My eyes opened and silver runes met them. The heaviness in my stomach told me that the Elevator of Demonic S&M Super Terrific Fun Time was still on the rise. Only a few seconds had passed. How odd ….
So what had I learned from my dream? Definitely a warning of some sort. Last time I had a vision was in Omaha when my subconscious dredged up memories from the Mall of America in Minnesota. Those dreams were warnings about Maydock and how he’d been stalking me for years. I also took those dreams to be warnings that I couldn’t face Maydock alone, that I’d need someone to watch my back, like my team had my back when facing one of the most insidious, evil monsters ever to stamp on the earth with a cloven hoof—the Cutty Black Sow.
That second warning nudged me in the direction of Marcus, the vampire elder (although ‘elder’ isn’t an adequate term to convey a being old enough to have watched the rise and fall of Rome) who was the chief judge of his race—sort of like Judge Dredd for bloodsuckers, but not as charming and erudite. He proved less helpful than I thought, but that’s a story for another time.
For some reason my subconscious, using what little magic I had, was trying to tell me something urgent, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure it out. I yawned as the elevator came to a stop. The LED floor indicator read ‘28.’
“Kal?” said Ghost. He sounded … surprised. “Did your experiment fail?”
“How long?”
“One minute forty-seven point three seconds.”
That was fast. “My experiment didn’t fail, Ghost.” I checked all my weapons (all there except for the Bowie) and my ammo (almost gone) and made ready. “Maybe my subconscious understood my time constraints and uploaded the dream/memory in double time. I don’t know.” Once again I looked at the readout. “Why aren’t we on the thirtieth floor?”
“The other members of your team are here on the twenty-eighth.”
Oh thank god! “Report.”
And he did. All his clones (which he’d since reabsorbed) kept full accounts of events and while the DRAFTlite didn’t have the same kind of virtual reality capabilities as the original DRAFT, the brief visuals I experienced sent a chill through my guts. They’d all suffered horribly, but what happened to Tweezer sent a spike of rage through my brain. I never liked the guy—he was an idiot with all the subtlety of a thrown brick—but he was a fellow Agent and no one should have to die the way he did.
Then there was Billings.
Of course I knew about the man, that he was a few cans short of six pack, but by all indications he was unusually disciplined and a Bureau veteran. Vetted by Bureau headshrinkers, he had BB’s confidence, which was no mean feat.
I don’t know why I was shocked and horrified. With my cynical outlook on life I shouldn’t have just asked myself if Billings would turn on us like a rabid dog, but when. It took a few seconds for me to realize that Ghost was droning at me, and had been for a while now.
“What?”
“I simply asked if you were ready to exit the elevator.”
“Sure, Ghost.” I nodded toward the door. “But how did you control it? I thought all Quint computers were down.”
“This elevator has a dedicated computer system that is a stand-alone with Wi-Fi that only extends to the length of the elevator. I was able to access it and take control of the systems, although this does not allow me to exit the building. It also has a dedicated entertainment system with three television sets hidden within the walls. There is a startlingly huge library of pornography to be found there as well. I also surmise that the shaft is insulated with silver mesh so the Bureau cannot detect any magic being cast in the vicinity.”
I snorted. Go figure. It seemed that Tobias Quint created his own little pleasure room he could ride (pardon the pun) up and down the building. Throw in a succubus to add spice to the mix and you had one hell of a mobile seraglio. I wondered how he kept the sex demon from devouring his soul. Maybe he offered her the occasional sacrifice, or that spell Shape I’d destroyed kept her in line. The real question was why? Having a succubus on tap was like wearing a meat suit in a cage full of tigers—you don’t mess around with such predators. Perhaps he used her to seduce politicians for favors, although I reckoned that the succubus would fear for her soul if that was the case.
“Let’s go get the kids, Ghost.”
The door swung out into a hallway, and wouldn’t you know it, the team was right there, huddled around the still form of Buffalo—Agent Robert Atkins.
Dove looked worse for wear, and when she met my eyes, hers contained enough world-weariness to crush just about any soul you’d care to meet. It set me back on my heels.
“Hi, boss,” she said, eyes red. “Ghost said you were on the way. What horrible dimension did you have to pass through to get here? And what’s that sticking out of your face?” Instead of the subtle tone of contempt and anger that usually flavored her speech, I heard a grudging acceptance, as if she’d finally sanded down the chip on her shoulder to more manageable levels. I took this to be a good thing. Still, what scars would decorate her soul now?
“This,” I replied with all the dignity my battered body could muster, “is what they call a see-gar. You smoke them.”
“You shouldn’t smoke,” she said automatically. “Bad for you.”
“I am a grown-ass man and can do whatever I damn well please.” I concentrated and lit the end of the cigar, which was all of three inches long now. “Don’t tell Jeanie.”
Rat, skin sallow and waxy, merely nodded, while Ng looked like his face had had a run-in with a malignant lawnmower and then been bandaged by a staple enthusiast. I didn’t want to look at the place where his hand had been, but I forced myself to.
