The Brimstone Network (Brimstone Network Trilogy) Page 6

  The beasties died, their flesh withering as their life energies were sucked away.

  Satisfied, he withdrew his touch, drawing the gossamer netting back into his body, where it would wait until it was time to feed again. He stood before his throne of bone and discarded chrysalis, surveying the dried corpses of those who had once served his purpose but who had ultimately failed him.

  All were dead, except for one.

  The troll stood frozen, battle-ax clutched tightly in his hand as he stared at the remains of those who he had once stood with in battle.

  “Your name, troll,” Crowley demanded.

  The troll tore his eyes from the carnage at his feet.

  “Cracklebones,” the troll said. “They call me Cracklebones.”

  The sorcerer smirked, stifling a burp. He’d eaten too much, too fast, but it had been sooooo good.

  “Cracklebones,” Crowley repeated with a chuckle. “How quaint. Cracklebones, you will be the leader of my new army.”

  “Very good, my master,” the troll said, averting his eyes.

  “And this will be an army that will not disappoint me, isn’t that right, Cracklebones?”

  “They will not,” the troll answered.

  “And you will not disappoint me, will you, Cracklebones?”

  The troll shook his head vehemently from side to side.

  “Excellent,” the sorcerer said, feeling as though nothing could stop him. “I do so hate to be disappointed.”

  It was cold out on the deck of the freighter, but Bram thought he just might suffocate if he didn’t get some fresh air into his lungs.

  Stitch was asleep, or what passed as sleep to the powerful being made from the pieces of the dead. The man would just sit on his bunk, staring off into space; it was almost as if his battery had worn down and he needed to recharge before he could start working again.

  Boiling in the heat of the tiny room provided by the captain of the ship, Bram had grabbed a sweater without his companion noticing, and left their quarters, climbing the slippery metal steps to the top deck.

  It was still early, and the sun had yet to come up over the horizon. A fine mist was falling, adding to the bone-chilling cold. Bram shuddered, crossing his arms for warmth as he looked out over the undulating waves. He wished he were back at the monastery, rising with the sun to do his morning chores before beginning his studies for the day.

  It all seemed so simple, but now …

  The journey from the mountain range had been harrowing, but with perseverance, and the hospitality of the small villages they had encountered on their way down, they had endured.

  They didn’t have a choice; the world was depending on them.

  Bram gazed out over the oily black waves starting to shimmer in the beginning rays of dawn, and considered what lay ahead for him.

  He was only thirteen years old, and he had said as much as he and Stitch made their way down the mountain. “Your father had faith in you,” the patchwork man had said. “And so do I.”

  It was nice to know that they had faith in him, but it would have been more helpful if he’d had confidence in himself. There was nothing that he had experienced so far in his life to make him think that he could do this—pulling together a new Brimstone Network.

  Saving the world.

  The gentle rain had just about stopped as he stood there, pondering his uncertain future, and with the sun now higher in the morning sky, burning through the cloud cover, changing the dark waters to frothing turquoise, he started to play with the idea that maybe—just maybe—he might have a chance.

  In the distance something broke the surface of the water; an enormous black tentacle, its underside covered in pink, pulsating suckers, rose up into the air and quickly retreated, fleeing the rays of the sun, plunging back beneath the inky, ocean depths.

  Squinting, Bram tried to see beneath the waves, desperate, yet frightened, to catch a glimpse of the entire beast. Something dark and enormous churned beneath the sea in the distance, and Bram found himself wondering how he could ever win against something like that.

  He backed away from the railing, and two powerful hands dropped down upon his shoulders causing him to cry out.

  Bram turned, looking up at Stitch, who gazed out at the ocean.

  “I was wondering where you’d gone off to,” Stitch said, his two different-colored eyes unblinking.

  “It got stuffy downstairs.… I came up for some air,” Bram explained.

  He looked to where Stitch was now staring. “There’s something out there,” he said.

  “Yes,” Stitch answered. “A whole lot of somethings.”

  Even though the sun was now full in the sky, Bram did not feel its warmth.

  “With news of the Network demise starting to spread, the forces of darkness are gathering their courage, waiting for an opportunity to strike. It won’t be long before those who exist beyond the veil make their move on the planet,” Stitch said, staring out over the ocean, searching for a sign of evil.

  “And we can’t let that happen,” Bram responded.

  “Exactly.”

  The two were silent, standing at the railing of the ship as the new day began.

  “Do you … do you think we actually have a chance against them?” Bram asked.

  “A chance just might be all we’ve got,” Mr. Stitch answered as something large and the color of shadow swam beneath the waves.

  Heading toward the dawn.

  Crowley felt tired.

  The sorcerer slunk from his throne, heading deeper into his underground lair, to his chambers for a proper sleep. The cocoon may have provided him with the physical changes necessary to defeat his enemies, but it did not supply him with the rejuvenative qualities of a really good nap.

  Cracklebones was busy cleaning up the remains of those who had failed him, dragging the withered carcasses into a large pile at the far end of the chamber; something to keep the troll busy while he collected himself, planning for the future.

