Forged From Ash (12 page)

Meyer was soon back in his corner, checking on a dimly glowing display. He soon switched that off and got back to the work he’d been doing before.

Slowly, the next screen began to load. It came through in drips and drabs, but at least it was coming through. Dressel sat hunched over the screen so Meyer wouldn’t be able to see what eventually came up. If the bearded guy decided to make a move, Dressel had no doubt he’d hear it coming.

When the screen was just under halfway loaded, something caught Dressel’s eye. As the loading bar slowly filled along the bottom of the display, a set of four triangles lit up in the opposite corner and then disappeared in a pattern that made it look like another circle was spinning on the screen.

The loading ground to a halt and the screen was completely frozen again. Even worse, what had come through was now breaking apart into a pixilated mess. When he tapped on a few keys to see if he could get a response, Dressel was shown a message box that told him the signal was being repaired. More than likely, the computer was scanning for something or receiving a large file.

“Hey man,” Dressel said as he shifted around to look at Meyer. “You expecting anything to come in?”

But Meyer wasn’t in his corner. Dressel was barely quick enough to pivot in his chair to find the bearded man standing several paces behind him as if he’d materialized there. With the layers of shirts he wore over his bulky frame, Meyer looked less like a man and more like one of the beasts hunting mankind. “Yeah,” he said. “I was expecting you.”

Dressel wheeled around while plucking one of the pistols from his shoulder holster. As soon as Meyer came at him, Dressel squeezed his trigger and put a round into the bearded man’s chest. Meyer staggered back and a second round put him down.

Keeping his aim on the other man, Dressel moved forward to have a look. Meyer’s chest was still rising and falling, and the portion of his shirts that had been hit were ripped open to reveal coarse layers of matted hair. Either this guy was a shapeshifter or he’d bought some Half Breed skins from the gas station to use them as body armor. It was a trick passed along by some of the military Specialists fighting with the IRD, and those vests sold for a hell of a lot more than a pocket full of silver.

“I know you’re still alive, asshole,” Dressel said. “Get up.”

Meyer groaned and started flopping onto his side.

Glaring down at the bearded man, Dressel reached down to roughly grab his arm and pull him off the floor. “I told you to get up!”

Before a full inch of space could be created between Meyer and the cement floor, the bearded man snapped his upper body around to slap aside Dressel’s gun hand. There was a good amount of force in the blow which would have been enough to disarm almost anyone. Dressel maintained his grip, however, and had the presence of mind to slam a foot against Meyer’s ribs.

Despite the padding provided by his shirts and the hides he wore beneath them, Meyer grunted in pain as his breath escaped him in a wheeze. That didn’t stop him from wrapping an arm around Dressel’s ankle and twisting his entire body around to pull the biker down to his level. As soon as Dressel hit the floor, Meyer let go of his ankle, rolled up over his legs and dropped a fist onto his face like a sledgehammer. The swing was more of a shock than anything else, and Dressel responded by shoving Meyer away so he could scramble free and get to his feet.

“What?” Dressel growled. “You and those gas station guys have a deal going where they send suckers your way and you split the haul?”

Meyer was also on his feet by now and had taken a low fighting stance.

“You do have some computer skills, so that might be enough reason for me to let you live,” Dressel continued. “That is, if you can show me how to hack into the network anytime I want.”

Through the conversation and the way he circled the other man, Dressel did his best to gauge his opponent. Meyer was having none of it. He kept quiet and moved in smooth, conservative steps so he was always in front of him.

Dressel raised his gun and sighted along the top of its barrel. Before he could do anything else, his target had stepped forward and to one side with enough speed to close the distance between them.

Instead of trying to turn and shoot, Dressel brought a leg up to snap out a side kick. Meyer slapped it aside with one hand, bringing his other hand up and forward to flick a quick fist into his jaw. Dressel rolled with the jab and swung his pistol around like a club to pound against Meyer’s raised arm. He followed up with a knee that caught Meyer in the gut. Padding or not, the impact took some of the wind from the bearded man’s sails.

