The Brimstone Network (Brimstone Network Trilogy)

  The noise had come from the direction of the main hall.

  Bram immediately thought of Mr. Stitch.

  “Where’s the stranger?” Bram asked Yong, who was running beside him.

  “The Abbot had us make up a place for him to sleep in the hall,” the monk answered.

  Bram was immediately concerned for the man’s safety. Even though he’d only met the stranger hours ago, there was something about him that he liked.

  Nearing the hall, the horrible screaming again filled the air before coming to an abrupt stop. Bram pushed himself to run faster, getting ahead of the crowd, and was the first to barrel through the entrance into the room.

  He came to a sudden stop, shocked by what he was seeing.

  The floor was littered with broken bodies of dead Yeti.

  Standing near the dwindling fire, Mr. Stitch stood, his shirt tattered and torn, exposing his scarred, pale flesh. A Yeti hung limply in his grip.

  “Are … are you all right?” Bram asked, looking around at the carnage. There must have been seven dead snow beasts upon the floor.

  “Had a bit of a problem at first,” Stitch said as he released his hold upon the dead Yeti’s throat, letting it slip to the ground. “But I’ve got things in hand now.”

  Bram walked farther into the room. “They aren’t normally violent … unless threatened,” he said, eyeing the corpses. “I wonder what could’ve made them act this way?”

  Stitch wiped his hands on his pants. “It’s in the wind, lad,” he explained. He waved one of his powerful hands above his head. “With the Network gone, evil grows unchecked.”

  The monks had begun to drag the Yeti remains from the hall.

  “Do you think they sensed it?”

  Stitch nodded. “Sensed it, and were aroused by it. Like what blood in the water is to sharks.”

  Bram watched as the beasts’ bodies were taken from the room. What if Stitch is right? he wondered. What if attacks like this were happening all over the world? People defenseless because there wasn’t anybody to protect them.

  No Brimstone Network to keep them safe.

  It all became clear to him, and as much as it terrified him, he knew what he had to do.

  “When do we leave?” Bram asked, looking away from the Yeti remains to Stitch.

  “Leave?” the scarred man asked, startled. He was using a pitcher of water and a piece of his shirt to clean his wounds.

  “If things are as bad as you say, we’re probably going to want to leave as early as we can. Am I right?”

  Stitch nodded, understanding now. “You are,” he said, balling up the bloody piece of cloth and tossing it into the fire behind him. “I suggest we take our leave at first light.”

  Bram thought for a moment, looking around the great hall. He remembered when he had first come to this place, standing with his meager belongings in this very room.

  I’m going to miss it, he thought.

  “I better go and get packed,” he said, turning to leave.

  He had a long journey ahead of him, and not a moment to waste.

  It was even harder to leave than Bram had imagined it would be.

  Of all the places he had spent his young life, he had found the most here, at P’Yon Kep.

  The monks, whom he had learned to call brothers, stood silently in the high-ceilinged entryway, watching as Bram and Mr. Stitch dressed, fortifying themselves against the frigid temperatures outside.

  Bram was reminded of the last time he had worn this gear, on his arrival to this peaceful place. I was a different person then, he thought. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he remembered his initial impressions of the monastery. He had lived in some of the finest places of learning in the world before coming here, and had actually believed that his father was punishing him.

  He’d been angry, constantly battling the ferocious aspects of his nature. But the monks of P’Yon Kep had put him on the path to accepting his nature—to unifying his spirit. It was a journey he had yet to complete, although he knew he was well on his way.

  But it was now a journey he would have to finish on his own. Pretty frightening.

  “Are we set?” Stitch asked, his low voice reverberating in the silence of the monastery entrance.

  Bram nodded, hefting his pack of belongings and supplies and slinging it over his shoulder. He turned to his teachers … his friends … his family. “I guess this is it,” he mumbled sadly, looking down at his booted feet.

