Pandora's Box: Book 3 of the Crystal Raven Series

The sun beat relentlessly down on the fortress. The heat leached every drop of moisture from the air and from the men, women and youths struggling beneath its tyrannical grip. The sweat dried on Drake’s forehead and arms almost before it formed into beads, and his throat was dry and parched to the point that his saliva felt like gritty sand in his mouth. Checking his canteen for water, he swirled it around and found it empty. Where had all his water gone? He swore it was half full only a moment ago.

“Hey, Alvaro!” He called across the stretch of dust they were currently sowing with mines. “I’m going to go get some water.”

“See who else needs some,” Alvaro suggested. “And take a couple of bodies with you.”

“I’ll just take one of the carts,” Drake suggested. “Who needs H-two-Oh?”

Alvaro watched Drake jog off. Since the Brit’s death, he had become increasingly more anti-social, preferring to work alone even if a task would be easier with a few helping hands. He watched now as the young man picked up a handcart and struggled to pull it across the rough ground. Always the hard way. Drake was stubborn and refused to give in to what he could only see as a weakness. In this heat, the kid was going to kill himself. And still, grief was something every individual had to work through on their own. Five stages or five hundred, it was a lonely journey that did not allow for companionship.

Struggling with the cart, Drake was even more thirsty by the time he wheeled it in through the postern gates. No one used the front gates anymore, not since they had finished sewing the fields before the fortress with explosives. Of course, it would have been easier getting the cart through the wider gates. Maybe he should have taken Alvaro up on the offer for help. Whatever. It was only a water run, and if he couldn’t do this, what could he do? He would merely be another idiot waiting to get himself killed, like Brendon and Jaime. Only the tough survived a war like this, and he was tough enough to survive an encounter with vampyres or a struggle with a square-wheeled cart.

Inside the fortress, he moved towards the nearest of the two wells. Wiccan and Brotherhood soldiers passed him on every side, busy with a thousand errands of their own. The fortress’ water supply was housed in two reservoirs to the left of the main building, one in use and left unlocked. A quartermaster and staff monitored their water consumption, carefully rationing their supplies against the long dry days to come. Since the attempted coup by Brother Jonas, a guard had been posted on the other reservoir, and Drake waved to these as he moved past. Posting guards on supplies may have been standard procedure for most armies under siege, but it was something new to the Brotherhood, and they were all still working out the social protocols. Drake was unsure whether offering a greeting was acceptable, or suspicious behaviour, and he doubted the guards knew either.

Stopping in front of the second reservoir, it seemed preternaturally quiet. Drake felt a chill run up his spine and dismissed it. It was in the heart of the heat of the day, and the fortress always grew quiet during this time as its occupants sought shelter from the sweltering sun. Walking through the door and into the cool dark interior, he called out in greeting. No answer. Puzzled, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. That was so unlike the jocular and verbose Brother Antoine, the talkative Frenchman who served as quartermaster. Usually, you could not get through the door without having both your ears talked off – and that was on one of his more reflective days.

His eyes fell upon a booted foot. At first thinking the owner asleep, its odd angle did not register as he moved to give it a kick. And then the rest of the body came into sight. There was no mistaking the bluish lips and slightly bloated features. The man was dead.

“Alarm! Alarm!” Drake ran out of the reservoir. “The quartermaster is dead!”

April and Angel, who had been talking on the porch of the main building, came running. Attracted by the commotion, they arrived just as the guards pulled the first body out of the reservoir. Kneeling, April fell for a pulse, and then pulled out a crystal to take a reading.

“I think this man has been poisoned,” April commented, glancing briefly at the other four bodies as she followed her crystal to the source of the poisoning.

With Angel and Drake at her back, weapons drawn, she followed the source of wrongness. First, her crystal led her to a flask lying half-empty on the ground, but a greater sense of wrong led her to the reservoir itself.

“Gaia forefend!” She exclaimed. “The water has been poisoned!”

“Quick!” Angel commanded. “Warn everyone not to drink the water! Round up every spare body you can find and send runners to everyone!”