Meyer doubled over and then drove his shoulder into Dressel’s chest to push him back. Along the way, Dressel pounded the pistol’s handle against the other man’s shoulder while thumping another knee into Meyer’s chest. The bearded man straightened up to find himself staring down the barrel of Dressel’s pistol. Before the trigger could be pulled, however, Meyer clamped both hands around Dressel’s wrist to crank that arm viciously against the joint. Fighting to keep hold of his gun, Dressel swept one leg straight out and around to take Meyer’s feet out from under him. The bearded man fell forward, reflexively stretching out his arms to land on all fours. He barely kept himself from busting his chin against the cement.

Pulling his trigger, Dressel sent a round into Meyer’s back. The bullet thumped against his shirts without drawing blood, so Dressel shifted his aim for the back of the other man’s head. At the last second, Meyer twisted away so the bullet clipped the side of his neck. It wasn’t the definitive shot Dressel had been after, but blood was jetting out from a severed artery which meant the other man was still as good as dead.

Meyer pulled in a haggard breath. The spray of blood from his neck had already stopped and the flaps of torn skin melted back together again as he lifted the cuff of his jeans to reveal a leather holster strapped to that ankle. In one smooth motion, he pulled out a short club which came around to pound against the nerve on the side of Dressel’s leg. Spitting out a snarling obscenity, Dressel wobbled and was close to falling down thanks to the intense pain that quickly numbed his leg at the point of impact. He took quick aim and fired, but wasn’t fast enough to shoot before Meyer’s club caught him on the wrist. Still, he refused to relinquish his weapon.

Some of the dim light from the computer desk caught the side of the club in Meyer’s hand, glinting off a strip of metal embedded in the wood. Dressel would not allow himself to be distracted before adjusting his aim to put his target down with one last shot. The bullet caught Meyer in the hip. Well below where he was aiming, but considering how rushed Dressel had been when pulling the trigger, he was grateful to have caught him at all. Meyer dropped and took a stronger hold of his club.

Dressel’s breaths rolled through his body. Chilly air in the garage combined with the lingering stench of homebrew Half Breed repellant to make recovering that much tougher. Somehow, the freshest bullet wound in Meyer’s hip closed up and was no longer bleeding. In the next second, Meyer snapped that same leg around to knock Dressel off his balance.

“Son of a bitch!” Dressel grunted as he fought to keep from going down.

Meyer hopped up with the agility of someone half his age and rushed forward to disarm him by cracking the metallic edge of the club against Dressel’s wrist. Before the pistol hit the floor, Meyer was behind him, and the metal portion of the club had snapped out to form a short, curved blade extending from the tip. A flicker of reflected light glinted off that blade before its cool edge pressed against Dressel’s throat.

“Who were you contacting on my computer?” Meyer snarled into Dressel’s ear.

“Go look for yourself.”

The blade cut just deep enough into Dressel’s neck to draw blood. “It’s a scrambled message. I want to know who sent it to you.”

“My family.”

Meyer’s hand closed around the top of Dressel’s head, grabbing a clump of hair and yanking back to bare even more of his throat. “I know it was sent by The Vigilant. Tell me
exactly
where it came from.”

Dressel looked around, but there wasn’t much for him to see apart from a portion of transformed club and the hand holding it. When he spotted a trickle of blood running from Meyer’s palm where his gloves had been punctured, he said, “You’re a Skinner. There are easier ways for you to find out more about The Vigilant.”

“I know they’re a bunch of murdering traitors who put other Skinners behind bars so they can run fucked-up experiments on them.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Bullshit.”

Squirming as the blade raked slowly across his throat, Dressel said, “I’ve been with The Vigilant for a while now. Obviously you know that much.”

“Go on.”

Dressel slowly peeled the glove from his right hand and held it out so Meyer could see the scars on his palms. “If I thought they were running experiments on our kind, I wouldn’t want anything to do with them.”

“More bullshit,” Meyer sighed. “Maybe I should just cut my losses along with your throat and see what I can see from what’s on my computer.”

“Go ahead. All I needed was a status report.”

“Or directions to one of The Vigilant’s prisons where they lock up Skinners along with any other thing that might give them what they need.”

