The Demon Crown

  “And now?” Gray asked.

  Ken shrugged. “At least I was right in one regard. The key is actually two hundred million years old.” He pointed to the screen. “She’s the key.”

  “How?” Kat stared at the block. “What are you talking about?”

  “I should’ve seen it, or at least suspected it.” Ken shook his head. “I sensed I had missed something. What I forgot was basic Hymenoptera behavior, whether you’re talking wasps or bees.”

  “What behavior?” Gray asked.

  “In social wasps—those that have a queen—it is only the queen that survives winter. The rest of the swarm dies during the harsh freeze. Only she hibernates and overwinters, waiting for the warmth of spring to awaken her. Already pregnant, she rises and brings the hive back to life.”

  Gray remembered Ken explaining this behavior back at the cottage in Hana, when he revealed the true horror of this species.

  Ken stood again and approached the screen. “It’s why none of us saw such a queen before. She only appears when conditions are harsh, when the colony is threatened. She is the colony’s means of moving to a new home.” He turned to Gray and the others. “But only after she first makes sure the old colony is wiped out. If a freeze doesn’t do it, she takes matters into her own hands.”

  “How?” Kat asked.

  “I can’t be sure yet, but I suspect she releases a potent pheromone. Didn’t you mention that the amber surrounding the site where the block was excavated was darker than elsewhere? Even in this block, I can see the stone around the queen is several gradations richer in hue.”

  Gray understood. “You’re thinking the chemical she was emitting stained the amber.”

  “A chemical that I believe is the key to unlocking the genes of the ghost peptide. With the key in the lock, the genes would begin producing this biolytic protein. Before I thought the peptide was meant as a weapon against other prey.” He shook his head. “Instead, it’s a suicide pill for this species. Once exposed to this chemical, every incarnation of the Odokuro that carries this sequence of genes would die.”

  “And all the wasps carry these genes?” Kat asked.

  Ken ignored her and turned to Seichan. “Even their larvae.”

  Gray felt a slight surge of hope but stamped it back down, not wanting to get his expectations up.

  On the screen, Kat called to someone out of view. “Dr. Slaski, as I recall, your lab is one of only two in Poland equipped with a sophisticated mass spectrometer for analyzing the authenticity of amber artifacts.”

  “That’s correct. We can judge quality, analyze impurities, even date samples.”

  “So if you cored a sample of the stained amber, could you determine what chemical is in there?”

  “With enough time and resources, certainly.”

  “I can supply you with all the resources you need, but time . . . that I can’t give you.”

  The speaker seemed to understand. “I’ll do my best.”

  Gray turned to find Seichan standing next to him.

  She took his hand.

  To hell with it.

  He squeezed her fingers, and with all his heart, he allowed himself to hope.

  For her, for him, for their unborn child.

  8:37 P.M.

  “That’s it,” Ken pronounced.

  He shook his head as he stared at the molecular diagram on the laptop screen.

  Of course, that’s the chemical.

  Ken was still in the conference room. None of them had left. They all clustered around the laptop. On the wall, the video feed from Poland continued to run. The lab in Krakow was packed with all manner of experts summoned by Kat: molecular biologists, genetic scientists, organic chemists. New equipment had also been hauled into the lab.

  Still, the sepulchral figure of Dr. Slaski had orchestrated the chaos with an iron hand—until four hours later, the group had finally teased the answer from the amber.

  “Are you sure that’s the right chemical?” Gray asked. “Not some other impurity.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “How can you be certain?” Gray pressed, anxiety straining his voice.

  “Because I recognize this organic compound. It’s a derivative of 9-keto-2-decenoic acid.” Noting Gray’s confused expression, Ken explained. “It’s also known as queen substance.”

  Gray glanced over to the creature aglow in the amber.

  “So, yeah, I’m pretty sure,” Ken said with a tired grin. “The compound is very much like the aromatic ketone released by honeybee queens. Many other Hymenoptera species release some variant of this same pheromone.”

