Pyros: DarkWorld: Skinwalker 0.5 (Novella) (DarkWorld: Origins Book 1) (5 page)

As Logan gave the cave one last scan he heard Alex radio Jerusalem HQ asking about the CS techs and body retrieval. He signed off and said, "CS is two minutes away. I'll take a few pictures for our records."

Logan nodded and moved toward the entrance of the cave, the flash from Alex's camera brightening his path. He pressed the button on the radio on his shoulder. "Mik, you and Brett spot anything?"

"Not a thing. Infrared’s getting nothing in the desert around us. Doesn't mean nobody is watching us, though."

"Yeah." Mik was right. There were plenty of ways to hide. "We'll stay until the techs get here. They'll have backup."

It didn't take much longer before the thrum of a helicopter sounded in the distance. Logan was relieved. He was more than happy to get out of there. He swallowed, reminded again of how close he'd come to spilling his guts all over the cave floor.

Taking a deep breath he nodded to himself. They'd arrived, secured and examined the scene, and were ready to transfer the baton to the techs. First mission done. He'd expected a little more action, maybe the apprehension of a suspect, but their first time out had been a piece of cake.

If he ignored the blood and dead bodies.

***

Two Years Later

Jess tapped the page with her pen, frowning at the words on the report. She'd commandeered a private meeting room to complete her paperwork. Now, she had to concentrate to ensure her opinions remained biased for the Omega paperwork. She'd been observing Logan Westin for the better part of four years now. At nineteen he'd been heading his own team for almost two years. He didn't need a supervisor.

She nodded to herself. She'd ensure that Logan understood she was only temporarily assigned to his team, and that her senior capacity did not mean she would take charge of his team.

The sound of bells tolled softly in her ear and Jess straightened. The Council called and she must heed their summons.

She stood and disappeared.

***

Jess arrived outside the Immortal Council meeting room.  As a Titan, the Council didn't intimidate her; she just took her role seriously enough to respect them for the roles they played. She looked down at the pale marble tiles then up at the white pillared threshold before her. Sunlight flooded the reception room through half a dozen floor to ceiling windows, the warmth of it slowly sinking into her skin.

Taking a breath she pushed the door open and entered.

The Council had held on to habits of old, and tended to favor white as the color of their robes. From togas, to saris, to simple Victorian fashion, the ancient group was an impressive sight.

Today the gigantic table sat only half full; a mere sixty members were present. Jess walked forward and chose a vacant seat. The faces at the table were calm and kind, and Jess knew many were glamored too. Many of the Immortals were once worshiped as gods, but had thrown off the mantles as their worship faded. These days it was a daunting task to identify Apollo from Thor, or Vishnu from
Fei Lian.

Although their identities were screened to her, Jess's own was not. As the representative of the council in the DarkWorld, and more especially in the Earth World, Jess worked on behalf of them and as such, answered to them.

A movement at one end of the table drew her gaze. "Jacinta. Thank you for coming so swiftly." She didn't answer, merely inclined her head and waited. "Can you update us on his progress?"

"Logan Westin is nineteen, and his power has developed to a high level of mastery."

"His loyalty to Omega?" The face was hazy, the question succinct.

"Unswerving at this time."

"His memories?" Another voice.

Jess turned her head a little to face the speaker. "I suspect we may see them slowly returning."

"How so?" A lilt of curiosity

"He is having nightmares, and flashbacks. A few sensory connections that bring on memories he finds odd."

"Has he remembered he has a sister?"

"Not yet. He just knows something is wrong." Jess paused before asking. "How is she?"

"She is safe. And well. Her powers are still bound."

Jess nodded. She would have to be satisfied with their assurance because in all these years they hadn’t given her more than the briefest updates on Logan's sister.

A throat was cleared. "And Omega? Are they still investigating her disappearance?"

Jess turned to the new voice. "It’s a cold case, intermittent investigation only."

"I take it they have no idea that we were responsible for her removal?" he asked.

"No. They have Sentinel on their list. And a few outlier demon lords. Nothing solid."

"Good." He moved his head, perhaps it was a nod. "Very well, is there anything you need, Jacinta? To perform your role better, to assist you in any way?"

She shook her head. "Just as long as I can arrange an immediate extraction should Logan's memory return. And I want to be assured that he will be safe."

"Of course, Jacinta. We do not harm. And as much as we can, we do not interfere." He sighed. "I think there will soon be a time when Omega will have to answer for their crimes."

"I do hope so," Jess said. She inclined her head, already sensing that the interview was done. As she glanced around the table, the council members began to disappear until only one remained.

Storm.

Storm was a Titan that based himself in Chicago, working with street kids, finding homes for lost paranormals, putting all sorts of people back on the right path. He'd done more with the last fifty years of work than half the council had in all their lives.

A golden-haired, blue-eyed Adonis he'd never fallen to arrogance or vanity. His work in the DarkWorld was what he lived for. He smiled and crooked his elbow. She took his arm, her fingers sinking into the soft linen of his tailored white suit, and allowed him to walk her outside. They paused in the doorway to glance back at the now empty table.

Jess sighed. "I hope they are right?"

"About what?"

"That he will not be harmed."

"I agree. He is a unique young man."

"And a good one too. Those are not found often within the morass of humanity."

"I am sad to have to agree with you."  Storm patted her fingers, his golden hair glinting in the sunlight that streamed in through the windows. "I do hope he is never swayed from his path."

"Me too, Storm. Me too."

***

Logan Westin, age 19

Mission: Cambodia

The alert had come through on those secret channels that only Gunther seemed to know about. Somewhere in the mass of the Cambodian wilds, a great grey cloud brewed. And what better way to battle a Weather mage than with one of your very own.