Once again, Dressel took in as much as he could with darting eyes. Whatever he saw, it was enough for him to conclude, “You’re Cole Warnecki.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because anyone else apart from Vigilant who’d know about those prisons are either dead or still locked in one.”

The blade moved away from Dressel’s throat and Meyer said, “Guess you got me there.”

Something knocked against Dressel’s head, putting his lights out before he could feel the impact of hitting the floor.

CHAPTER EIGHT

20 miles north of Rakhiv, Ukraine

R
andolph was in full beast form, running upon four legs, his barrel chest drawing in crisp clean air that smelled of wood smoke and spilt blood. The world had been sent back to the days of his youth when predators clawed their way to supremacy by sheer force and cunning. Machines were still plentiful but were not reliable so long as the humans controlling them were vulnerable. And they were vulnerable. That condition was made even worse due to the humans’ shortsightedness and dependency on their own mechanical crutches.

As he crossed Europe, Randolph encountered plenty of wretches. He even caught the scent of some leeches hiding as the leeches so often did. Gargoyles hung in the trees, gathering their numbers until they needed to hunt. What were not so easy to find, however, were Full Bloods. This did not surprise Randolph. It was still a time of building, and the world’s new masters were most likely rearranging territories, clearing their lands and planting the seeds for future dominion.

It was a time for caution. More than anyone else, Randolph knew he had to tread lightly. Since he’d chosen to hibernate while most of his kind fought to prove themselves by ripping each other apart, he would be seen as an outsider. As soon as the other Full Bloods realized he carried one of the last remaining pieces of pure Torva’ox, they would renew their interest in him. Some would court his favor. Others wouldn’t take such a gentle approach. Now that he’d gotten a feel for the lay of this changed land, Randolph had to take steps to ensure his survival within it. To that end, he would need an army.

Randolph came to a stop by digging his claws deep into the hard-packed earth and tearing trenches in the soil. His tongue lolled from the side of his mouth, and his panting breaths rolled through the air like distant thunder. Cool, blue-gray eyes took in the sight of the barren landscape. Here and there, he spotted wandering beasts scavenging for their next meal. There weren’t many humans to be found in this part of the world. Not anymore. Randolph’s keen senses could pick out only a few small groups of them hidden behind layers of rock, brick and steel. All of those who’d survived the packs were dug in deep and, for the moment, Randolph was content to let them stay there.

The beast within him, fueled by energy that had been stored during Randolph’s slumber and further energized by his long run, paced back and forth. It shook its mighty head and snapped its jaws just to feel the raw power as his teeth clamped together. He was hungry, but there would be time for feeding later. So much time. So many upon which to feed. With civility no longer a necessity, he could indulge a hunger that he’d repressed for centuries. There would be time to run as well. Such restraint proved Randolph was gaining control over the beast entrenched in his soul. His Balance was restored, and soon the beast allowed its head to hang.

Slowly, Randolph’s bones began to creak, and the frame of his body expanded. Paws stretched into hands and feet. Muscles that were piled upon his neck and back flowed out to cover him more equally or dissolve altogether. When he was shrunken down to a human form, the pearl he’d taken from Icanchu dropped to the ground near his left hand. He pulled himself up from all fours and stooped down to retrieve the glimmering jewel.

No matter how many times he gazed at it or how close it had been to him, Randolph never tired of the prize he’d taken. With it, not only could he purify himself, but he could also gain a bond with any other species descended from the pure Torva’ox. Now that the Torva’ox had been corrupted, he was one of a precious few not of the Mist Born who could accomplish such a thing. Perhaps the Mist Born had also been corrupted. There would be time to learn that as well.

After savoring the touch of the pearl against his palm, Randolph placed it reverently upon the ground before him. Then he straightened up, lifted his head to a sky smeared with the purple and red hues of dawn, and stomped his foot down upon the pearl. The transformation rolled through Randolph’s body, snapping his head back and splaying his arms out to either side as he grew into a thing that stood eight feet tall upon two legs. Drawing from the Torva’ox, Randolph grew even bigger. His body swelled with muscle upon muscle. The claws stretching from his hands were longer than they’d ever been; thick bases white and bloody.