  A sudden squeal of fear caused the bristly hair on the back of Crowley’s neck to stand on end, an ancient Sumerian curse word leaving his lips as he turned to see what was wrong.

  The troll stood before the pile of bodies he had made, eyes wide with surprise.

  “What is it now, troll?” Crowley asked, not bothering to hide his displeasure.

  Cracklebones looked from the stack of corpses to him. “I know they are dead, but I swear …”

  “Yes?” Crowley prodded, tempted to feed on the troll who was now starting to annoy him. “Go on.”

  “They moved, Master.” The troll warily eyed the stack again. “I swear I saw them move.”

  And then Crowley could feel it in the stale, subterranean air, an abrupt change as powerful energies were manipulated.

  Magick.

  The pile of shriveled bodies began to tremble.

  “See!” Cracklebones yelped, jumping back.

  “I see,” Crowley replied impatiently, watching with a cautious eye as the corpses were molded—as if by invisible hands—into one extremely large body.

  “Crowley!” the corpse-body bellowed through multiple mouths. “What have you done?”

  And with those words, the corpse-giant exploded, all the bodies that composed its threatening mass reduced to nothing but fine particles of ash.

  The sorcerer sneered, raising his hands to clap. “Bravo.”

  The ash drifted down like snow, collecting upon the floor of the crypt before forming four vaguely humanoid shapes.

  “Quite dramatic.” Crowley continued to applaud.

  The bodies of ash swayed from side to side, and then began to speak.

  “Your actions confound us,” said one.

  “You accept our gifts of forbidden magickal knowledge,” continued another.

  “Allow us to assist you in forming a powerful army to carry out your every whim,” said the third.

  “And this is how you repay our efforts? By using your magickal skills to feed upo
n those loyal to you?” accused the last of the four.

  “This is blasphemous!” they bellowed in unison.

  Cracklebones leaped between his master and the ashen figures, brandishing his battle-ax.

  “Calm yourself, Cracklebones,” Crowley soothed, tapping the top of the troll’s bony head with the hooked claw of one of his new limbs. “We are all comrades here.”

  “Comrades?” Cracklebones snarled, looking to his master.

  Crowley strolled around the troll, walking toward the four figures.

  “You wouldn’t recognize them in these ashen forms, but here are the sponsors of our little attack against the Brimstone Network. They call themselves the Circle.” The sorcerer presented the four to the troll with a flourish.

  “Without their help, the Network would still be amongst the living.” He clasped his long-fingered hands and lowered his shiny bald head in a bow.

  “And for that, we thank you.”

  Crowley had to stifle an urge to disperse the figures formed from the remains of his last meal. He knew it would be wholly unsatisfying. The true forms of the other worldly Circle were elsewhere, plotting in secret their eventual arrival to the world of humans, from their own magickal realms, allowing him to do their dirty work.

  With the Network now gone, they were that much closer to fulfilling their plans, and he was closer to fulfilling his.

  At least Crowley hoped that was the case.

  “Your army disobeyed me,” Crowley explained. “I gave them a specific task to perform—a very important task I might add—and they completely disregarded it.”

  “The task?” one of the Circle asked.

  “I asked them to bring me the head of Elijah Stone, the leader of the Brimstone Network, but they allowed it to be destroyed. With the head of my enemy … our enemy, I would have been able to determine whether or not our most hated adversaries had indeed been eliminated for good.”

  “But they have been vanquished,” said one of the ash creatures. “Word has reached us even on our home-worlds that the earth’s protectors are no more.”

  “Yes, it would appear that way,” Crowley said, staring at the long fingernails on one of his hands. “But Elijah Stone was a crafty one, and not one to be taken by surprise.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m merely implying that there might have been some sort of contingency plan in place,” Crowley explained.

  “Contingency plan?” the Circle said in unison.

  “I know that if I were Elijah Stone, I would have had plans all set to go in case something of this magnitude were ever to occur. Can you now understand why I was upset about losing the head?”

  The ashen bodies stared at one another; what the sorcerer had told them was starting to penetrate.

  “Idiots!” one of the Circle screamed.

  “How dare they disobey a direct order!” cried another.

  “If I could somehow restore them to life, I would, and slay them again for their witlessness!” another of the four railed, while the one beside him nodded eagerly in agreement.

  Crowley saw this as the perfect opportunity to prove how valuable he actually was.

  “Calm yourself, my friends,” he said. “For I, too, have planned in case of emergency.”

  “You have a way to restore the head?” one of the ashen Circle asked excitedly.

  “If only that were possible,” Crowley said sadly. “The head is indeed gone, but I believe we have another way to learn what we require.”

  The Circle hung on to his every word. Crowley had them exactly where he wanted them.

  “Do you think it was shear luck that my armies were able to breach the magickal defenses of the Brimstone installation? Find their agents’ positions across the globe? Luck had nothing to do with it,” Crowley stated.

  The sorcerer walked to the far end of the burial chamber, to a particularly damp section of earth.

  “This looks to be the place,” he muttered.

  He squatted down, placed the tips of his fingers into the moist earth, and spoke in a language that sounded as though he were going to throw up.

  Crowley’s hands sparked, white-hot energy passing down his fingertips and into the soil.

