Shadow Train (23 page)

Uphir,

You remember the affair you helped me with last time you were in Middleburg. I need your help again. My prisoner is restless and you know as well as I what it will mean for both of us if he escapes. We must put this matter to rest soon, and for good. I know if anyone knows how to do that, it will be you. I implore you, come with all haste, for which I will pay you one hundred times your normal fee.

Orias

Azaziel lowered the scroll and calmly gazed at Uphir. “Last chance,” he said.

“All right!” Uphir shrieked. “I was going to tell you. I was on my way here to do exactly that when you summoned me. Orias has imprisoned his father with a spell of his own creation. And now . . . it sounds like he intends to kill him! But I had nothing to do with his terrible plot, my lord—I swear!”

The mighty angel paced, agitated. “Then how did you come by this knowledge?” he demanded.

“Well, I . . . it was . . . that house call I made. You remember, sire. Oberon was injured and he needed me to tend him—and you told me to remind him about the council meeting. I had no idea what his Nephilim abomination was up to, until it was done.”

“And you chose not to tell me?” Azaziel asked coldly and held up the scroll. “It sounds like you were in on it. Did it not occur to you that with Oberon trapped, I would get no news of the crystal? You know how long I have wanted to possess it. With its power I can open the Wheel and my army can cross into the Light and vanquish the Exalted Ones at last—then we can wipe out the humans, and the earth will be ours. The last communiqué I had from Oberon informed me that he had located it. And you helped a Nephilim imprison him?”

“No—no! But I can help
you
,” Uphir argued with a weak smile. “The boy—the mongrel—he trusts me. I can help you get Oberon back.”

“No,” Azaziel said. “You are not to be trusted.” He reached out one hand, wrapped his shiny black talons around the wispy smoke-neck of the doctor, and lifted him up. Uphir wriggled violently, trying to get free.

“No! Lord! Almighty one! Azaziel, NO!” he screamed, but the angel's countenance, terrible its beauty, was as immobile as those of his stone guards as he crossed the room with the spectral doctor in his grasp. To the left of the throne, a set of massive steel doors swung slowly open. Instantly, the room was filled with a gush of strong wind and searing heat.

“Behold!” Azaziel commanded. “Few are those who look upon the Pit and forget the sight!” He released Uphir, who drifted out over the edge of the balcony, suspended as if by an invisible hand.

The three bounty hunters scrambled along behind Azaziel. Rick and Bran exchanged a glance and followed, too. To Bran's surprise a series of angelic figures emerged from the shadows around them. They were clothed in black robes and had black wings but their skin, not as dark as Azaziel's, was a pale, silvery gray. Some had long raven hair and perfect features, like terrifying china dolls. Others looked like mannequins come to life, their exquisitely chiseled faces expressionless. The shortest of them was over six feet tall. Bran and Rick were swept up in the crowd as the fallen angels filed out onto a broad balcony.

At first Bran thought it looked out over a massive canyon, but on second glance, he decided it was an ocean. The shuffling crowd pushed him closer to the stone railing that bounded the balcony, and Bran understood that it was neither a canyon nor an ocean.

It was more like a black hole.

Below them was a pit that seemed to be miles wide and edged not with earth and stone but with the roiling black wind of a funnel cloud. It was as if someone had dug a huge crater and a tornado had fallen into it. At the center of the swirling hole, so far below that he could hardly make it out, there was a single spot of red, and Bran imagined that it might be the earth's molten core. From the pit there rose an endless wind that bore with it almost impossible heat.

The dark angels crowded around him and Rick, making their way to the edge of the railing, all of them gazing placidly at Dr. Uphir, who hovered above the swirling black pit, struggling harder against whatever invisible hand was holding him.

“Uphir!” Azaziel roared. “You are a betrayer, a purveyor of deceit. Even among the cursed inhabitants of the Dark Territory, you are a cancer that must be cut out. What say you?”

“P-p-please!” Uphir sobbed.

Bran looked at Azaziel's face; it was horrible in its serenity.

“Justice is inescapable,” Azaziel pronounced. “Your disobedience will be burned away in the Pit, Uphir. And when you have climbed up that long, long staircase, you will once again be worthy to serve me. If you make it back to the top.”

Bran looked over the edge of the balcony. There was indeed a staircase that wound downward in a great spiral, along the edge of the Pit. He wondered how far it was from that tiny red point back up to the top. A hundred miles? A thousand?

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Uphir shrieked.

“Yes,” Azaziel said quietly, and he lowered his hand.

Uphir plummeted downward into the Pit. After a few moments, his scream was lost in the sound of the wind and his flailing body vanished in the haze and the black, swirling clouds. Wordlessly, the angel congregation turned and went back inside. Bran now saw that there were stone bleachers along the edge of the room, and there the angels seated themselves. Azaziel took his throne and the ugly little bounty hunters arrayed themselves near the foot of it and knelt. The huge, steel doors swung shut again with a deep clunk, and Azaziel turned his gaze on Rick and Bran.

