Keeper Chronicles: Awakening (3 page)

Each hour he fought, each time he was forced to expend energy healing from a cut or hit or broken bone, weakened him. By the time he’d cycled through his playlist, he’d had his arm broken twice, his calf hamstringed from the pinchers of an enormous scorpion, two serious blows to the head, and been poisoned, burned, and sliced more times than merited counting.

Blood oozed down his right arm from a gash. Pulling his goggles down around his neck, he put his back to the damp walls of his house and sank to the ground. The storm surge nearly topped the base of the island, and soon if it continued, he’d be forced to fight demons from the tower itself. Given the confined space and limited room for movement, it wasn’t a prime spot for killing a cockroach, much less trying to eliminate an errant demon. His other option, the roof of his house, was even less appealing. Although sturdier than it looked from a distance, the sloping roof was difficult to stand on, much less try to fight from. Fleeing to the mainland was always an option; his boat was tied up at the island’s small dock, but that meant giving up his post. Without a beacon to attract the demons, they could go anywhere. It might take him days to track them all down. The human causalities would be high, and so would the risk of exposure. No, even if it meant that he had to fight from the beacon room itself, he couldn’t leave. Gabe knew his duty, even if he often didn’t like it.

Pulling himself up, he pushed the door of his house open and grabbed the small cooler he’d prepared earlier. He guzzled two energy drinks, crushing the cans easily and tossing them in the recycling bin. Being a Keeper meant he was stronger and faster and had more stamina than the average person; it also gave him heightened senses and a wicked ability to heal. Unfortunately, those gifts left him ravenous. Gabe snatched a protein bar from the cooler and opened it. He ate it in two bites and reached for another. The second he gobbled more slowly, as the gash in his arm mended. The fog in his head from hours of fighting started to lift.

Forcing himself back out into the rain, he did a quick survey of the storm. The waves were still whipped into a frenzy from the winds, but the boom of thunder sounded distant, and the flashes of lighting had moved down the coast. Any demons spawned that far south would have to be handled by some of the other Keepers. Maybe he wouldn’t have to make a last stand at his tower after all. At least not that night.

Gabe stepped over the carapace corpse of a half-man, half-crab demon. He’d deal with the bodies in the morning. What he needed was a good fire to beat away the chill in his bones and dry him out. Despite the storm moving on, the island still might flood, so sleep would have to wait a while. Besides, it was good practice to wait at least an hour after the last bolt of lightning just in case a particularly slow demon hadn’t reached his trap yet.

The house was little more than a box with a table and miniature kitchen on the left side, a small bedroom on the right, and a fireplace along the back wall the building shared with the tower. It didn’t take long to get a fire going, and he set his wet things on a rack nearby to dry as he gave his weapons a perfunctory cleaning. He’d be more thorough once he was certain his watch had ended for the night.

Wearing boxers and a fresh t-shirt, he sat at the table and flipped open his laptop. The satellite hookup for internet took a little time, so he radioed in to the park office.

“Willamook reporting in.”

“This is headquarters. You’re clear to talk, over.”

He squeezed the trigger on the hand-held microphone. “The storm’s moved on south. No escapes to report.”

There was a hesitation on the other end. “Keep watch until you get the clear, copy?”

“Copy. Did some get through the perimeter guards?”

“That’s a negative, but Meceta Head’s not responding. I’ve sent a car out to investigate, over.”

Old Mr. Lorek had probably fallen asleep again. The retirement party they’d thrown him should have been enough of a clue that his watch was over. Still, as useless as the old man was, he’d done something Gabe’s own parents hadn’t had the courage or decency to do: he kept Rebekah from knowing the awful truth. Kept her from living a life about death. Unfortunately, that meant that Gabe himself became unwelcome after a while. He winced. “Want me to head up to shore?”

Please say no.

Another delay. “Negative. We’ll handle it from here.” Static surged through the connection. “And Gabe?”

“Yes?”