He followed my gaze. “Rat couldn’t heal it, didn’t have the energy,” he said hollowly. “The wound hurts a bit, but thanks to some Oxy, I don’t care.”
I nodded. “Report.”
“Except for Ng and Robert,” said Dove, “we’re ready to rock ’n’ roll.”
Rat nodded tiredly.
Ng had something to say about that. “You’re not going without me.”
“You’re injured.” I crossed my arms and puffed on the cigar. That should’ve been it. “You stay here.”
“Not so injured I can’t fight. I need to see this through, see it done once and for all. Besides, what makes you think I’ll be any kind of safe in this building?”
“Stand down.”
Dark eyes became obsidian hard. “No.”
Why me, Lord? What could I use against him, harsh language? The Bureau tends to recruit the stubborn types. Maybe Ng was part Finn. “Grab your gear, check your ammo, and let’s get going.” If my brief scan of their adventures was any indication, they were either short or out of rounds. I had a sneaking suspicion that before this op was done, we’d be down to fists and blades and whatever tricks I had up my sleeve. I felt a twinge of loss at the thought of my poor departed Bowie.
Dove rose to her feet, moving as if her joints were filled with drying cement. “Any ideas where we’re supposed to head, boss?”
“From Ghost’s analysis, the Supernatural that’s running this shindig doesn’t want anyone to get below this floor, so I say we go down. I think whoever this Angel of Mass Murder is, he’s somewhere between the tenth and twenty-eighth floor. We just have to get a move on.”
“So how do we do that?”
I gestured toward the door at the end of the hall. “Same way I got up here.”
“Janitor’s closet?”
“Our way off this floor.” At her look, I shook my head. “No time now for stories. All aboard.”
It breezed down the hallway like wind off a battlefield, a voice that instantly raised the hackles on the back of my neck. “But I do so love stories,” it crooned in a soft and sugary voice, avuncular and evil. “Do tell me one, Agent Hakala.”
The Lahti came up, appearing in my hand as if by magic, barely outdrawing the rest of the team. Even Ng, who was no lefty, had a K-bar in hand.
“Please, no violence. I come bearing an offer.”
Oh, of course you do. “And what would that be? Mutilation? Eternal torment? A subscription to the Cheese-of-the-Month Club?”
Soft laughter. “No, although those would be wonderful. I am fully prepared to let you go.”
Somewhere there was another shoe ready to drop. “And why would a powerful Supernatural like yourself be willing to do such a thing?” My throat was clogged with sarcasm. “Mercy?”
“I do not know what ‘mercy’ is. I don’t think I’ve ever felt pity, although I’m led to believe it is part and parcel of the human condition.” He paused. “However, I was never human. Or, at least, I don’t think so. Time has a way of muddling memories.”
“Ghost, can you track him?” I subvocaled.
My faithful cybernetic sidekick was quick to answer. “The voice is coming from the building’s speakers, which is unusual because when this being communicated with Agent Billings it was by some form that was not registered by the DRAFTlite. I dare say that this entity does not want to risk any violence.”
Dove gave me a look while Rat nodded his agreement. The angel had touched Rat in the blue world, and if he could touch, that meant he could be touched. “Then why? Why let us go?”
“You are no longer needed, Agent Hakala. I’ve drained your magic and almost all the magic from your pet Magician. There is no more need to feed off your deaths and pain because I have sufficient energy now.”
Rat’s subvocal voice came through the ear patch. “If it needs magic to survive, then killin’ the first team woulda given it a boatload, boss, and I’m guessin’ that Buffalo’s death provided plenty as well. If what it’s sayin’ is true, that it doesn’t need more from us, then it’s even more dangerous than it was before. It must be ready to leave the buildin’, and that means it’s about strong enough to withstand anythin’ the Bureau can throw at it.”
Ng’s drug-dilated eyes opened wide and Dove looked ready to vomit. I thought fast. “How are you going to let us go, then?” I asked, praying that the angel couldn’t hear our subvocal conversation.
“I merely let the barrier that coats this building down and you walk out. It’s that simple.”
R-i-i-ght. “Just that simple, eh?”
“Quite.”
My mind raced as I considered the implications. The Angel of Mass Murder seemed to be handing us a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card. Ng needed medical attention, Rat looked like ten miles of road kill, and all the piss and vinegar seemed to have bled out of Dove’s veins. Not to mention my new hairdo (or hair-don’t) and various contusions and abrasions. My chest hurt something fierce from where the succubus tried punch my heart out through my spine and I was craving a serious slug of vodka.
Too good to be true—had to be. The proof was in the pudding and I wasn’t about to trust the Supernatural as far as I could shot put the Chrysler Building.
“Okay,” I said slowly, “how about lowering your force field now?” To Ghost, “Get ready, old Spook.”
“On it, Kal,” he replied.
Gone was the sense of amusement as the voice replied, “How do I know you won’t order an airstrike on this location, Agent Hakala? Make of yourself and your team martyrs for the cause?”
“Same way I trust you to let us go without any monkey business. Call it a sign of good faith.”
“I will have to decline, I am afraid.”
Thought so, you sneaky bastard. “Well then, the only thing left to say is [CENSORED] you, asshole,” I yelled in my best Schwarzenegger.