“What to do with the two of you, now . . .” he mused.

“Hey, look,” Rick spoke up. “You've heard the saying ‘don't shoot the messenger,' right? Orias sent us to deliver the scroll to some guy named Uphir. We had no idea we were going to end up in this place. The truth is, we don't even know what this place is, or what you are. I don't know how you guys decide your justice around here, but I can tell you for certain, we've got no idea what's going on.”

“That I can believe,” Azaziel said. “The sons of man, as usual, are eager to wrap themselves in ignorance. I'll give you a lesson, boy. Remember it: ignorance is among the worst of sins, especially when you have the means of understanding, yet choose to ignore it. Take yourself, for instance. Do you have any idea what you are? What you truly are?”

Rick considered, then shrugged. “Those little guys called me a demon.”

“What do you think?” Azaziel asked.

“I don't know why I look like this, but I'm not a freakin' demon. My dad is a human. My mom is a human. I'm a human,” Rick reasoned.

Azaziel laughed bitterly. “Forget your parents; you made yourself what you are. You have embraced the darkness, and now it's overtaking you. You delight in causing pain to others and sowing chaos wherever you go. What do you think it has made you?”

Rick didn't say anything for a moment. Then slowly he said, “I'm a demon?”

“One of the finest I've ever seen,” Azaziel assured him. “Now, approach my throne.”

As Rick obeyed, Azaziel held out his hand again and the black scroll obediently flew into it. The angel wrapped his talons around it and closed his eyes and a strange purplish glow emanated from his grip. After a moment, he opened his eyes and handed the scroll to Rick.

“Give that message to Orias for me,” he said, looking Rick in the eye. “And one more thing . . .” Azaziel leaned forward, cupped his hands, and whispered something into Rick's ear. Rick's eyes glazed over and, for a moment, a pulse of purplish light glowed in them. When he was finished speaking, Azaziel stepped back.

“You understand your task?” he asked. “When Oberon calls to you, you will go to him.”

“Yes. I will go to him.” Rick's voice was a strange monotone.

“But remember—not until he calls,” Azaziel said, and he smiled. “Keep thinking those wonderful, dark thoughts of yours, my boy. Do that, and you'll be quite a useful beastie.”

Rick smiled proudly and stuck the small scroll in the back pocket of his jeans. Azaziel waved his hand, and when the massive steel doors swung open once more, Bran couldn't believe what he saw.

This time, they opened not onto a balcony, but onto the foot of a small staircase encased in earth, in a room that looked for all the world like the one in Maggie Anderson's basement.

“Go!” Azaziel commanded.

Bran bounded toward the steps before the angel could change his mind. Rick followed closely behind him. Bran was exhausted and dehydrated and his legs felt like Play-Doh, but there was nothing he wanted more at that moment than to reach the top of those stairs and get out of Maggie's house.

Chapter 16

It was Friday evening and Weston Darling
sat in an oversized chair in the Goheens' family room, gazing at the little tan knees that peeked out from the bottom of Li Shao's skirt. She was crammed next to him in the chair, so close that he could smell her intoxicating floral perfume, and the scent made him almost dizzy with longing. All the Toppers except Zhai were there, watching the Kansas Jayhawks play the North Carolina Tar Heels.

The year they had moved to Middleburg, the Goheens had thrown a basketball party when the Jayhawks played the Tar Heels, and they invited every family they knew in Hilltop Haven. They had done it every year since, and it had become a tradition. Today, while the adults were gathered in the great room and the little kids ran around like maniacs in the basement, the teens had congregated here in the family room, watching the game on a smaller (but still respectably large) TV.

Kansas was down by nine points and the exuberance the party guests had felt at the beginning of the game had dwindled. But D'von Cunningham and his brother had a policy, just to keep things interesting, never to root for the same team and D'von, who had chosen the Tar Heels, was mocking his brother and talking smack, clapping loudly and taunting Cle'von every time his team made a shot.

Weston, however, had little interest in basketball. He'd realized early on that he would never be tall enough to play, and he had no interest in pursuing activities in which he had no future. He'd come to the party because, A) his parents had come, and B) Li was coming, and it was a good opportunity to spend time with her, especially since it was public. He had a conviction that if he spent enough time with her in public, they would become a couple by popular consensus. He used the same principle that if one person claimed they saw Bigfoot or a UFO, nobody would believe them—but if a hundred people said they saw it, it had to be real.