“Dinner soon—when the weather breaks? Your father and I miss you.”

He’d rather shove a fork into his eye than have dinner with his father and listen to another hour-long lecture about duty and the safety of the human race and why hadn’t Gabe returned his calls. Especially since it took about an hour to get to shore and dock, and another two of driving to reach the regional center. “Of course, Mom. Just say when. Willamook out.”

Standing to find a new pair of pants so he could return to his watch, Gabe froze as a cold chill started at the crown of his head and traveled the length of his body, igniting every nerve ending like Fourth of July fireworks. The sensation stole his breath, and without thinking, he turned back toward the table and grabbed the microphone again.

“Mom? Are you okay?” he asked, a lump in the back of his throat.

Static.

“Mom? Dad? Someone answer me, damn it!”

Gabe punched the table, bloodying his knuckles. Glad for the pain to replace the pit of dread churning in his gut. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t live through it again. Not this soon. Not when he’d finally been able to sleep through the night.

“Gabe?” Her voice was as frantic. “Gabe, answer me.”

“Mom. You’re alive.”

“Dad and I are fine. Are you okay? I mean...”

He didn’t let her finish. “Don’t worry about me. Who was it?”

Keepers linked by blood, no matter how old or tenuous the thread, felt that rush of cold when one of their own died. If it hadn’t been his parents, it was likely someone else he knew. Someone else’s parent or child or wife.

“Not sure. Everyone’s accounted for except Lorek and Moore. I hate to ask, but how soon can you get up there?”

“I’ll take the Jet Ski. I can be up there in forty-five minutes, and I’ll work my way inland from Cape Cove.”

“Okay. Be safe, son.”

“Always am.”

The relief he felt that his parents were still alive was topped only by his guilt at hoping that someone else’s loved one had passed away. Moore had an alcoholic husband only good for slaying and two young children. They needed her. Lorek was old; his daughter, grown. Maybe he’d had a heart attack sitting in his tower watching television. There were worse ways for a Keeper to go.

He grabbed his water-tight pack and shoved his spare ranger’s uniform, gun, and an extra clip of ammo inside. Almost as an afterthought, he added his phone and wallet. His wetsuit hung behind the orange-flowered curtain that sectioned off part of his wall, and he put it on as he’d done hundreds of times before. It’d do the demons a disservice if he caught cold and died in his bed.

The Jet Ski had its own private dock off the side of the island, and he stepped over the bodies of a dozen different demons on his way to crank it down into the turbulent water. Rain pelted him, dripping down his face and into his eyes as the waves drenched his legs. So much for getting dry.

Once the Jet Ski was in the water, he climbed on and unhooked the rope securing it to the metal pier. Rough waters were his favorite, and he backed away from the island he called home and headed south along the Pacific toward Cape Creek. A built-in GPS system guided him down the coastline as he jumped the waves, crouching on his feet to keep his center of gravity lower to the water. Despite the exhaustion—the energy drinks and protein bars hadn’t done much to revive his strength—he grinned.

Sometimes when he went for long boat rides or took the Jet Ski out, he wondered just where the demon world was. Parallel dimensions and the multiverse were all well and good in the realms of theoretical physics or science fiction, but in the real world, few believed them possible. None but Keepers who spent their lives, quite literally, protecting mankind from the refuse that slipped between dimensions few believed existed. Some witches did, but covens varied widely. Every once in a while one of the Keepers had to venture inland and destroy whatever demon some naive coven had raised and then been unable to control. Even talking about demons or monsters or witches would earn him a one-way trip to the asylum if a normal person overheard. For them, it was well and good to watch television shows or movies that depicted the hidden reality of the world right under their noses—a world they refused to believe in. Gabe didn’t mind. It kept them out of his way.

That still didn’t solve his conundrum of where, exactly, demons came from. The collision of elemental forces, such as those created when severe storms did the impossible and momentarily united the realms of air, fire, water, and earth in a strike of lightning near the ocean’s shore, allowed the creatures to cross over from a place the lore only named the Red. But the door was one way. Demons could enter our world under precise conditions, and had been doing so as long as there’d been life here—hence their frequency in the world’s mythology and folktales—but a person could never survive a trip going the other way. At least, not a normal one.