  “What does it do in bees?”

  “When a new queen flies off to establish her own hive, she casts a pall of this chemical over the old hive, where the hormone sterilizes all the workers left behind.”

  “Why?”

  “So the queen ensures her own genetic legacy, erasing the lineage behind her.” Ken nodded to the screen. “What the Odokuro queen does is not all that different. But as this species has multiple subqueens who are capable of breeding and parasitizing—like the big wasp that attacked Seichan—a more aggressive tactic is employed, a nuclear option if you will. When a swarm is threatened, she clears the genetic slate and moves on to perpetuate the next generation based on her own genes.”

  Ken shrugged. “While sounding callous, it makes sense from an evolutionary standpoint. When an environment is threatened, the best chance for a species is for one individual to pack their proverbial bags, erase any trace of its existence, and move on to greener pastures with a new set of genetics. For countless millennia, some version of this strategy has worked for all manner of wasps, where their swarms are killed off every winter to start anew. Or in the case of bees, they simply sterilize their way to a new genetic heritage.”

  “And this pheromone? Will it be effective as a treatment?”

  “Exceedingly so. Not only should this derivative be safe, it’s specific to the Odokuro. It shouldn’t harm any other species. Plus the aromatic nature of the ketone will draw the swarm to the pheromone. Like moths to a flame.”

  Ken leaned back. “Best of all, any lab should be able to easily manufacture this organic compound in vast quantities. And once it’s sprayed across water, spread over plants, and soaked into dirt, any parasitized creature that drinks, eats, or grooms the chemical will absorb the compound into its bloodstream, where it should destroy the internal larvae.”

  “What about people?” Gray reached over and took Seichan’s hand.

  Ken noted her eyes shining with the threat of tears—not from resurgent pain, but from the agony of hope. “No different,” he assured them. “I wager a single intravenous or intramuscular injection should be enough. Though I’d recommend repeating this a few days in a row to be sure.”

  Gray leaned into Seichan, sighing loudly. “So this is the cure.”

  Palu grabbed Ken by the shoulder. The Hawaiian’s grin demonstrated he understood what this meant for his native lands. “Brah, it’s not just the cure. It’s our motherfucking salvation.”

  Ken matched his grin.

  You’ll get no argument from me.

  39

  May 23, 10:18 P.M. CEST

  Wieliczka, Poland

  Kat sat beside Monk in the Chapel of Saint Kinga. The subterranean cathedral was packed for the memorial mass. Above the altar, a salt cross glowed with an inner fire. A children’s chorus sang a hymn that echoed from the walls, seeming to defy the tons of rock to rise to heaven.

  Clara sat in the front row, draped in black, her head bowed. The caskets of her three brothers rested before her. Each was sculpted of amber, priceless in their own right, more so from the men inside, who gave their lives so the world might have a future. They were to be buried here, new saints for this holy place.

  “Piotr, Gerik, Anton,” Kat whispered, acknowledging them aloud, intending never to forget their names.

  Monk squeezed her hand. They had flown in last night from D.C. for
the service and would leave again this evening.

  Though two weeks had passed, there was much still to be done. Hawaii was recovering, treated daily with aerial sprayings of the organic compound. As Professor Matsui had predicted, the queen substance had eradicated the Odokuro, the fragrant ketone drawing the wasps out of every nest and colony. Hospitals across the state were treating everyone with intramuscular injections as a precaution. Ecologists and biologists were monitoring wildlife for signs of any resurgence.

  With Hawaii safe, Kat had concentrated her attention on tracking down the other research installations run by Fenikkusu Laboratories. She worked closely with Aiko to coordinate an international response. In addition, such work helped Aiko solidify her covert intelligence agency in Japan, which she had christened TaU—or Tako no Ude—which stood for “Arms of an Octopus,” an apt name for a new spy agency. But Kat also knew that tau was the next letter in the Greek alphabet after sigma, a clear shout-out to their American counterpart.