“Jasmine!” April shouted. “Get the Wiccans together! Have them look for victims. We might be able to save some of them if we act quick enough.”

The fortress became a hive of activity that transmitted its frenetic motion up and down the Human lines. First, the warning travelled to every crevice of the fortress, and then came the squads of Wiccans with their grim hunt for the dead and dying. All toll thirty-two bodies were found, another fifty-odd were ill, some beyond anything modern medicine or Wiccan healing could do. The relatively few victims told them the poisoning was fresh, which brought two harsh pieces of reality home to roost.

They had lost half of their water supply without any means to replace it. And worse, far worse, they had a traitor in their midst. One capable of fooling over a thousand Brotherhood soldiers trained from early youth to hunt demons and vampyres. And that meant the possibility of a human traitor a chilling reality.

Angel and Alvaro met outside the infirmary to begin an investigation. They were waiting now on April, who thought she had something to help them uncover their mole – an ancient oath stone, not even a crystal. Something left over from the days of the Druids with a long and bloody history. She brought it to them now, looking worn and fragile. It had taken everything she and her Wiccans had to save the ones they could. They hadn’t come equipped to deal with a mass poisoning, and certainly not for a neurotoxin of this sophistication.

“This stone is not exactly Wiccan,” she explained wearily. “You can ask each person three questions and only three questions. They must hold it while they answer. If they are lying, it will burn them.”

“It should be useful,” Alvaro nodded.

“If you choose your questions wisely,” April warned. “And I don’t know what it will do to a demon or a vampyre. It’s a little too dark for my tastes.”

Nodding their understanding, Angel and Alvaro took the stone and made their way to a quiet corner on the shaded porch, where they took a moment to discuss the three questions they would ask. The first question seemed obvious – did you poison the water supply? But what about the other two questions? Something about loyalty to the Brotherhood, or maybe loyalty to someone or some organization other than the Brotherhood? It required a lot more consideration than they had first thought, and it took them almost an hour to settle on their three questions. Certainly enough time for the culprit to have made his mistake, or to arrange some other piece of mischief.

The guards on their remaining water supply seemed to be the logical place to start, and then perhaps those now guarding their food supply and munitions. These all seemed like the obvious next target for sabotage, given the first choice of target, and their obvious weakness, given that their supply lines had been cut several weeks ago and were not likely to be reopened soon. Protecting these precious supplies would give them a chance to hold out until relief reached them, fail, and they would fall in less than a week. If that long.

The guards held the stone, staring at their hand as they answered the three questions, knowing only it was a Wiccan thing. And Wiccan things could have unexpected consequences. Nothing happened. It remained a cold, smooth stone and nothing more. Alvaro and Angel moved on to those guarding the food, and again the stone remained inert. It was the same with those guarding the munitions, and those working in the workshop on the mines that Alvaro and his crew had been so busy planting around the fortress. Whoever had poisoned the water supply had not been one of those tasked with guarding it. And that brought them to a standstill. Where did they search next? Anyone on water duty, an onerous task that was quickly growing as tedious as KP duty. Tracking down the various people on water duty would take a little doing, but the duty rosters posted at headquarters would help. And it seemed to be the logical next step in their search.

While in the headquarters, the pair decided to test the staff in the infirmary. Their first suspect was working in the infirmary, a Wiccan who had been on water duty that morning. The two came into the infirmary to find it still in a bustle of activity as the Wiccan and nurses worked to save those that they could and keep those that they could not comfortable. Before the poison had finished its work, some fifty-four new graves would be dug out behind the rear wall. Their faces set in grim lines the two immortals moved in amongst their dying comrades, looking for the woman who brought them here. A Wiccan they both remembered from this morning at the reservoir, she was currently helping to tuck one of the poison victims into bed. Alvaro thought he remembered her name was Jasmine.

“Jasmine?” Alvaro called. “I need to talk to you for a moment.”

“Sure,” she replied. “Just let me finish here.”