  “That should do it,” he said, rising to his feet, and stepping back.

  “What are you doing?” one of the Circle asked. “How is this helping us …?”

  “Silence,” Crowley ordered as the ground where he had been squatting began to bubble. Pale-shelled insects scurried for safety as the very ground seemed to boil and churn.

  A huge, toadlike creature surfaced from the roiling earth, its bulbous eyes blinking sensitively in the light of the chamber.

  “There you are,” Crowley said, satisfied with the loathsome sight of the brown-skinned beast, its belly the yellowy white of decomposing flesh.

  “Our patience is waning, Sorcerer. What does this … this lowly beast have to do with our predicament?” a Circle member demanded.

  Crowley smiled, leaning down to pet the slimy head of the giant reptile. It did not look pleased that it had been roused from its sleep beneath the dirt. “This lowly beast contains what could very well be the answer to our problems, the reason why my forces were able to gain access to the Brimstone Network’s secrets.”

  The sorcerer placed a hand upon the toad’s lumpy head, and another at its throat. “I believe you have something for me?”

  The toad tried to pull its large head away, but a crackling energy from Crowley’s hands entered the beast. Its flesh began to expand and smolder, and the panicked reptile suddenly opened its mouth wide, letting something large fall out to the ground.

  That something began to moan, uncurling from the fetal position and slowly climbing to its feet. Crowley released the huge toad and moved to stand beside the figure as the beast beat a hasty retreat, digging beneath the damp earth again.

  “Elijah Stone never suspected that one of his most trusted had formed a pact with me,” the evil sorcerer said, using some of his magick to blow away the foul-smelling fluids that covered the individual. “Providing me with all kinds of information that made the mighty Brimstone Network so incredibly vulnerable.”

  The young man, now cleaned of stinking toad juices, stood before the circle. His eyes were wide with awe as he gazed about the chamber.

  “Who is this … human?” one of the Circle asked.

  Crowley chuckled, placing a friendly arm around the shoulder of the young man. “May I present Tobias Blaylock, traitor to the Brimstone Network.”

  6.

  THINGS LOOKED SO PEACEFUL FROM THE AIR.

  The drone of the small airplane’s twin engines as it soared above the thick, puffy clouds was soothing, and as Bram gazed out the passenger window, he imagined what it would be like to lay down upon one of them and drift off to sleep.

  Anger suddenly stirred within. Those were childish thoughts, and his days for that kind of indulgence had long passed.

  “Shouldn’t be long now,” Stitch interrupted his musings, speaking loudly to be heard over the noise of the twin engines. He toggled a control, and Bram could feel the plane starting to descend, that weird dropping sensation in the pit of his stomach.

  “So you think we’ll find what we need there?” Bram asked his companion.

  He was talking about a secret location in the country, specifically installed by his father in case of something like this. Bram felt an intense pang of sympathy for his dad. It must have been extremely hard to live with the constant fear that somebody—or something—could come along and destroy his life’s work, and that he must always be on guard thinking of ways to protect it.

  Bram wondered if that was how his father had felt about him. If that was why he had been sent away, moved from one place of learning to the next, so that he was protected.

  “According to the information I received when I was awakened, this will be the perfect place for us to start,” Stitch said as he began to pull back on the thrott
le and they descended out of the clouds.

  It became darker in the cockpit, the windshield spattered with fat drops of rain.

  “Seems like the weather in North Devany is a might inclement,” Stitch said, his English accent suddenly much thicker. “What a surprise.”

  He flicked a switch, turning on the windshield wipers to swat away the collecting precipitation.

  “Are you from here?” Bram asked, curious about the sudden change in the man’s speech pattern.

  Stitch smirked as he pulled back on a lever between their seats. “Yes and no,” he said.

  Bram felt the vibration through his feet as the landing gear deployed.

  “Some parts are, while others are from elsewhere,” he explained, the English landscape below a vibrant green. “A true man of the world I am.”

  “How do you know where they’re all from?” the boy asked.

  “Every part, no matter how small, retains memories of its original owner,” he explained. “Sometimes I can be hit by three or four different recollections at a time … while having a spot of tea or even glancing at something in a book.”

  “It must be weird,” Bram marveled. “All those different memories inside your head.”

  Stitch nodded. “It gets a little crowded.…”

  There was an explosion outside Stitch’s window, followed by a flash of fire, and for a moment Bram thought they had been struck by lightning. “What happened?” he asked, making sure his safety belt was fastened tightly.

  The airplane had started to drop fast, and Stitch was trying to pull up on the yoke to keep their descent controlled. “We’ve lost the left engine,” he growled, looking through his side window at the smoke pouring from the area of the wing where the propeller was no longer turning. “And I think I see the reason why.”

  Bram leaned forward in his seat to see.

  Small batlike creatures congregated around the damaged engine, metal and bits of colored wire hanging from their extra wide mouths as they chewed their latest bite.

  “Gremlins,” Bram whispered, knowing full well the damage the creatures could cause.

  “Pests is what they are,” Stitch grumbled, undoing his safety belt and attempting to extricate himself from the pilot’s seat. “Take the controls,” he ordered.