  While the choir sang, she glanced over to Professor Matsui. He was seated down the row next to Dr. Slaski. Ken had been working closely with the museum director to examine the mysteries frozen in the amber below. It was proving to be a treasure trove of prehistoric life. In addition, Ken had been offered a new position in D.C., one he was still debating to accept, to fill a certain seat left vacant, as head of the entomology department at the National Zoo.

  She hoped he took it.

  Slaski leaned down and whispered to Ken, who nodded. They both glanced to Clara. Kat knew the two had been doing their best to console the bereaved woman, but only time would dull such a pain. Kat was relieved another woman did not have to experience that particular agony. She had heard news yesterday out of Tallinn that Director Tamm was out of the hospital, back at home with his daughter, Lara.

  She sighed heavily.

  Thank god . . .

  Kat settled back as the choir finished the hymn in a transcendent chorus. A lone boy then strode to the balustrade beside the coffins. He was blond, apple-cheeked, like a young ghost of the dead brothers. He sang “Ave Maria” in Polish, without accompaniment. His single sweet voice spoke to the loss here more powerfully than any words.

  As the boy sang with all his heart to the heavens, Kat lowered her face.

  Monk drew her closer.

  Tears fell from her eyes . . . to the hands of her husband clasped to hers.

  She held tightly to him.

  Don’t ever let me go.

  8:05 A.M. EDT

  Washington, D.C.

  “Now remember,” Elena warned, “we don’t touch anything without asking first.”

  Her two granddaughters nodded vigorously as she held open the door to the Smithsonian Castle. “Sí, abuela,” they sang in unison.

  The fragrance struck Elena as soon as she followed them inside. A sweet perfume of roses, lilacs, and lilies filled the marble hall, drawing her to the crypt not far from the door.

  She herded the two girls toward the men waiting for her there: Painter Crowe and the museum’s curator, Simon Wright. At their feet and spilling across the floor were bouquets of flowers and scatters of loose stems. The small room that housed James Smithson’s crypt was full of even more.

  “And who might these young women be?” Painter asked, bending down as she joined him.

  The girls slunk bashfully behind her legs. Once safely out of view, the older of the two risked pointing to her young sister. “That’s Olivia. And I’m Anna.”

  “Are you both librarians like your grandmother?”

  Olivia giggled. “No.”

  Anna stamped a foot. “But I’m gonna be.”

  “Going to be,” Elena corrected.

  “I don’t doubt it,” Painter said as he straightened. He glanced back at the overflowing crypt. “But I wonder which of you could collect the most yellow flowers. I really like yellow.”

  “I can, I can,” the girls chimed together, pausing to confirm with their grandmother that they could touch things.

  Elena shrugged. “Go ahead. But be careful of rose thorns. Can’t have your mother calling Child Protective Services down on me.”

  The girls dashed into the pile of flowers, trailing giggles.

  Elena shook her head. “They’re a handful.”

  “That I also don’t doubt.” Painter waved to the bounty. “Clearly your op-ed in the Washington Times had quite the response.”

  “Or maybe it was your appearance on Good Morning America,” Simon added with a grin.

  Elena blushed. “Just trying to get your founder some publicity.”

  “That you did,” Simon concurred.

  After arriving back in the States, she had shared her story of their adventures in Europe, how they had followed what were literally cryptic clues left by James Smithson to save the world. She had ended her piece in the paper by suggesting the man be properly honored: He should be showered with flowers.

  It seemed the curious who had come to view the symbols for themselves had followed her directions.

  Painter nodded to Simon. “We thought you deserved a small reward yourself. It’s why we asked you here before the Castle opens. It only seemed proper to do that here.”

  “That’s silly. I don’t need—”

  “Dear god, woman,” Simon said with an exasperated sigh, “let the man give you what he’s got.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

  Painter reached to a pocket of his suit jacket and took out a small box, no larger than a deck of cards. He held it out. “For a lady who has everything . . . including two rambunctious grandchildren.”