The team had gone from the wilds of Mongolia to the wilds of the Congo and now to the wilds of Cambodia. All in the space of two days. And all without a Teleporter.

Teleporters were very high in demand which meant Omega tended to push Alex a little harder than they should. And the guy didn't know how to say enough is enough.

Alex was on enforced rest, under observation at NY HQ just to ensure his body was fit for his next jump, and of course to ensure he didn't scramble his brains the next time he teleported someone out.

Mission Mongolia verified that a string of mutilated bodies were not actually caused by vampires, since the creatures were known to have died out almost a century ago. Mission Congo had hit them square in the gut. Black magyk; ritual sacrifice of toddlers by a very paranormal witch-doctor. Not something Logan wanted to see again anytime soon. The witch-doctor had a strangely warped notion of how paranormal power really worked. And all he'd ended up with was a pile of dead babies, and not an ounce more power. That mission alone had stripped Logan to the bare emotional minimum.

He leaned against the side of the aircraft, molding his spine to the metal hoping the hypnotic thrum would at least weigh down his eyelids again, bring on a doze that was more sleep than a memory he would rather forget. Gunther had better quit this ringmaster act soon. Someone's going to keel over from exhaustion unless the team got some solid R and R soon.

Between half-closed eyelids he gazed at the men opposite him. Youth glowed on their skins, barely holding onto the pallid cheeks, and the pale, drawn eyes. Magical exhaustion at its finest.

Weather mage Mikael
Levine, sat a knee-kiss before him, eyes closed. Like Logan's, his power was strong and bordered on the destructive. Like him too, his magyk had visited him in his early teens, simmering in the sweet miasma of adolescent hormones. Until one day, an explosion of rage had the unfortunate result of a category two hurricane.

Fortunately for Mik, someone out there was looking for such disturbances, someone with the ability to differentiate this particular storm from a normal, non-
magical one, that is. And fortunately the someone who tracked him down was not one he would rather have avoided.

Unfortunately for Mik and Logan, they were found just a hairsbreadth too late to save the lives of dozens of innocents caught in the maelstrom of their burgeoning powers.

For Logan, the blood still stained his heart, as bright and red today, as it had been six years ago, when Omega saved him from himself. At thirteen he'd been rebellious and angry. Filled to overflowing with guilt. Working off the rebellion and taming his anger was a fairly simple task given the power he dealt with. But the guilt still lived within him, as much a part of him as the breath in his lungs.

Mikael was burdened with similar demons; only he seemed to have used them to harden his heart. And now, under the superior tutelage of Omega, he could bring down rain from a barren blue sky, or turn a tornado on its back with a mere thought. And with a zero mortality rate.

Mik's face was pale, and he opened his eyes. Eyes that were eerily clear of the usual arresting green that clashed so much with his black-as-night hair. This trip into the Cambodian jungle would drain them all.

Drain them of both physical and magical energies.

At last Logan felt himself nodding off.

***

Logan sat on the empty wooden box, swinging his leg back and forth, listening to the monotonous thud as the heel of his sneaker hit the worn out slats. The sound was strangely comforting. The steady thump no more than five beats apart, constant, consistent, comforting. A voice filtered through to him; high-pitched giggling laughter – and he blinked and looked around, his heart giving a little happy lurch as his eyes searched for . . . For what? Logan frowned. What about the phantom sound had made him smile and look for its owner, as if he knew who she was?

He didn't know her. All he knew was he heard her laughter, ringing in his ears, like a ghost, trailing him everywhere he went. And he frowned and scanned the dusty yard, his eyes searching the woods beyond the broken-down fence. Tall evergreens stared sadly back at him, standing guard over his tiny house, watching over him, and hiding the mysterious girl whose voice was like a whisper on the wind.

Was she somewhere in the woods, watching him? Or was she really just a figment of his imagination?

***

Logan's head dropped forward and he jerked awake, slamming his head on the metal behind him. The blades of the
Black Hawk whirred above them, a monotonous blat-blat-blat that should have been a hypnotic rhythm. Should have been enough to lull Logan to sleep, but it provided no such escape. The fibrous hull of the machine was so well insulated, all he felt was the gentle rhythm of the blades, alive in the metal – like the throbbing reverberations of a mechanical heart.

The
Black Hawk rumbled through the night sky, carrying them further into the jungle, skimming the tops of the highest trees. Logan glanced out of the window, scanning the area ahead. They were almost there.

A gigantic black cloud marked the location of a great magi
cal force that drew its power from the skies. The cloud roiled and twisted as if alive, and every few seconds a bright fork of lightning lit up its heaving center.

The helicopter circled the area, and the pilot's voice filtered through the headset confirming their arrival at the coordinates provided by the commanding officer Elias Gunther.

Logan spoke into the microphone of his headpiece. "Mik, you're up."

Mik opened his eyes, moving from sleep to wakefulness in the flicker of an eyelash. He gave Logan a slight nod and turned to look out of the window, to see what he was up against. Logan's stomach tightened. No matter how many times they faced a supernatural force in the field, he still felt that steady tension, reminding him to remain on high alert, whispering that anything could go wrong at any second and that it paid to be aware.

Done with his site inspection, Mik sat back, shook his head of silky black hair and took a deep breath. The dark hair settled around his shoulders, softening the sharp lines of his face. He sat there, still belted in, stiff as a board, his spine straight, the muscles in his neck corded. His fists were clenched and sat one upon each knee as if he needed their support to remain upright. He lifted his green eyes and met Logan's gaze. "I'm going in." His eyes closed as soon as he spoke the words and Logan waited, watching the Aerosi. A light sheen of perspiration filmed Mik's skin.