Specter Rising (Brimstone Network Trilogy) Read online

  12. BRAM MADE IT DOWN INTO THE ENCAMPMENT without being seen. So far, so good, he told himself, pausing for a moment to assess his situation.

  He had to find a way to walk around the camp with a bit more freedom, and then he saw his chance. Clinging to the shadows he moved toward a tent where, outside, a lone Specter soldier sat, sharpening the blade of his sword with a whetstone.

  Moving to the side of the tent, Bram ghosted himself and passed through the thick material into the soldier’s dwelling.

  Preparing himself, he coughed, watching the back of the armored warrior. The man stopped his chore and slowly turned to look inside his quarters.

  Bram quickly stepped out of sight so the man could not see him, and coughed again, this time moving his foot as well.

  “Who’s in there?” the soldier growled, standing up, holding his newly sharpened weapon ready. “Enack, if that’s you helping yourself to my meat rations again, I’m going to . . .

  He entered the tent and Bram was ready, silently thanking the monks of P’Yon Kep for their training. He lashed out with the palm of his hand, catching the soldier on the chin, pushing his jaw violently back and rendering him unconscious.

  The soldier fell onto his crude bed, and Bram immediately went to work undressing him. He bound the man with strips torn from the soldier’s blanket, making a gag from another filthy rag he found on the floor, and then wedged him deep into a corner of the tent.

  Bram figured the Specter warrior would be out cold for at least a half hour, more than enough time to do what needed to be done.

  At least he hoped it was.

  Clad in the soldier’s armor and holding his newly sharpened sword, Bram quickly ducked from the tent and walked amongst the army.

  Staying close to the shadow, moving as if he had a special purpose, he made his way toward the tent where the flag of Barnabas flew. There didn’t appear to be any guards posted outside the more elaborate dwelling, and he began to wonder if Boffa’s magickal sensitivity might have been on the fritz.

  But the closer Bram got to the tent, the more he noticed the other soldiers’ aversion to it. As they walked past, they gave it a wide berth, glancing at it from the corners of their eyes before quickly moving away.

  Strange, Bram thought, moving in for a closer look.

  He darted down a path beside the tent and made his body immaterial. Slowly he drifted lower and was soon floating beneath the ground. He swam through the dirt until he figured himself to be directly below the tent, and then willed himself to rise.

  Bram wasn’t exactly sure what he had expected to find; maybe some kind of crazy weapon, or some cursed magickal artifact. But whatever it was, he certainly wasn’t prepared for what he did find.

  A hooded figured paced within the sparse quarters, in the midst of an argument—with himself.

  But the oddest thing was, as he argued, different voices argued back.

  Bram drifted upward, transfixed. He kept his body at an almost gaseous level so that he would be difficult to see, eager to figure out the mystery of this supposedly powerful secret weapon.

  A little girl’s voice suddenly screamed and Bram watched as the hooded figure stiffened.

  “I do so hate to harm you, child,” the older voice spoke.

  And a chill ran down Bram’s spine as he recognized that voice. But that’s impossible . . . isn’t it?

  The robed figure spun around in a crouch, eyes blazing from within the darkness of the hood. “You,” it growled.

  “Crowley?” Bram whispered incredulously.

  The robed form reached up, pulling away the hood to reveal the nightmarish form of the arch mage.

  “The son of Stone,” the dark magician yelled, his arms shooting out to bombard Bram with blasts of supernatural power.

  Bram moved as quickly as he could, darting up from the floor like a bar of soap squeezed out from between two hands. How is this even possible? His brain buzzed as the spells cast by the magician’s hands caused the ground where he had been to disintegrate, leaving a pretty deep hole.

  Floating above the room, he attempted to gather his wits, adjusting his mind to the concept that the madman who had been responsible for the death of his father was somehow still alive, even though he’d pretty much seen him die.

  How could he have survived the explosion?

  Bram still had the sword of the soldier whose armor he had stolen. Drawing the weapon, he willed himself back to a solid state, dropping to the ground in a crouch and springing to attack.

  It was a pretty stupid move, but at the moment, his brain was sparking like an old television about to explode. It was the best he could come up with.

  The sword swiped dangerously close to Crowley’s skull-like face, the razor-sharp edge of the blade actually catching the mage beneath the eye, leaving a thin red gash.

  Crowley gasped in shock, his spidery hand reaching up to touch the wound.

  And that was when something even more mind-blowing occurred.

  The face of Crowley morphed into that of a child . . . a little girl.

  “You’ve got to get away!” she screamed, her face twisted in exertion.

  He knew this child as well; the last time he had seen her was when she was being cradled in the arms of her brother—the magickal power leaking from her body building to dangerous levels.

  “What’s happened to you, Claire?” Bram asked desperately. “How can I help?”

  She stumbled away from him, and he watched her flesh morph and change into that of another.

  It just kept on getting weirder.

  “I can’t hold him much longer, Abraham,” Tobias Blaylock said. “Get away as fast as you can . . . gather your Brimstone Network . . . and prepare for the worst.”

  “Tell me what’s happened to you?”