  And then slowly, as if compelled, he lifted his eyes to meet those of the Abbot, who stood serenely in front of the other monks, hands lost within the sleeves of his fiery red robes.

  “When your father contacted us, and asked if we would teach you, I had many reservations,” the monk softly began.

  Bram smiled sheepishly, remembering how uncooperative he had been when he’d first arrived.

  “One such as you … two spirits trapped within one body … battling for possession of one soul … it presented many challenges.”

  Bram stared into the old man’s warm, almond-colored eyes, seeing his time at P’Yon Kep reflected there, the disappointments as well as the triumphs.

  “We saw you as a reflection of the world,” the Abbot continued, withdrawing his hands and gesturing at the room around them. “A world that had changed much since last we were part of it. But we also saw in you a challenge.”

  The Abbot gently laid a hand upon Bram’s cheek. It was warm, and its soothing heat spread through Bram’s body.

  Again, Master Po asked the question, “To whom am I speaking, the human or the Specter?”

  “Neither,” Bram responded immediately. “I am neither solely human, nor Specter. I am both, two halves learning to be one.”

  The old man smiled, nodding ever so slightly. “You have learned much during your stay with us, pupil,” he said. “I doubt that would have been your response mere weeks ago. It pleases me.”

  Bram bowed again, allowing himself a moment’s pride with the Abbot’s praise. “Thank you, Master.”

  He had to ask the question, he had to be certain.

  “But am I really ready to leave?” Bram asked his ancient teacher. “Have I learned enough to go out into the world and affect it?”

  The Abbot took his hand away, and it disappeared into the robes once more. “There are indeed dark times ahead,” he said, staring at the heavy wooden doors leading from the monastery out into the world. “But you have grown much with us, and we have given you the tools you will need to dispel the shadows, and bring symmetry to your soul. Once there is balance within, you will bring the same to the world.”

  The Abbot smiled, and slowly bowed. The other monks did the same, and Bram reciprocated the gesture of respect.

  “Safe journey, Abraham Stone,” the old man said.

  Two monks scurried from the group, each taking hold of large copper rings that hung in the center of the tall wooden doors. They pulled upon the rings, and the double doors moaned as they began to open. The warm, dim tranquility of the monastery was suddenly invaded by a frigid blast of cold and the piercing glare of Himalayan daylight.

  Stitch hefted his pack upon his back and threw up the furred hood of his parka. He waved to the monks as he turned into the white light pouring through the open doors.

  Bram pulled the hood over his head as well, adjusted the straps of his pack, and took one last look at the monks of P’Yon Kep.

  They had begun to fade, the colors of their usually vibrant robes softer, muted. Even the warm, colored walls of the monastery had started to pale.

  Hand raised in a final gesture of good-bye, Bram slowly backed toward the open doors to join Mr. Stitch, who waited patiently outside.

  “Seems like we’re not the only ones going on a journey,” the tall man said.

  Together they stood in the knee-deep snow, watching as the regal structure receded from this world, on its way to another. And with only the moan of the frigid winds to accompany it, the monastery of P?
??Yon Kep faded away as if it had never been there.

  As if it had only been a dream.

  5.

  THEY HAD WATCHED THE COCOON FOR DAYS, WAITING for their master to emerge.

  Cracklebones scratched at his large troll belly. He was hungry, and the others around him—the demons, ghosts, drows, trows, goblins, and some things that he did not know the names for—seemed to be growing hungry as well.

  If they had to wait much longer, there was sure to be some problems. Mingling with the multitude of other-kinds made everyone a bit jumpy. But it just proved the power of Crowley’s love.

  The troll studied the cocoon hanging on thick strands of webbing from the ceiling of the secret chamber beneath the ancient cemetery.

  Crowley had begun the process of weaving it just as they were leaving on their special mission. He had said that their loyalty inspired him to change, that when they returned from their sacred task—when the Brimstone Network was no more—they would find a leader whose appearance mirrored the new age they had been responsible for starting.

