The Dark Storm (10 page)

“No, I fear this is the work of the Nimrod and whatever dark designs it has for my grandson.” Redfeather raised his hands to the heavens and muttered something over Gabriel’s prone form.

“What was that, another spell?” De Mona asked.

“No, a prayer,” Redfeather said seriously.

“Yeah, we’ll probably need plenty of those,” De Mona said, examining Gabriel. When her eyes passed over his arm, which was dangling over the edge of the couch, her breath caught in her chest. “Holy shit!”

Redfeather looked to where De Mona was staring and his mouth also dropped open. The relic hadn’t vanished at all; it had etched itself into Gabriel’s arm. Where the skin had once been smooth and clear, there was now a tattoo of a trident in the center of a storm.

“Was it supposed to do that?” De Mona asked.

“I … I … This is most unusual,” Redfeather said, moving to get a closer look. The picture was raised and still glowing slightly, as if it would come to life at any second.

“What’s it doing?” De Mona asked, backing up.

“We won’t be finding out.” Redfeather wrapped Gabriel’s arm in what was left of a curtain. “We don’t need a repeat performance of what just happened.”

“This is unreal.” De Mona began pacing the floor, trying her best not to stumble over the debris.

“I’m afraid it’s all too real. I should’ve seen it coming; I should’ve seen it.” Redfeather slumped to the ground and placed his head in his hands.

“There’s no way you could’ve predicted that this thing would’ve come to your grandson, let alone come to life,” De Mona said.

“But I did.” When he looked up at her his eyes were glassy. “We are the last members of our tribe, and direct descendants of the great Hunter, but not all of us carry whatever spark it was that made our line so special. In all the years that I was in possession of the dagger it never answered to my touch, but it did for my son, Gabriel’s father. As it had been passed to me by my father, I gave it to him. In all the years I’d had it the thing had never so much as reacted to me, and I expected as much for my son. When the dagger reacted to my child I allowed him into this,” he motioned around the ruined room, “and it proved to be his undoing, as the Nimrod threatens my grandchild.”

De Mona studied him for a time. When she’d originally sought the Redfeathers out it was only to use them to gain the answers she needed to the mystery of the trident, but as she was coming to know them she saw the same goodness in the clan that her father always spoke of.

“We’re not gonna let that happen to him.” De Mona placed a reassuring hand on Redfeather’s shoulder. This time he didn’t recoil from the demon’s touch. “Maybe these Sanctuary guys can help?”

“That’s it!” Redfeather sprang to his feet so quickly
that he startled De Mona. “Help me get him upstairs; we have to go.” Redfeather grabbed Gabriel by the legs while De Mona took him under the arms. In all truthfulness the Valkrin could’ve carried him on her own, but she allowed Redfeather to help.

“And where exactly are we going? We can’t leave him here alone,” she asked as they made their way to the upper levels of the brownstone.

“We won’t; I have a friend who I can call to sit with him while we’re gone. If anyone can make sense of what’s going on with my grandson, Brother Angelo can.”

“Well, what do we have here?” Morgan leaned over the rooftop. When his pale hand touched the concrete rail it darkened, taking on the hue of the rail. “It looks like someone else has joined the party.”

“That’s not the same guy we saw her with earlier.” Jackson absently twirled a silver stiletto between his gloved fingers, stepping closer to Morgan. When Jackson moved, it was like watching a shadow. Peering over the ledge, his unnaturally sharp eyes spied their quarry leaving the brownstone.

“A brilliant observation,” Morgan said sarcastically.

Jackson flashed his diamond and gold teeth at his partner. “Don’t be a wiseass, Red. Who’s the old guy?”

“Why don’t you ask the wizard?”

“I heard that
,” Jonas’ voice came in over Morgan’s earpiece.
“Can you get close enough to get a visual for me to work with
?”

“I could probably get close enough,” Jackson offered. He had the uncanny ability to move unseen when he wanted to. It wasn’t the same as becoming invisible, but you wouldn’t notice him unless you were looking directly at him, another unexplained side effect of what they now only referred to as “that night.”

