then we might even be able to turn this whole thing around.”

Except,
thought Milo darkly,
the Huntsman is out there.

Milo knew that the mutant was the most dangerous X factor in the whole war. His imagination, his knowledge of human battle tactics, and his ferocious insanity were
unbelievably dangerous. And if he ever got hold of the Heart of Darkness—or any of the secrets of magic—then no amount of tech was going to stop the Swarm. This and every other world would fall. Including the realms of shadow into which most of the adult Nightsiders had escaped.

“That holo-man saw me and read my mind,” said Milo cautiously. “Does that mean the rest of the Swarm know I'm here? I mean, right here in this part of the woods?”

Ramirez nodded grimly. “I don't know for sure, but we think that's how it works.”

“So the Bugs are coming?”

“The Bugs are always coming, kid. But I know what you're asking, and—yes. Which is why we are not going to be anywhere around here when they arrive. I have scouts watching high and low.”

They ran in silence for a while, and then Milo summoned the courage to ask, “Don't suppose you heard anything about my mom?”

“No, kid, sorry. When some shocktroopers were killed, the request was passed down to your camp for her to check it out 'cause your camp was closest. Since then, nothing.”

Milo walked for a while with his fists balled in frustration. The big soldier cut him a look.

“Doesn't mean she's dead, you know. From everything I heard about Colonel Silk, she is both tough and sneaky. She has a rep for getting her people out of some really sticky situations.”

Almost always,
thought Milo. Dad had been on a patrol with Mom when he went missing. But no one can win all the time. Not even Mom, though it hurt him to think it.

“I wish she hadn't gone out,” said Milo. “I mean, because of the attack and all.”

Ramirez walked a few paces before he responded. “There's a lot of different ways to look at that one, kid. If she'd been at your camp, she might have been killed.”

“She could have won the fight. . . .”

“Really? Against a hive ship and that Huntsman dude? I don't think so. No, kid, at most she'd have maybe—
maybe
—gotten some more survivors out, but she'd have tried to make a fight of it, and there are some fights no one can win.”

“I don't believe that,” said Milo.

The soldier said nothing, but Milo didn't want to let it go.

“I'm serious,” said Milo. “My dad and mom both told me that there's always hope. There's always a way. Never say never.”

Ramirez merely grunted and they walked on. Ten minutes later the soldier said, “We'll keep trying to get your mom on the radio. The Bugs have been dropping EMP poppers. You know what they are?”

“Sure. Electromagnetic pulse bombs. They fry anything with a computer.”

“Right. They've started using them before some of
their raids. They drop some and then once communications are down, they send in their shocktroopers. Your mom's radio could have been fried, but don't worry—the downside to the Bugs' using those poppers is that even though it cuts out the radios, it pretty much advertises that they're coming. Your mom, being smart, would have gone to ground. She could be waiting it out in a bolt-hole, letting her trail go cold, letting the Bugs get gone, you dig?”

“I know.”

It was an encouraging thought.

Ramirez had his team stop for a three-minute rest, and he called the rescue team. He spoke very little and listened for a long time, occasionally making noncommittal grunts. Milo tried to eavesdrop, but he could only hear one side of the hushed conversation.

“Good,” said Ramirez. “We're four miles out and will come at you from the east, one hundred yards in from the water. Out.”

Milo was almost afraid to ask. “Was . . . was everything . . . I mean, how are my friends?”

Ramirez frowned and Milo's heart sank, but then the big sergeant said, “Everyone's still sucking air, so we're good. Couple of your people are in bad shape, but our field medics are top notch. That one kid, the Cajun boy with the spike in him, what's his name?”

“Barnaby Guidry. He's our pod leader.”

“He's in the worst shape, but the doc says they can
patch him up. He won't be scavenging anything for a while. They said whoever gave him that herbal field dressing saved his life. What was that stuff, anyway?”

Milo shook his head. “I don't know. My friend Lizzie put it together from things she found in the woods.”

“She a medic or herbalist?”

“No, she's a kid. Youngest member of our pod.”

Ramirez looked skeptical. “Then someone told her what to gather. The medic said it was a very sophisticated mixture. Exactly the right herbs and roots in exactly the right amounts.”

Milo said nothing. Even Evangelyne had been surprised by what Lizabeth had used. She called it “old magic,” whatever that meant. Lizabeth hadn't studied any kind of magic, and as far as Milo knew, she'd never taken any herbal medicine classes beyond what was generally taught in their camp school.

“What about the others?” Milo asked tentatively. “One of my friends, a girl, broke her legs and—”

“Really? That wasn't in the report. Must not have been too bad.”

Or,
thought Milo,
Evangelyne wasn't there at all.

He hoped she had awakened enough to transform so that she could use the healing powers—however they worked—that were part of being a werewolf.

The other alternative was a lot scarier. Maybe she'd been so bad that Mook had simply taken her away. He had no idea what the death customs were for the
Nightsiders. If she died, would Evangelyne's grave be a small mound in the forest marked by a simple rock? Or something equally sad?

It was a wretched thought.

Suddenly, as something rustled in the woods off to their left, everyone froze and a gun seemed to magically appear in the hands of each soldier. Milo was surprised to see that the big sergeant held the alien pulse pistol in a two-hand shooter's grip.

The woods grew still around them, the darkness of late twilight fading everything into a purple gloom that blurred all outlines into meaningless blobs.

Careful to make no sound, Milo drew his slingshot and fitted a ball bearing into the pad. The metal ball felt heavy and dangerous, and he raised the weapon, ready to hit back at the Bugs with a piece of their own murderous tech.

The sound had come from directly in front of where he stood, maybe twenty feet into the woods. They all crouched, ready to fire, ready to flee.

Then, gradually, Sergeant Ramirez relaxed and straightened. He lowered his pistol and the others slowly did the same.

“Must have been a squirrel or a coon,” said one of the soldiers.

“Maybe a possum,” said someone else.

They all kept careful eyes on the woods for a while, before deciding that it truly was nothing. If it had been
a hunter-killer or a Stinger, there would be no doubt by now. Even a shocktrooper scout would have fired on them, confident in its greater power and weapons.

However, Milo thought he caught the slightest hint of a tree moving the wrong way, and had a momentary image of a face made not of flesh but of wood, leaves, and acorns.

Oakenayl?

Could it be the wood boy? If so, how could he have gotten all the way over here? Milo knew that the wood spirit could shed his body and make a new one from any living tree, but did that also mean that between inhabiting construct bodies he could fly like the wind?

Somehow Milo didn't think so, because surely one of the Nightsiders would have mentioned that.

So whose leafy face had he glimpsed in the deep, dark woods?

Or had he seen anything at all?

“These woods are getting weird,” muttered Ramirez.

“You have no idea,” said Milo, but he didn't say it loud enough to be heard.

T
hey reached the lakeshore just as a gibbous moon was breaking through the ceiling of clouds. The nearly full moon painted everything with a cold blue light, and Ramirez's team made sure to stick to the shadows. When they were still fifty feet from the lake, Milo cupped his hands around his mouth and made a sound like a barred owl, one of the night birds common to bayou country.

A few seconds later another owl called in reply.

“That's Shark,” said Milo, and he went out to meet his friend.

Shark and Killer were the only members of Milo's camp left on the beach, and they had been hiding beneath a tree with a female soldier. The soldier took Ramirez aside to give her report and Shark did the same with Milo.

“I can't believe you found help this fast,” said Shark, greatly relieved.

“Everyone got out okay?”

“The skimmer just left with the last of the wounded,” he said. “I said I'd wait here with the corporal.”