  And they had done well.

  Cracklebones smiled, razor-sharp teeth sliding out over his protruding lips. The memory of the terrified screams of the Brimstone Network agents made him all warm and tingly inside.

  Or maybe that was just the hunger.

  He was tempted to snack on one of the lesser creatures that squatted near him, but figured Crowley would frown on that. He had, after all, unified them in their cause. They were now a force to be reckoned with, and humanity didn’t stand a chance against their ferocity.

  Cracklebones remembered the first time he’d heard of Crowley’s plan—he’d split the emissary’s skull with his ax and feasted on its brains. But then he’d begun to hear of the growing interest of other creatures of the weird, all who had been banished to the pockets of shadow or felt the wrath of the Brimstone Network.

  And he had decided that it might be wise to listen, after all, thankfully, for the Network had fallen all across the globe. Rumor had it that there had been help from the inside—that the Brimstone Network had had a traitor in its midst—but Cracklebones didn’t care, Crowley had been the true mastermind. Now the Network was gone and that was all that mattered to the myriad species awaiting their leader’s rebirth.

  The shriek of something dying and the smell of spilled blood interrupted Cracklebone’s thoughts. Turning, he gazed into the gathering of wicked beasts and saw that a pack of were-jackal had helped themselves to a bit of gremlin meat. As the exciting scent of death filled the air, he sensed the growing unease of the gathering, the truce between species seeming to last only as long as their bellies remained full.

  He bent to pick up a blood-encrusted ax from the ground beside him, ready to defend himself—or prepare a snack—whichever came first, when he noticed a change in the cocoon. He froze, studying the chrysalis through squinted eyes. Had it been a trick of the light, his impatience and hunger making him see what he wanted to see?

  No.

  The surface of the cocoon had begun to pulsate. And then a hand pushed its way out from within the silky weave.

  Cracklebones smiled. It’s finally time, the troll thought excitedly; time for their master to be reborn. Unhinging his jaws he let loose with an ear-piercing yell, silencing the chatter of the other beasts. “It’s time!” he bellowed, pointing to the cocoon as it swayed in its mooring of webbing as something struggled to emerge.

  To be free.

  The beasties surged forward, eager for the first glimpse of their master’s new form. The cocoon tore open, spilling a foul-colored liquid onto the dirt of the chamber floor, followed by the body of a man.

  The figure dropped to the ground, its skin wet and glistening. Struggling into a kneeling position it began to rip at its body, tearing away what appeared to be dead skin to reveal a pale, almost translucent layer—fresh and new—beneath.

  The figure rose to its feet, pulling away the last of the thin, fleshy membrane to reveal its features to the waiting gaggle.

  There was no doubt as to who stood before them, the body slim and muscular, features gaunt, the eyes almost a solid black.

  A smile danced at the corner of master Crowley’s mouth.

  He spread his arms wide, presenting his naked self to the gathering. Suddenly, four segmented limbs, like the long legs of a spider, blossomed from his back with a wet popping sound.

  The beasties gasped as the spindly limbs pawed the air, a nasty-looking claw adorning the ends of each.

  Crowley cleared his throat, silencing the room.

  “Well,” the dark mage said, his black eyes darting around the chamber. “What do you think of the new me?”

  And the monsters began to clap.

  There was a chill in the air of his underground lair.

  Crowley wove a heavy black robe from the darkness around him to protect his new form. Then, using his magickal power, he built himself a throne from the remains of his cocoon and the bones of the dead. He wanted to be comfortable when he heard about the demise of his most hated enemy.

  The bestial throng crowded forward, eager to be in his presence.

  And can you blame them? Crowley thought with a smile. The new body he wore felt strong. He hadn’t felt this strong since … his last metamorphosis.

  But there were also the pangs of hunger.

  He would suppress the need to feed until he’d heard the tales of the Brimstone Network’s murder, the black sorcerer decided. He would receive a special kind of sustenance from the woes of his fallen enemies.