  Curious, she took the gift.

  “Open it,” Simon urged, bouncing a bit on his toes.

  She hinged back the lid to reveal an obsidian-black metallic card resting atop a red silk cushion. As she tilted the box, a holographic silver symbol rose from the card’s surface.

  It was a single Greek letter.

  Sigma.

  “Keys to the kingdom,” Simon explained.

  “In case you ever tire of being a librarian,” Painter said. “And want a little adventure.”

  She cast him a jaundiced eye.

  He shrugged. “Or maybe you just want to come down for a cup of coffee. With that key, my door’s always open.”

  She snapped the lid closed. “Director Crowe, coffee sounds like plenty enough adventure for me.”

  “I don’t know. You’ve never tried Kowalski’s brew. It’ll make you wish you were being shot at.”

  She grinned. “I’ll take my chances.”

  8:08 P.M. EDT

  Takoma Park, Maryland

  With crickets burring and fireflies flickering in the neighboring hydrangeas, Gray stood before the FOR SALE sign posted in the yard of his parents’ craftsman bungalow.

  A smaller SOLD! sign rested atop the crossbar.

  He headed across the expanse of yard. He remembered mowing the lawn, the fresh smell of cut grass, shoving a push mower around because his father had been too cheap to buy a gasoline-powered one. He reached the driveway. At the end of it, the garage at the back of the house stood closed and dark, but he could still hear his father hammering away inside, cursing, as he tinkered with his vintage Thunderbird, which was still parked there. He pictured his mother watching her husband work from the kitchen window, burning the family dinner, preferring her books and grading papers to learning how to cook properly.

  Everywhere he looked, there were ghosts.

  It was why nine months ago he had decided to take a sabbatical with Seichan. More than needing a break from Sigma and its responsibilities, he had fled from here. A month ago, he had finally agreed to allow his brother Kenny to list the house.

  What do either of us need with this place?

  With no reason to remain any longer, Kenny had returned to California, chasing a new job in the tech industry. The only people through the house these past weeks were real estate brokers and potential buyers.

  Since arriving back
in the States, Gray had avoided coming here. He hadn’t even stepped foot inside. But with the pending sale, he needed to inventory what was left in the house. He didn’t know what to do with all the old furniture and the lifetime of accumulated knickknacks that seemed so important. He considered charity, using an estate sale service.

  He sighed.

  He knew a large part of the reason behind his foot-dragging and hesitation.

  Promise me . . .

  He could still feel the pressure of the syringe as he induced the fatal overdose. He remembered his father’s fingers relaxing as he held his frail hand, the feel of his calluses, the thinness of his bones. As much as Gray accepted that it was the right decision at the time, he still could not escape the guilt.

  Even traveling the full breadth of the globe, he could not escape his ghosts.

  And now I’ve come full circle.

  No wiser, no less guilty.

  He accepted this was a burden he would carry with him the rest of his life. Unable to delay any longer, he headed toward the front door. Seichan was already inside, needing to lie down. Her treatments were finished. Though the larval load was dead, it would take her body some time to clear what was inside her, challenging her immune system. But at least the tests this morning seemed to indicate the baby inside was faring well.

  Despite his melancholy, he smiled softly, remembering the tiny flutter of a heartbeat on the ultrasound.

  Our baby . . .

  He shook his head at the impossibility of it all.

  Both were safe. Even Kowalski was recovering from his injuries, as were Palu’s cousins. Earlier in the day, Gray had spoken to the big man, who was still on Maui. Gonna finish my goddamn vacation, Kowalski had told him. He had joined his girlfriend, Maria, who was helping with efforts out there. They were staying with Palu’s family.

  Kowalski had only one major complaint about his care: They got me wearing pantyhose. Maria had explained, trying to calm the man’s dismay. Apparently Kowalski had been ordered to wear medical compression stockings for six weeks, to help heal his many bite wounds. Gray had insisted that Maria send him photos. In case he ever needed to blackmail the guy.