  “Too late,” Tobias said, and his face melted away to reveal the grinning face of Crowley again, the cut below his right eye shedding a single scarlet tear.

  “What happened?” the black mage echoed. “Why, we’re just one big happy family.”

  One of his hands shot out, a blast of crackling blue energy cast so quickly that it took Bram completely off guard.

  The magickal force hit him squarely in his chest, propelling him back and through the wall of the tent.

  He lay upon the ground outside, struggling for breath. It was as if some gigantic hand now held him, squeezing all the air from his body. As much as he wanted to, he could do nothing. Unable to move, unable to ghost, he simply laid there as soldiers swarmed about him.

  Slowly he pulled himself together and rose to one knee, just as a tall, armored figure strode toward him through the crowd, laughing viciously.

  “Barnabas,” Bram said with a snarl.

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” the warlord replied. “But I am certain that one such as you would not have been allowed to join my army.”

  Crowley emerged from the damaged tent to join the growing crowd. Bram had to get out of there quickly. He remembered the weapon that Boffa had given him. From the pouch hanging from his side he pulled the black metal pistol and aimed it at the army’s leader.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” Barnabas asked.

  Bram was about to pull the trigger to end the warlord’s life, but something stopped him.

  Barnabas moved aside, as did the soldiers standing near him, and there, lying on the ground behind them, were the unconscious forms of Lita and Boffa. Soldiers stood above them, the blades of their spears resting on their necks.

  “They will be dead in an instant,” Barnabas said to him. “Or you could surrender to me.”

  The warlord knew that he had him; Bram could tell by the smug expression on his face.

  He let the weapon fall from his hand. “I surrender,” he said, the words feeling like bitter poison in his mouth.

  Douglas St. Laurent didn’t know if he was strong enough, but he tried anyway.

  He entered the body—the gigantic body—flowing through it like
a virus looking to infect a host. In a way, he did want to infect it—infect it with life.

  The giant body was in pretty bad shape. It had obviously been lying in the valley, rotting away for a number of years, but Douglas knew it could be the perfect vehicle to help his son and his friends.

  He really had no idea what he was capable of. He remembered how surprised he was when, just few short weeks before, his son had explained that he was actually dead and only kept alive by Dez’s unique, powerful psychic abilities. If truth be told, Douglas had been harboring some suspicions himself; the wounds that never healed being just one of the glaring ones, but he had been too busy taking care of his son and helping the Network to dwell on it.

  It was his son’s tearful explanation and suggestion that it was finally time for Douglas to rest that made him realize the extent of his . . . condition. Reluctantly, he’d agreed to pass on. Father and son had spent a wonderful day together, doing things they’d always loved to do, and when the sun had set in the sky, they hugged.

  I love you, his son had whispered.

  And then all was darkness . . . well, for a little while, anyway.

  Douglas St. Laurent did not pass on to the afterlife. Somehow he had continued to live in this energy-like form. At first he thought his son had something to do with it, but eventually they both came to the realization that it was totally Douglas’s doing.

  He didn’t want to go to the afterlife, he was having too much of a good time here.

  The energy being experienced the equivalent of a smile as he raced through the body of the enormous corpse.

  Yep, good times.

  Eventually he wound up inside the giant skull, moving through the gelatinous remains of what had once been the being’s brain.

  He thought of the first thing he’d done when he arrived back. He’d animated one of Desmond’s favorite transforming robot toys, and the look on Dez’s face had been priceless as he watched the toy dance around, changing back and forth between its vehicle and robotic form.

  If I could animate that, then why not this? Douglas asked himself as his energy form crackled in the skull of the giant. He reached out, allowing his powerful life energy to course through the dead thing, taking control.

  Giving the dead giant the appearance of being alive.

  Hold on, son, Douglas thought, the power of his thoughts traveling across the airwaves.

  The giant’s body began to move, ever so slowly, and the valley itself rumbled as if in the throes of an earthquake.

  I’m coming to help.

  “Something’s happened,” Stitch said, peering from the tent.

  They were still in the process of freeing the other prisoners.

  Desmond used a little bit of his pyrokinetic power to burn through the ropes of a young Specter girl. She watched in awe as there was a brief flash of heat and her ankles were suddenly free.

  “Thank you,” she said, her dirty face becoming all the more pleasant with a smile. She went to a woman he guessed was her mother, and threw her arms around her.

  The mother thanked him as well, not in words but with a look that brought a heavy sadness to his heart as he remembered his father.

  “You all right, buddy?” Bogey asked as he helped to release more of the prisoners.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” Dez answered. “Just thinking about my dad.”

  “Sure he’s not in here somewhere?” Bogey asked, looking around at all those they had freed.

  “If he was, he’d let me know,” Dez said.

  Some rumbling at the back of the tent grew louder, interrupting their conversation, and Dez glanced over to see Emily and Johanna trying to calm things.

  “You’re not going to do anybody any good by running out there and getting yourselves killed,” Emily was explaining in her rough, animal voice.

  “Even though we believe in the ascension—in the time of peace and prosperity to come—we cannot just sit back and allow our hopes for the future to be murdered by a madman and his pet sorcerer.”

