The Brimstone Network (Brimstone Network Trilogy)

  A staff cracked him on the side of the head.

  I deserved that, he thought, angry at his carelessness.

  Another of the monks jabbed at him, and as Bram brought his staff down to knock the strike away, he was hit from another angle. The speed of the attacks increased: another blow to his head, one to his thigh, his shoulder, his lower back.

  Their blows were more severe than usual. They were trying to goad him into using his special abilities, but he didn’t want to.

  He had lost his concentration and they were taking full advantage of it. He remembered one of his very first lessons here: Never take your eyes from your opponent.

  He gripped his staff tighter and tried to regain his focus. Slowly he breathed in, then out, slowing his racing heart, cooling his anger. Because it was anger that brought it bubbling to the surface, tempting him with the knowledge that it was there.

  But at what price?

  No, he would do this without his fearful talents.

  The monks continued to move around him, and Bram moved as well, slowly turning in a circle, expanding his view to encompass their entire bodies. It wasn’t just the eyes; there were telltale signs from the body as well, a twitch of a finger, the positioning of a foot. Learn to read your foe.

  And read them he did, as they launched their next offensive. Bram was ready this time—seeing their moves as if in slow motion, countering each of their strikes. The training room was filled with the sounds of wooden sparring staffs striking against one another.

  The rounded butt of a staff zoomed toward his face, and he ducked beneath the thrust, carrying through with his own offensive, swiping the legs out from beneath his opponent. Bram spun to face the other three, just in time to knock aside a blow moving toward his middle. He drove his staff into the monk’s chest, punching the air from his lungs and driving him back.

  The remaining two had become more wary, avoiding the reach of his weapon, but hesitated only a moment before attacking in unison. On the defensive they drove him back, but he managed to parry blow after blow.

  Until he was struck from behind.

  There was an explosion of stars as a wooden pole bounced off the back of his skull. He half turned, seeing that it had come from the first he’d knocked to the ground, and he realized he had violated another rule of combat. He’d assumed that this foe was no longer a concern.

  Stupid.

  He had shown weakness again, and they had used it. Their strikes rained down on him, a storm of violence, and this time, no matter how fast he moved, they were faster.

  And that made him angry, because he knew that he didn’t have to endure this, and so did his opponents. There was a way to make it stop.

  They had been trying to teach him to embrace his unique skills since he’d first arrived at the monastery. But he’d fought it. He hated the way it made him feel … inhuman.

  The monks were relentless, each blow almost like an order to him … do not fear your gifts … use them as we have taught you … in the battle against the forces of darkness, they will be your most valuable assets.

  Or something like that.

  Bram tried to block them, but each attempt was more pathetic then the last. Explosions of pain bloomed before his eyes, and he felt his legs begin to give. He dropped to his knees. It was time to make a choice. Was he going to allow himself to be beaten unconscious, or was he going to give the monks what they wanted and use the power he’d worked so hard to keep down?

  As much as he hated to admit it, there really wasn’t any choice.

  Crouched over, forehead pressed to the cold, stone floor, blows from the wooden fighting staffs raining down upon his back, Bram reached inside and imagined himself opening a high, metal gate.

  He hoped they wouldn’t be sorry.

  Elijah Stone’s father had referred to it as the brewing storm, and he was certain that his father’s father had talked about it in the very same way.

  It was a feeling in the air that something was coming.

  Elijah had sensed it for quite some time, ever since things had become calmer in the world, since the Brimstone Network seemed to have gotten things under control.

  The older man smirked and glanced down at the stack of printouts that had been brought to him earlier that evening, each one documenting a case of supernatural activity. A herd of demonically possessed cows in Montana, a lake haunting in Russia, a band of chimpanzees at a Chicago zoo that were suddenly able to read and write, the return of a long-forgotten Sumerian weather god to Egypt. All were cases from the last two weeks; all were settled by his agents in the Network.

  Elijah flipped the corners of the stack of computer paper. He’d already reviewed each case twice. Everything seemed to be in order. There appeared to be no major, supernatural threats to the world. Of course his organization ran like a well-oiled machine; if anything were to happen, he would know about it immediately and a team of agents would be scrambled at once.

  It had taken a long time to reach this stage. For hundreds of years they’d worked in secret, protecting an unsuspecting world from the threat of the supernatural, but then during World War II, the United States’ testing of the atomic bomb ripped holes in the magickal barriers separating Earth from a multitude of other worlds: some completely harmless, others infested with the most dangerous supernatural evils.

  It was the enormity of that world-threatening evil that brought the Brimstone Network out of hiding and into the public eye, for without them, humanity would have most assuredly been lost.

  Now here they were, more than fifty years later, having adapted to a changing world, but forever vigilant.

  Everything is exactly as it should be, Elijah thought, pushing his seat back and getting up from his desk. But then, why was he feeling as though something was terribly wrong.

  The leader of the Brimstone Network looked out of the window of his Ravenschild, Massachusetts, office onto the beautiful view of the unsettled Atlantic, the turbulent ocean mirroring his own sense of unease. He stared at the dark waters, attempting to see beyond them, trying desperately for a glimpse of what was yet to come. But even the Network’s psychics could see nothing other than peaceful calm on the horizon.