There was a C, too: he hoped to find a piece of the crystal ring. Ever since he'd gotten his commission from Agent Hackett, he'd been eager to make progress on the case, but he'd been so busy with homework and an extra-credit science project that he hadn't had time for sleuthing. Besides, he really had no idea where to look. He couldn't very well break into the houses of kids older and bigger than him and rifle through their dresser drawers.

Finally, he'd realized he had an advantage. They all underestimated him. Ergo, they would never imagine that he'd actually have the nerve to steal from them. Once he had that epiphany, he walked right up to Dax.

“Hey, um, Dax . . . excuse me, but . . .”

Dax's eyes were glued to the game. “Bathroom's down the hall on the left,” he said.

Weston cleared his throat. “No. What I was going to ask you was if you have a piece of the crystal ring. From the train tracks. You know—from the night Raphael Kain disappeared.”

At this, Dax had looked away from the TV. “Why you wanna know?”

“I . . . well, I'd just like to see it. Everyone's been talking about that night, and the ring and . . . I just want to see it, that's all. I'm just curious.”

Dax glanced around to make sure no one else was paying attention to them. “Don't tell Rick or Bran, but I let Zhai borrow mine,” he said. “Back when he was still the leader of the Toppers. I mean he still is, technically, but . . . anyway, he has it. You want to see it, ask him.”

Dax turned back to the game, and Weston went back to his chair and his spot next to Li, feeling mildly frustrated. She looked at him with a question in her eyes, but before he had a chance to explain her phone rang.

“Hello, Mother,” she answered. “Yes, the party is nice.”

Her mom, Li had told Weston earlier, hadn't been feeling well, so she and Li's dad had decided to skip the party this year. Weston suspected they weren't really the sports-party-type anyway—a point of view that he sympathized with immensely.

“Yes, Weston is here. He says hello. Kansas is losing. What?” she paused, listening. “Yeah, everybody's here—except I haven't seen Bran yet. Or Rick and Maggie, which is kind of weird.” She listened again. “Uh-huh . . . Okay, let me know if you need anything else. Bye.” She ended the call and looked at Weston. “No luck with Dax?” she asked quietly.

“He said he gave his shard to your brother,” Weston whispered.

“I'll take care of my brother,” Li said. She seemed so sweet and delicate, but when she made a declaration like that, it almost gave Weston the shivers—and that made her even more attractive.

“I wonder why Bran isn't here,” she said. “His mom told me he's off doing something with Rick. Want to go up and poke around in his room?”

Weston felt a sudden burst of panic. “What if someone catches us?” he whispered.

“Don't worry about that,” Li said. “Just follow my lead.” And she took his hand, dragged him out of the chair, and led him down the hallway.

“I don't know . . .” he began, but she put her finger to her perfect lips, silencing him, and led him up the stairs and into a long hallway lined with doors, which were all shut. Weston didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. There were too many doors, and he didn't know which one opened onto Bran's room. It would take time to try them all, and if they lingered, they would likely be discovered. It was better to go back down and think of another plan.

But Li was already charging forward and pulling him along. She hesitated at the first door and then walked on down the carpeted hall, slowly, like a member of a bridal party walking down the aisle. She passed three doors and stopped at the fourth.

“Here,” she said, and reached for the knob. But Weston grabbed her wrist.

“How do you know?” he hissed. “What if it's the wrong room? What if someone's in there!”

She smiled at him gently, as if pitying his ignorance. “He's an athlete,” she explained calmly. “His dirty clothes smell like sweat.”

She pulled out of his grasp, opened the door, and pulled him inside.

It was clearly Bran's room, Weston thought as the door clicked shut behind them. There were shelves full of trophies, walls full of Alabama Crimson Tide football posters, a dusty stereo, and a frayed wicker clothes hamper. The floor was a minefield of athletic shoes, balls of various kinds, a dog-chewed Frisbee, a cellophane-wrapped case of a drink called Muscle Milk, and a stack of magazines with the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue on top. There was also a desk, a chest of drawers, and a set of accordion doors that, he guessed, concealed a large closet.

“This is going to take forever,” he whispered. “We'll never find it in this chaos.”

Li took the room in at a glance. She walked directly up to the dresser and opened a wooden box that sat on top of it. That's when Weston heard footsteps in the hallway.

“Do you think he's asleep? He'd never miss the party,” A voice was saying.

“He's either napping or he's off with Rick somewhere,” another voice said.

“Which one is his room?”

“This one.”

Weston gave Li a look of wide-eyed desperation. “What do we do?” he breathed.

The footsteps were at the door and the knob was turning. But Li was perfectly calm. She grabbed the front of Weston's shirt, pushed him down on the messy, unmade bed, fell on top of him, and started kissing him. He almost fainted with shock as she jammed her tongue into his mouth.

The door opened, and Weston glanced over to find Dax, Michael, D'von, and Cle'von all gathered in the doorway. The Cunningham brothers snickered, and Dax and Michael looked stunned, as if they were staring at a pair of ghosts.