No more Mr. Nice Guy, the voice cut out abruptly and the screaming started—that horrible, high-pitched wail that hit my eardrums like spikes, digging into the soft tissues of my inner ear. From the corner of my eye, I saw Dove swoon and Rat grow even whiter, folding at the knees, while Wesley Ng began vomiting into his lap. From around the bend of the outer wall came the gray/red sphere, roughly the size of a beach ball and sizzling with malice, shooting our way and trailing its ugly, dirty mist behind it.
“Damn you!” I screamed futilely at the orb, slapping my palms over my ears. It would be here any second now and I we would be done like dinner.
From four pairs of DRAFTlite came a familiar voice, now taut with some unnamable emotion. “Not this time!”
Four DRAFTlite speakers began to emit a low thrum, a bone-deep vibration that I seemed to feel more than hear. It enveloped my skull in cottony noise that cut through the high-pitched screeching of the orb, a low counterpoint that buoyed me up, lifting me from pain, soothing my raw nerves. The bass hum became my world—annoying, but safe—and I found myself once again able to think.
“Awesome,” I growled. Or I think I did. The only thing I could hear was the Ghost hum, but that was peachy with me.
The orb slid to a halt some twenty feet away, hovering over the carpeting and vibrating in place. It looked … confused.
Whether it was annoyed or dismayed by Ghost’s counter-noise, I didn’t care. All I wanted was something to kill, and standing still, it made an excellent target. The Lahti spat its last few rounds and I saw puffs of ugly mist or steam erupt from its center.
The orb began to retreat and I drew my punch knives, the blades sticking straight out from between my fingers. I ran toward the orb, but it retreated too quickly, still bleeding vapor from where I’d shot it. Ghost’s noise faded and I began to be able to hear again.
“It took a while for me to find the correct frequency that would not cause you permanent hearing loss,” commented Ghost when the orb was gone. “I think that worked quite well.”
“Goddamn it!” I swore and headed back to the team. My ears were ringing, but at least it was the honest noise of tinnitus. “Mount up. We are out of here.”
Ghost cut in on our preparations. “Kal, it is sure now that the Angel of Mass Murder knows about the elevator. He will no doubt use the folding space trick to keep us from descending.”
“The elevator is shielded, Ghost. With silver, with gold or platinum, it’s shielded from magic. You said so.”
“I surmised it was, Kal. It is not certain.”
“Good enough for me, old spook.” I chewed on the cigar, puffing away. It had tasted kind of nasty at first, but now I was getting used to it. “Besides, I have me a cunning idea.”
The team gave out a collective groan. No faith in their fearless leader. It would’ve hurt if I gave a damn right then. I chomped down on the stub of my cigar. “Everyone, give me your belts.”
“This? This is your cunnin’ idea?” Rat sounded less than impressed with my tactics. Sweat streamed down his face as he descended the ladder.
I sent up a noxious cloud of cigar smoke. Only a couple inches left on my stogie, but I had the rhythm of the smoke, and I knew I could milk it down to the one-inch mark. “Deal with it, Agent,” I grumbled, keeping my eyes on Ng above me. His face was paper-white and he was sweating more than Rat. With every rung down the ladder, he hooked his injured arm around the horizontal bar while navigating with his remaining hand. Each step made him wince, despite the Oxy coursing through his system. I was point man on our descent because it was my boneheaded idea and we needed someone strong to catch Ng should he take a tumble.
Ghost sent the elevator on down ahead of us, but kept the door open so we could descend the service ladder. The shaft looked clean, free of grime and grease. I examined the cement walls and wondered if Quint had used silver or gold mesh to turn the shaft into a Faraday cage.
Units of magic are measured (creatively enough) in ‘merlins.’ A single merlin could light a cigar. A hundred merlins could fry a nervous system. Precious metals absorbed merlins—that is, until they absorbed so much they began to bleed excess magical energy in the form of heat. The amount of precious metals used to coat the inside of a thirty-story elevator shaft had the absorptive potential to negate ten terramerlins of raw magical energy. That’s enough magic to short circuit the brainstems of a million people.
My guess was that our little pal, the Angel of Mass Murder, couldn’t penetrate the elevator shaft with magic, so he had to use other avenues to foil our attempt to stop him. Thing was, I had no clue as to what he planned to do.
But I found out right quick.
At floor twenty, the faux maintenance door burst in with a bang, ripping off steel hinges to slam into the opposite wall. The elevator continued its descent and had just passed eighteen when something the size of an upright Ford Gran Torino burst through the opening, sending pieces of door frame flying, and leapt into the shaft, one giant hand grasping the thick elevator cables. The cables groaned alarmingly as the weight of the creature threatened to tear them like tissue, and it clung to them for a brief moment before falling to land upon the car below.
Metal buckled under a thousand pounds of raw-muscled, slab-sided humanoid that began to tear at the roof of the car with fingers as long as road flares tipped with bear-like claws. Steel shrieked in agony as those enormous talons tore and shredded.
“Of course,” Dove said tiredly over the din. “It had to be an ogre.”