  It should have been enough, and for most it would have been.

  Elijah left the window and returned to his desk. In moments like these, when he felt himself growing more agitated, only one thing seemed to help him. He pulled open the side drawer of his desk and reached inside, carefully withdrawing a framed picture. Immediately he felt himself begin to settle down.

  “Would you be like the others?” he asked the image frozen in time. “Telling me not to worry so much, to focus on the good that’s being done? Something tells me you would.”

  A sudden knock on the door startled him, and Elijah cursed his jumpiness. “Come in,” he called out, quickly replacing the picture as the door to his office swung open and a handsome young man dressed in a Brimstone Network uniform entered carrying a serving tray.

  “Are you alone?” Tobias Blaylock asked, kicking the door closed with his foot. “I could have sworn I heard voices.”

  “Talking to myself, I’m afraid,” Elijah said with an embarrassed smile. “A habit that I fear becomes more prominent the older I get.”

  The young man carefully placed the tray on the corner of the desk. “I thought you might like some tea,” he said, pouring two cups of steaming, golden brown fluid from a silver pot. “As well as some company.”

  “Excellent idea on both counts,” Elijah responded, taking the cup offered to him. “Thank you, Tobias.”

  The young man prepared his own drink, adding three heaping spoonfuls of sugar before taking his first sip. He sat in the chair across from the desk.

  “That warms the spot,” Elijah said, trying some of his own steaming brew. “What brings you here tonight?” he asked. “If I remember right, you’ve just finished sixteen hours of monitor duty. Shouldn’t you be at home getting some rest?”

  The e
xpression on the boy’s face grew troubled. “I was visiting Claire,” he said, gazing down into his cup.

  “How is your sister?” Elijah asked quietly. “Has there been any improvement?”

  The boy shook his head. “Things are pretty much the same.”

  Tobias Blaylock was the son of two of the Brimstone Network’s greatest operatives, whose lives were tragically cut short when their home was attacked by a coven of rogue witches who had sworn a blood-grudge against the married agents. Tobias had received only minor injuries in the attack, but Jeannine and Gareth Blaylock were slain, and their youngest child—Claire—had become infected with a virus that specialists at the Network were still trying to identify.

  She was currently in a medically induced coma at the Network’s medical research facility.

  “You know we’re doing our best,” Elijah said in an attempt to comfort the young man.

  The boy nodded and took another quick sip from his cup. Then his expression changed and a mischievous grin appeared on his handsome face.

  He’s the spitting image of his father, Elijah thought, remembering his good friend. But he has his mother’s hauntingly blue eyes.

  “Now I can ask the same question of you, sir,” Tobias said, running a finger along the rim of his teacup as it rested atop his leg. “Why are you still here?” The young man’s eyebrows rose in an inquisitive expression.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” the Brimstone leader asked. He reached across his desktop and lifted a pile of paperwork. “There’s no rest for the wicked.”

  “I see.” Tobias smiled over the rim of his cup. “And when was the last time you went home?” He paused, swirling the remaining contents. “When was the last time you slept a full night in your bed, and not a few hours on the couch?”

  They both eyed the brown leather couch in the corner of the room.

  “That couch is quite comfortable,” Elijah said, finishing the last of his tea and placing the empty cup back on the serving tray.

  “No disrespect, sir,” Tobias said as he, too, placed his teacup on the tray. “But why are you here, night after night? It’s like you’re haunting the facility, wandering its corridors searching for something.”

  “I want to be here if …”

  “If what?” Tobias prompted. “The Network has the entire planet covered; the monitoring station is attuned to any stray flux in paranormal activity throughout the world. If something were to happen, we’d know about it and you would be notified immediately.”

  “Thank you, Tobias, I’m aware of how our facility functions.” Elijah avoided the young man’s eyes, knowing that he spoke the truth. Instead, he focused on the latest stack of reports, wondering if he had missed something.

  The young agent smiled. “I’m worried about you,” he said. “I think you’re pushing yourself for no good reason at all.”

  Elijah sighed, the fuzzy feeling of fatigue noticeable behind his eyes. “You’re probably right, but I just can’t …”

  “You just can’t shake the feeling that if you take your eyes off the ball, something bad will happen,” Tobias finished. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Elijah’s hands were on the reports again, flipping the corners of the stacked documents. “You got me,” he said. “I just can’t shake it, this feeling of impending doom.” The Brimstone leader chuckled at the sound of his words.

  The young agent stood. “Did it ever occur to you that it doesn’t go away because you don’t let it?”

  “Nonsense,” Elijah scoffed. “Do you think I enjoy feeling this way?”

  “Honestly, yes,” Tobias said. “And before you toss me out, let me prove there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Elijah looked up into the eyes of what, in the very near future, would be one of the Network’s most accomplished agents. He was only fifteen, but already one of their finest. And Elijah knew there were others like him, ready to take on the challenges of this new and frightening world.