  It was the bald old man speaking, the obvious leader of this group.

  The Specters grumbled their agreement, becoming more eager to fight.

  “The army appears to be preparing for an attack,” Stitch said, stepping away from the tent flap where he’d been peeking out.

  “So what are we going to do?” Johanna asked with more poise than Dez would have expected. He was impressed. She really seemed to be holding it together.

  Stitch stroked his pale chin as they awaited his words of wisdom. “Our numbers are far too small to effectively deal with a force of this size,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Never mind the fact that this Trinity cat could probably hand us our butts alone,” Johanna added.

  “Thank you so much for pointing that out,” Stitch said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “We wait for an opportunity, and then we get these innocents to safety.”

  “No,” the old man said, shaking his bony fist. “We will not run from this fight.”

  “Didn’t you hear the man?” Emily growled, turning to the crowd, the savage appearance of her wolf form causing them to step back warily. “We’ll all be killed if we go up against Barnabas and his army.”

  Suddenly Dez felt as though his brain had been struck by a bolt of lightning. He stiffened and fell to the ground. His head was filled with a message . . . a psychically deafening message that made him smile.

  “Desmond!” Stitch was kneeling beside him, trying to help him sit up. “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s not dead,” Dez said, grinning through watery eyes.

  “What are you talking about?” Bogey asked, joining the small group that was gathering around Desmond.

  “My father,” the boy said excitedly, his mind filled with the images of what was on the march to them. “He’s coming to help.

  “And wait till you see this.”

  13. THE SPECTER ARMY’S CRIES OF BATTLE blended together to form a single, deafening roar.

  Their hands bound behind their back, Bram, Lita, and Boffa were caught up in the frenzy of the soldiers’ battle-lust as they were roughly pushed along. Something in the restraints that bound Bram’s wrists seemed to kill his spirit, and he could see it on the faces of his sister and his friend as well. Their eyes were downcast, accepting defeat.

  Bram tried to fight the overwhelming feeling as he was shoved along by the maddening crowd behind Barnabas, on his reptilian steed, and the strange creature with the three distinct identities, but the magick of the restraints stole away his resolve before he could muster himself.

  Barnabas came to an abrupt stop and turned to face his army, his extended arms signaling for his troops to halt.

  Their anticipatory cries ratcheted down to grumbles and whispers as they waited for their leader to address them.

  “The time is upon us,” Barnabas proclaimed, and his army roared its agreement. “Time for the Specter to reach out across the great magickal barriers that have always held us at bay and to take what rightfully belongs to us.”

  The being called Trinity suddenly lifted from the ground, crackling tendrils of supernatural energies leaping from its robed form as it hovered weightlessly in the air.

  “A great power has been delivered unto me,” Barnabas proclaimed. “Unto the Specter race.”

  Trinity slowly turned, extending its arms. More energy leaped from its fingertips, striking at something invisible to the naked eye—something that had been erected by powerful supernatural forces before the birth of humankind.

  “And we will use this power to crush all who dare oppose our rule,” Barnabas continued, as the air bombarded by the energy-spewing Trinity began to darken and stain, to form a kind of window onto another world.

  To Bram, it wasn’t at all like the passages Bogey would weave with his strange hand gestures. There was something terrible about this, something brutal.

  The floating figure drew back its arms for a moment, and then thrust them forward again with a wail of
excitement. The air itself seemed to solidify around the movement, flowing like a tidal wave toward the discolored patch hanging in the air.

  The wave of magick hit the barrier with incredible force and Bram watched in horror as the barrier began to crack.

  And over it all was the sound of Crowley’s laughter.

  All Bram could do was watch, and that was the most horrible thing of all.

  Like a piece of windshield glass, tiny cracks appeared upon the surface of the barrier face, spreading across the smooth, amber-colored surface.

  “And so it ends,” Trinity proclaimed, under the control of the black mage Crowley. The Crowley persona turned slowly, smiling down at Bram. “One after another I will bring them all crashing down,” he sneered. “And soon every world and every creature that walks, crawls, jumps, and slithers upon them will bow down to me.”

  The mage’s smile suddenly went away and his face twisted in what appeared to be pain. Bram had an idea of what was happening even as the mage dropped from the sky, landing on the ground before Barnabas.

  “Seems like somebody else might have other plans,” Bram said as the mage’s features shifted and changed from Claire to Tobias and back to Crowley again.

  “Are you well?” the warlord asked from astride his steed.

  Crowley’s features again dominated and the mage turned with a snarl. “Nothing to concern yourself with, Barnabas,” he said. “Just a bit tired from attempting to punch a hole through a magickal barrier that has existed since the dawn of time.”

  Crowley lurched to his feet. “Nothing that the conquest of Earth won’t cure—that should put a spring in my step.”

  Barnabas drew his sword, holding it high above his head. “To war!” he cried, and his army replied in kind, roaring like wild animals as they brandished their own weapons, waiting for Crowley to finish what he had begun.

  Bram felt a sudden tremble in the ground beneath his feet. At first he believed it was the army beginning their advance across the field, but then he noticed the expressions of surprise on the faces of the soldiers. They were as surprised by it as he was.