  “Now,” he said, enjoying the sound of strength he heard in his voice. “Who wants to be the first to tell me how horribly they died?”

  The gathering of monsters started to chatter at once, each giving different testimony to the horrors they’d wrought.

  Crowley smiled, letting the stories of terror and murder spill over him like a warm arterial spray.

  How long have I waited to hear such tales? he thought, reclining on his throne. The Brimstone society had been a thorn in his side for more millennia than he cared to count.

  The monsters had moved closer to his throne, multiple sets of multicolored eyes glittering eagerly in the gloom of the underground chamber.

  Crowley felt a slight wave of weakness, his head light as his stomach grumbled with displeasure. The need to feed was increasing. He was going to have to eat soon, but he wanted to hear all the grisly details.

  And most especially he wanted his prize.

  He had been most specific before sending out his forces, there was something that he wanted—needed.

  Crowley raised his arms, the newly grown spider limbs coming up as well, as he attempted to silence the horde.

  A troll at the front of the pack understood his meaning, immediately bellowing for them all to be silent, and mostly they listened.

  The sorcerer nodded his head ever so slightly, thanking the troll for his intervention. This one had a fire that Crowley admired.

  “By the sounds of it, you have done well, my legion of discord,” Crowley praised them.

  The beasties beamed, pushing closer, basking in his compliments.

  His stomach churned hungrily. Just a bit longer, he told himself. Your patience is soon to be rewarded.

  “Now, who has brought me my prize?”

  It became even more silent in the chamber than it was before. He could see them looking at one another, confusion in their gaze, and hoped that he wasn’t about to become annoyed.

  “Come now,” he said, feeling his irritation rise with his hunger. “I was very specific.”

  The throng began to mutter amongst themselves, but nobody came forward to answer the question of where his prize was.

  Crowley stood, his insect limbs clawing at the air. “Elijah Stone’s head … where is it? Who has brought me the head of the Brimstone Network’s leader?”

  “We … we killed your enemies!” a filthy goblin wearing a necklace of pointed ears screeched.

  ?
??Yes,” another beastie added. “In your name, we attacked and destroyed the most hated Brimstone Network.”

  “There was no mercy!” cried a ghoul.

  “Their screams filled the air like music!” said a monster whose fat, yellow-skinned body was covered with eyes.

  Crowley glared at them. “Yes, yes, but who has brought Stone’s head?”

  The throng went deathly quiet, and Crowley felt his anger and hunger moving him toward a dangerous place.

  Dangerous not for himself, but for those in his proximity.

  “The head … it was destroyed,” stammered a voice from the crowd.

  Crowley searched for the source, again finding the troll that he had earlier looked on with favor.

  “Continue,” the sorcerer demanded.

  “He … he exploded in a burst of magickal fire, destroying many of your followers and leaving nothing for us to bring home,” the troll explained.

  “Stone’s entire body was incinerated?” Crowley asked, attempting to maintain a modicum of calm.

  “There weren’t even any ashes,” the troll continued.

  The other beasts had begun to move away from the troll warrior, sensing that he would soon be a target.

  Crowley’s anger surged, and he could hold it at bay no longer.

  “Imbeciles!” he screamed. From the ends of his fingers—from the clawed tips of the spidery appendages—a wispy gray energy flowed, spreading across the ceiling, hanging like smoke above the crowd.

  His fury and hunger had become a screaming thing burning in the center of his being. He could tolerate their stupidity no longer; the only use for them now was to satisfy his nearly overwhelming hunger.

  “You’ve disappointed me,” Crowley growled as the smoke solidified, becoming like webbing as it drifted down to cover the gathering. “The price for my displeasure is a harsh one.”

  The monsters began to scream as the fine, silky substance touched their flesh, clung to their bodies, covering their heads and faces.

  “The price is your lives,” Crowley said, feeling the life energies of the multitude before him flow through the web to satisfy his inhuman hunger.