Back then Jackson was a hard-ass teen born in the Bronx and raised by the streets of New York. In those days Jackson ran with a gang of vicious young punks who were the scourge of their housing projects. One night Jackson and his gang had chased what they thought were two rival gang members to a deserted section of Hunt’s Point. When Jackson’s gang finally managed to corner them inside a meatpacking facility they learned the ugly truth. The two men had been posers, and Jackson’s gang had walked smack into a nest of vampires. The creatures moved so fast that by the time he was able to scream his crew had already been wasted.

By the time Morgan came upon Jackson, there wasn’t much left of him. Jackson fought with all that he had and was rewarded by the vampires literally tearing him limb from limb before bleeding him out. As Jackson lay there, taking what he knew were his last breaths, fate threw him a bone in the form of a blinding flash of light. Most of what happened was a blur, as he was in and out of consciousness, but he remembered flashes of a red beard and the sounds of screams.

The vampires were vicious but hardly a match for Morgan’s jeweled hammer. When the Irishman was done there wasn’t enough of them left for the morning sun to cook. His wrath was swift but, unfortunately for Jackson, not swift enough. His body was a mass of bruises, bloody gashes, and mutilated limbs. Morgan had assumed the man was dead until he started dousing him with kerosene, drawing a low moan from the broken body. Jackson’s breathing was faint but steady and the fire that burned in his eyes could’ve melted the polar caps. He was a man who wasn’t quite ready to die, and knowing this touched Morgan and he didn’t kill Jackson.

When Jonas found out what Morgan intended to do, he all but ordered him to finish Jackson off before the infection
could take hold, but Morgan couldn’t do it. Much like the young man, Morgan too had once been a victim. The forces of hell had slaughtered his wife and children, leaving him to die in a gutter. As Jonas had done with Morgan, he would give the broken man a fighting chance. Gathering up the body and ignoring Jonas’ rants about the man carrying the infection, Morgan disappeared.

The first week was the hardest. The vampire infection ravaged the young man’s body. It was like watching a heroin addict go through withdrawal but ten times worse. Day and night Morgan watched over the young man, ready to dispatch him if he showed signs of the change. To Morgan’s amazement, he didn’t. Though his wounds were healing faster than anyone had expected, he didn’t seem to carry the infection. Morgan nursed the young man back to health, helping him adjust to being handicapped. Jackson’s mind seemed whole enough, but his body was still broken.

Jonas was irate and had even personally tried to finish Jackson off, but thankfully Morgan was able to stop him. He had seen too many young men and women fall victim to the dark to not give the stranger a fair chance. Not only did Jackson’s body fight off infection, but he also seemed to be healing alarmingly quickly. After three weeks Jackson was walking again and the worst of his wounds had healed. Jonas thought that it was a delayed reaction from the turn, but all Jackson’s tests had come back negative. He may not have been infected by the vampires, but something had triggered a biological reaction in him. A month later, Morgan presented the former victim with two gifts that would change his life.

After six long months of physical therapy and a crash course in the supernatural, Jackson was well enough to venture back out into the world, but he had nowhere to go. His gang had been his only family, and much like Morgan
and Jonas the forces of hell had made him an orphan, so it was no surprise when Jackson asked to stay. He couldn’t go back to living an everyday hood life with what he’d seen and been through. Morgan and Jonas had snatched the blinders off, and Jackson now saw the world through a new set of eyes, and what he saw wasn’t pretty. From then on, the duet had become a trio. They would find themselves in some tight situations over the next few years, some better than others, but one thing was apparent about their newest member: Jackson might not have contracted the vampire infection, but he did acquire a taste for blood … the spilling of it.

“Negative, we still don’t know if they’re really human or posers. Morgan, I need you to head back here so we can see if we can make heads or tails out of the data we’ve already gathered. Jackson, I want you to follow them, but by no means are you to approach, is that understood
?”

“Come on, dawg, can’t I have a little fun?” Jackson whined.

“Yeah, it’ll be fun until you find out you just drew down on two Weres and they make a candlelit dinner out of you
,” Jonas warned.
“Fall back, Jackson. We can’t take any chances until we know what their deals are
.”