When the young woman had joined them in a quiet corner of the infirmary, Alvaro handed her the Truth Stone and asked her to hold it in her right hand. Puzzled, she took up the stone and looked at them curiously.

“We need to ask you three questions,” Angel explained. “As you answer each question, I want you to hold the stone in your right hand out in front of you, like this.”

As she complied, Angel asked his first question. “Did you have any part in the poisoning of our water supply, whether directly or indirectly?”

The lie was barely out of her mouth when the hand that held the stone glowed red like hot iron. The smell of sulphur attracted the other Wiccan, who reacted. Led by the younger members amongst them, who were perhaps a tad more comfortable using their crystals in this fashion, the Wiccan in the room drew their crystals and formed a circle. White beams leapt at the demons, piercing its body until it looked like Swiss cheese. Screaming in defiance, the demon summoned its true form – a black, oblong head that ended in an ebony horn, jewelled eyes of red, each facet containing one of its tormentors, huge, muscled arms that ended in long, razor-sharp pincers, and an armoured carapace now pierced through and dripping green ichor. No one there had ever seen anything like it – more alien or insect than a demon.

“God preserve us!” April breathed. “That was hiding amongst us for who knows how long. Make sure everyone holds the Truth Stone. This, this thing might not be the only one amongst us.”

“Did anyone sense her?” Alvaro breathed. “I stood beside her this morning and felt nothing.”

“I,” Angel shook his head, puzzled. “I should have felt its presence. I am a Guardian Angel, no matter how long from my duties.”

“I don’t like this,” April shook her head, watching its body dissolve. “I thought we had catalogued every demon known to visit Earth. Get some of the archivists on it now and see if they can’t find something about this….”

In the mountains, the day had been unusually cool. The women spent most of their day climbing a dozen separate cliffs, two of them sheer rock with little or no hand and footholds. They could only thank God the gremlins had not chosen or had been unable to make an appearance. They had no rope to spare. Getting back down the face of the mountain might be a bit of a problem if Cantara remembered the height of that one cliff where they had lost a third of their extra rope correctly. It would take an extra day to find another place to climb down off that plateau, but it might be moot if they did not survive what was to come on the morrow.

A worn and exhausted crew stumbled to the mouth of the cave that led to Pandora’s lair. They stood in a hesitant huddle. After all this, no one knew if they were ready to take the first step of the last leg of their journey.

“Well,” Gwen offered, “we could camp out here somewhere.”

“We would only roll down this hill,” Crystal complained, staring daggers at the almost forty-five-degree slope that snaked down for almost a hundred yards. “And I’m not climbing it again.”

“Let’s just go inside,” Ember suggested. “It’s cold out here.”

“There’s a little alcove immediately inside the cave,” Crystal added. “We camped here the first time I came this way. There might even be some wood left for a fire.”

Inside the cave, they paused to scrounge amongst their gear, looking for a flashlight. They would blame the necessity of having to empty their packs on the gremlins, and not on their own poor planning. Or faulty memories, given so many of their flashlights, had sacrificed their lives to build the gremlin trap. None of them would have intentionally stowed a flashlight at the bottom of their pack, beneath their spare clothes, supplies, and a dozen coils of rope and climbing gear. No, not they. They had too much foresight and good sense for that. Experienced adventurers like them did not make rookie mistakes like that, not without outside malevolent influence – like say a couple of dozen gremlins, or a demon or three.

After repacking their supplies, they followed the hounds deeper into the cavern. About twenty yards in, they found the alcove Crystal had mentioned and collapsed in a heap. Almost they were too tired to eat or even light a fire. Almost. The tongues of the three hungry hounds kept them from resting, and with a sigh, Cantara put Ember and Alex to work starting a fire. Of course, the food was now at the bottom of their packs. Where else? God, she was getting too old for this. The moment they got off this mountain, she and the Wandering Jew were taking a nice long vacation on a deserted island. Say, for a hundred years or two. She wondered what he would look like in a string bikini, and quickly regretted the mental image. Way too tired here, woman.