Li giggled as if embarrassed, stood up, and smoothed her skirt. “Whoopsie!” she said and scampered out of the room. The guys turned their attention to Weston.

“Nice work, little man!” Michael said with a grin.

D'von started chanting, “Wes, Wes, Wes!”

The other guys picked it up and, trying to act cool, Weston exited the room in a flurry of high-fives, hair mussing, and slaps on the back. He found Li waiting for him at the foot of the stairs.

“What—that was—why did you—?” he stammered, but Li simply held the ring shard up in front of his face. He snatched it and stuck it in his pocket before anyone else could see it. “You . . . you're brilliant,” he managed to say.

Her only answer was a cold smile as she took his hand and led him back to the family room.

* * *

The thing in the dark was coming for them. Bran and Rick had gone up no more than one hundred steps before the massive doors leading to Azaziel's chamber had swung shut, leaving them in darkness. On the way down those crazy stairs some strange ambient light from an unknown source, along with their flashlights, had lit their way, but now the illumination was gone and they had lost their flashlights. They climbed for another ten minutes or so in static, empty blackness before they heard it—the scratch and shuffle of movement beneath them.

Simultaneously, Rick and Bran stopped to listen and it came again—more insistently—followed by the clear echo of heavy footsteps. Whatever it was, it was coming up the stairs toward them. They ran then, pitching headlong into the unseen space above until, with an epic thud, Rick crashed into something. It had to be the door, Bran thought.

Please, God—let it be the door!

He raised his hands to pound on it and opened his mouth to scream for someone—anyone—to come and open it. He was already trying to tell himself that what he'd seen and heard down below had just been part of some bad, weird dream. That's what it had to be—a nightmare—but he was ready to wake up now. He wanted out of the dream and out of the basement. He took a deep breath, forming the name Maggie on his lips when suddenly a broad hand slammed across his mouth.

“Shut up,” Rick said. “Don't scream. We don't want to wake Maggie and her mom.”

“We've gotta get out of here, Rick—come on!”

“We're getting out,” Rick said calmly and something chimed in his pocket. His cell phone powering on. He grabbed it and lifted it to his ear, and in its glow, Bran could see that the monster was gone. He was Rick again.

“See—what did I tell you?” Rick said triumphantly, and he quickly punched in a number.

From somewhere in the darkness, Bran heard a growl. Whatever stalked them from below was coming closer. Bran smelled it, too, and the smell was hard to describe. It had the musky tang of a hog farm mingled with the dizzying reek of turpentine. And it was getting stronger.

“Rick . . .” Bran said uneasily.

“Don't be such a baby,” Rick said. “Whatever it is, we'll kick its ass.” And then he called down into the abyss below, “You hear that? Bring it on!”

The growling grew louder. It was hard to tell, but it seemed to Bran like it couldn't be more than a few feet away.

“How close are you to Hilltop Haven?” Rick was saying into the phone. “Great—I'm at Maggie's house. We're trapped in the basement. You gotta come and open the door.” He paused to listen and then he chuckled. “You
would
know a window. You're my kinda girl.” He hung up and said to Bran, “She's close by—already at the back gate. Five minutes.”

It was the longest five minutes of Bran's life as he listened in the dark for the shuffling and that low growl. Exhausted, he sat down on a step and cradled his head in his hands. And heard it again—the scratching, shuffling sound. Rick got out his cell phone again, switched it on, and turned its faint beam down the stairs.

What Bran saw confirmed that he was having a nightmare. It couldn't possibly be real. It was a scorpion the size of a Fiat, with a dark, sleek exoskeleton that was like body armor. But its head, its face, was that of a woman. Only she had the domed, multifaceted eyes of an insect, and where her mouth should have been, there was a set of black pincers that opened and shut continuously, endlessly . . . insatiably.

“Oh my God,” Bran whispered, scrambling to his feet. He'd accepted everything he'd seen so far with amazing calm, but now, he was completely overcome with terror. Heedless of Rick's order to stay quiet, he began pounding on the door. “Maggie!” he yelled as loudly as he could. “Mrs. Anderson! Maggie! Help!”

He glanced back once and saw the arachnid slowly climbing the stairs, getting closer. Its strange, carnivorous mouth was only a few feet away from them when somehow it spoke.

“Dead end,” it said, its voice buzzing like a bee, and it lurched forward.

Bran was bracing himself for the agony of those pincers tearing into his flesh when the door he was leaning against fell open and he found himself lying on his back in the Anderson's hallway, with Maggie standing over him. She was holding a very big frying pan and had it poised to come right down on his face.

“Bran?” She lowered the frying pan. “What are you doing in my basement?” she demanded—and then she saw Rick. “Never mind,” she said. “If he's involved it can't be good.”