“You got it,” Jackson said, cutting off his radio. He mumbled something under his breath and punched the brick wall beside the exit door, chipping it.

Morgan waited until he was sure Jonas wasn’t still on the line before speaking to his friend. “So, are you gonna do like the man has asked or do what Jackson wants to do?”

Jackson looked at Morgan as if he had asked a stupid question. “Man, how long have you known me?”

“Jesus, lad, why can’t you just do things the correct way for once?”

Jackson shrugged. “Because I might wake up one day, discover how boring my life actually is, and kill myself.” Jackson winked at his partner and leapt over the side of the building.

Morgan just shook his head and calmly walked to the stairs.

Titus balanced himself against his desk, waiting for the pain to pass. It was similar to what he had felt earlier yet more intense. Somewhere in New York, the Nimrod stirred.

When he had made his pact with Belthon, Titus was promised that all his suffering would come to an end. The fire exploding within his chest was a definite indication that someone wasn’t keeping up his end of the bargain. When the pain finally passed, two things happened. Titus was able to stand up straight, and Flag released the breath he had been holding.

“My lord,” Flag called in almost a whisper.

“A moment.” Titus rolled his broad shoulder to ease the tension. When he looked at Flag, his eyes were glassy, as if in either extreme ecstasy or pain. “Speak,” he ordered.

“We have word in from New York,” Flag said, tensing up.

“The Nimrod?”

“Yes, Lord Titus. Riel encountered the trident, but there was a problem retrieving it. He—”

“Hold your tongue.” Titus waved him silent. “You know I’d rather receive bad news firsthand.”

Flag bowed, thankful that he wouldn’t be punished for delivering the news. “Of course, my lord. I’ll ready the mirror.” Flag moved to stand in front of the silver-framed mirror, which stood just a hair over five feet and was mounted against the wall in Titus’ office. Whispering an incantation, Flag waved his hand across the mirror, which filled with smoke. When the smoke cleared, a distorted image of Riel stood in the reflection.

“And what news does my most efficient captain bring this night?” Titus asked, as if he already knew the answer.

Riel didn’t answer right away. There was no doubt in his mind that his master would not like the news he was about to receive, and Riel had become quite fond of his host’s body. Though New York was hundreds of miles away, distance mattered little when dealing with magic. Though the looking-glass spell couldn’t be used for travel, it still made Riel accessible to a point.

“Lord Titus, favorite son of Belthon, I humbly greet—,” Riel began but was cut off by a dismissive gesture.

“Riel, please skip the formalities and get to the point.” While Titus’ voice was neutral, there was a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“As you wish.” Riel swallowed. “This evening I did battle with a Knight who wielded the Trident of Heaven.”

“Seeing that you’re alive, I would assume that you have recovered it for the dark father?” Titus asked.

Riel cast his eyes to the ground. “No, the Stalkers were destroyed and I barely managed to escape with my host’s body intact.”

Without warning Titus’ hand shot out at the mirror. When it made contact with the surface there was no breaking glass but the low thud of something being dropped into place. Gnarled hands clutched Riel about the throat while blackened nails bit deep into his borrowed flesh.
He could feel the skin blister as Titus threatened to incinerate him.

“The Old Ones call you King Maker, but I call you a failure!” Titus’ eyes blazed, as well as his hands. “For centuries we have searched for the remaining weapons of the cursed Knights, and you manage to lose the most powerful of them to an offshoot of a bygone era. Riel, you as well as all who follow the Dark Order know the price of failure.”

Riel was one of the most feared and powerful demons in the history of the world, but his efforts to break Titus’ hold were useless. The looking glass’s main function was communication, but the most skilled at using the object, or the spell where its abilities derived from, could send or receive items through the glass, as Titus was showing Riel. Being that the glass’s transmissions were channeled across the demon plain, it allowed Titus to call on his demon form without the normal restrictions of the mortal realm. Titus was powerful in the mortal realm, but on the plains he had the power of Belthon himself at his call.