There were stacks of old dry wood exactly as Crystal had remembered. With a fire going, the cave was warmer, its flickering light playing against the wall cheerful and peaceful. Between their exhaustion and the warmth, no one had the energy to cook. Someone seemed to recall it was Aiko and Crystal’s turn, but they were both adamant that it was Cantara and Gwen’s. As a whole, they showed more energy in parsing out who had cooked which meal and when than in breaking out the pots. The hounds only knew it was time for dinner and would let no one rest until their stomachs were full. And of course, the pots would have to be at the bottom of their packs, wouldn’t they?

In the end, they were Ember’s beasts, and no matter how unfair she saw it, they came to the unanimous decision that it was her turn to cook. Sometimes it sucked being the youngest. At least they could help her dig out the beans from the bottom of the pack, or maybe stow all this shit back where it belonged instead of lying there smirking at her. And she didn’t burn the beans. Her boys liked them just fine, and even licked all the plates cleans – so she wasn’t doing the dishes, and nobody could make her. Sulking, she settled in against Strawberry, sharing her beans with Blueberry and studiously ignoring the other women. They were all a bunch of lame asses.

The women fell into an uneasy sleep without setting more than a cursory guard – that is to say, Cantara suggested someone take first watch, and nobody stepped up to volunteer. And so they slept, each troubled by dark dreams as some unknown force rifled through their memories for their darkest fears.

Gwen’s dreams were plagued with spiders. The large hairy ones were scary, but not as frightening as the microscopic ones that turned your brain into a nursery for their young. She shivered in her dreams. Huckleberry settled his muzzle into the crook of her shoulder, the wiry fur on his neck tickling her throat. It was uncomfortable and felt like tiny legs crawling up towards her face, but she was too exhausted to roll over. And her fear-laden dreams, growing darker by the moment, had stolen the volition from her muscles.

The wind blowing off the mountain sounded like laughter as Aiko hunted prey that was like a shadow. Something was wrong. Her own movements were slow, her timing off enough to let the child she was hunting escape time and again. This was the proving grounds. She was eight and hunting for her first kill. One of these two would not come off the mountain alive, and judging by her continued failure, she was not worthy of the clans. This was not right! She was the Black Lotus, killer of ancients and demons. Why could she not kill one child? Aiko muttered something dark and foul in her sleep, her arm swinging over to slap Gwen in the face, waking neither.

Cantara had been a teenager when it had happened, and like all rebellious teenagers had been out well past her curfew. It was the Black Djinn’s doing, but the creatures who came like sneak thieves in the night were something from another world. Vampyres! Her family had not stood a chance. No-one from her world knew how to kill these creatures. Running them through with good, Djinn steel did nothing. When a young Cantara came home to find her family slaughtered, she would follow their killers to this strange world, and she would learn the secrets of their deaths. But years would pass between that bloody night and her learning the secret.

Todd was following Alex around like a puppy dog. She was in one of her dark moods, and while she told herself she was annoyed with his presence, secretly, she was afraid he would leave. He was infatuated with her, and she was always able to take advantage of his feelings to hold her fear at bay without ever giving anything of herself. She looked up from the pages of her novel, and he was gone. Alex looked left and right and found no-one. Panicked, she rose to her feet, calling his name. Only her echo answered her. She was alone.

She was wading through the waves on some beach at sunrise. Someone caught up her hand, and Crystal turned. It was her Pope, young and alive. Playfully she pulled him into the surf and found Vincenzo and not her Pope in her arms. One by one, she stood beneath the rising sun, eyes closed, kissing the men she had loved. And when she opened her eyes, the scene changed. Like some beach on D-Day, the surf was choked with the bodies of hundreds of men. Crystal knelt, turning the nearest body over. The lifeless face of Jean-Claude stared up at her.

Every time Ember’s dreams turned dark, her hounds were there, the imp mounted on Huckleberry, an angry storm of fire. They barked and snarled at something in a dark recess of her mind. It did not understand. Something was preventing it from entering the dreams of this one. It frowned and felt something it had never felt in its long existence. It was not an emotion it liked…