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe there isn’t anything to worry about.

  Tobias pulled up the sleeve on his dark blue jacket and checked his watch. “It’s nearly time for shift change in communications. Let’s go down and hear reports together. Then you’ll know for sure that the world will survive at least one more night if Elijah Stone goes home and sleeps in his own bed.” The young man smiled again, hands clasped behind his back. “Do we have a deal?”

  The two were silent as the elevator descended to the communications center hundreds of feet beneath the Brimstone Network’s primary base, a fifteenth-century Scottish castle, brought to the United States stone by stone by the Ravenschild family in the early 1900s.

  During the 1940s, as the world attempted to deal with the sudden influx of the supernatural into their day-to-day lives, the Brimstone Network had helped the very wealthy clan eliminate some poltergeists that were threatening one of their Boston furniture factories. The family was so grateful that they deeded the castle to the organization.

  After extensive renovations, including the digging of vast chambers deep beneath the cliffside castle, it became the Network’s headquarters in the late 1950s.

  The elevator came to a sudden stop, two miles below the castle.

  “After you, sir.” Tobias motioned his superior through the doors.

  The door into the communications center slid open with a hum, and the two stepped into the circular room. The air buzzed with the sounds of activity, and as Elijah took it all in, he couldn’t help but be impressed.

  In this room, every agent in the Network, and every paranormal event in the world, was monitored. Nothing unusual could happen without the supersensitive instruments—a merger of both science and sorcery—registering the event. At least a hundred agents worked in this room, and twice that were in the field.

  Maybe he’s right, Elijah thought again, eyes darting about the room, watching proudly as his operatives went about their business. The world appeared calm, and he actually found his guard beginning to fall.

  With Tobias at his side, he walked farther into the room. Some of the operators caught sight of him and seemed to sit taller, their voices taking on a sharper authority.

  “I’d say that things seem to be under control,” Tobias said, surveying the chamber.

  “And I would have to agree,” the Brimstone leader replied, feeling the young agent’s eyes upon him. He should trust them to do their jobs. “It’s late,” Elijah said to Tobias. “I think I’ll go home and get some sleep.”

  “An excellent idea, sir.” The young man placed his hand on Elijah’s back, gentle pressure pushing him toward the door.

  And then Elijah saw it, a flash of light in the corner of his eye, followed by the sound of static.

  One of the monitors had gone off-line.

  He stopped and stared at the screen.

  “It’s nothing,” Tobias said, and the pressure on Elijah’s back grew stronger. “Technical difficulty. It’ll be fixed in no time.”

  But Elijah did not move; that roiling sense of unease was back, and it had intensified.

  Is this it? Has the storm finally arrived?

  He watched the operators for a moment and caught an expression of confusion on one agent’s face. The Brimstone leader strode toward him. “What seems to be the problem, Agent?” Elijah asked, trying to keep the tension from his voice.

  “I’ve lost contact,” Agent Renfield explained, his eyes growing larger as Elijah loomed above him. “He was finishing his report and suddenly he was gone.”

  Elijah looked around. Other operators appeared to be having the same problem. A glitch in the communications systems? Perhaps, a technical problem?

  No, he knew it was something more.

  He scanned the room again and his eye caught Tobias, still standing by the door, watching him. He looked … disappointed.

  A small part of him had wanted the young agent to be right, that he was just being paranoid, overbearing, but now …

  “Commander Stone, you might w
ant to hear this,” another operator called to the officer in charge. Her face wore a familiar expression. Elijah had seen that look on other agents in the field, and had even worn it himself.

  Fear.

  “Put it on speaker,” the commander barked, his eyebrows furrowed.

  “I’m under attack,” cried a voice above the sound of static. “Repeat, I am under …” But the agent’s voice became lost in the hissing white noise.

  And the roaring shrieks of something inhuman.

  “Open communications to all agents,” Elijah bellowed, his voice booming across the room as he grabbed a headset from the operator nearest to him.

  “This is Elijah Stone,” he said with great authority. “Abandon your posts immediately and proceed to the safe houses before—”

  The opened communication channels were suddenly filled with the tortured screams of Brimstone agents, and the horrible, unearthly sounds of the things that attacked them.

  This is it, Elijah thought, staring at the stunned faces of his communications officers.

  The storm had arrived.

  And it was a deluge.

  2.

  BRAM FELT AS THOUGH HE’D BEEN INJECTED with liquid fire.

  Never getting any easier, or hurting any less, the fire spread through him. He felt his body begin to change, but in an instant that felt like hours, it was over. He had given in fully to the transformation, and a voice in the back of his mind wondered what the big deal had been about.

  Bram lifted his head from the ground, just in time to watch a new barrage of blows head for his back.

  But this time, they didn’t strike him.

  The staffs passed through Bram’s body as if he were smoke, striking the stone floor upon which he knelt.

  “Satisfied?” Bram asked, a smile tickling the corners of his mouth. He reached down, consciously making his hand solid so that he would be able pick up the weapon that he’d dropped, and leaped up, his feet floating six inches above the ground.