Physicists claim that just as ours isn’t the only sun in existence, maybe our universe isn’t a singularity either. Could demons be what passed for conscious life in another universe, traveling across dimensions in a wormhole or other type of space rift? The thought was an intriguing one. Growing up, he’d always wanted to study physics at a university and find the answers for himself. Do research. However, that kind of life wasn’t in his destiny. Gabe had a duty, as his father liked to remind him, and tonight that duty was going to be more unpleasant than normal.

The headlights of his Jet Ski illuminated the entrance to the sandy cove created where Cape Creek emptied into the Pacific Ocean. A favorite of sea lions and whales in the right season, the cove was normally a pleasant place and a destination for tourists or guests staying at the bed-n-breakfast. The sandy beach was the size of two football fields and lined on the north and east sides with storm-battered pines. Trails led up into the trees and toward the keeper’s house that overlooked the cove. Lorek and his daughter lived there in the converted b-n-b. Just beyond that, the Meceta Head Light twirled golden and strong. No problem there—at least none he could see from a distance.

As he drove his Jet Ski up onto the beach, he noticed the bluish glow of halogen headlights stopped in the center of the elegant Cape Creek Bridge. Normally, a pair of headlights wouldn’t catch his eye, but if they belonged to Moore’s patrol car, he needed to know. She might be hurt. Or worse.

Gabe took some rope from the compartment beneath the Jet Ski’s seat and secured his ride to one of the nearby pine trees. The high tide had gone out already, but it still didn’t seem prudent to risk his only mode of transportation washing out to the ocean. That finished, he took another moment to change into his Park Services uniform. Only having a gun for defense left him feeling naked. He pulled back the slide to check that a round was loaded and let it snap back with a click. Might as well get this over with.

The trail leading away from the beach and up the cliff was deserted, the thunder a distant growl. No more demons should be spawned in this area, but that didn’t mean that one hadn’t sunk past Lorek. Crouching, Gabe inhaled slowly, letting his sharpened sense of smell take over. Pine. Salt. Brine. Mold. Animal droppings. Musk from a skunk. A hint of beer from discarded cans.

He jumped up and started running down the path toward the bridge.

The last scent had been faint but unmistakable.

Human blood.

Chapter Three

Rebekah laughed and tucked her chin-length black hair behind her ears. She and Dylan sat on the faded green sofa in front of the fireplace: she with her legs tucked beneath her and her back to the armrest; he angled sideways, his body pointing toward her. For the last hour, he’d been inching closer, until now their knees touched.

“I’m being completely serious. I’d never seen him before—must’ve been drunk or had Alzheimer’s or something—but when he ran across that stage buck naked in front of the fine women of the Amherst Horticultural Society during our first paying gig, I knew that was the name I wanted for the band.”

“Silver Streakers?” she guessed, arching an eyebrow.

“Yep.”

She started laughing, then stopped when a sharp chill stole her breath. Shivering, Rebekah rubbed her arms. “I’m freezing; I think we need more wood.” The last time she’d felt so cold was the day her mother died.

When she moved to stand, he put his hand on her knee and squeezed. “Don’t get up. Allow me.”

“I can’t. You’re a guest.”

“Nonsense. I’m like a stray puppy you’ve kindly allowed in your home to dry by the fire.” Dylan stood, went over to the wood rack, and took off two decent sized logs which he carefully laid on the fire. “It’s not your fault the tow company can’t get out till the morning. I refuse to be a burden since you’ve so kindly opened up your home to me.”

A surge of warmth helped chase away the cold chill. Rebekah hoped it covered the blush heating up her cheeks. He sat back down next to her, even closer, as the rain continued beating a pleasant staccato against the porch roof. “Your life must be so exciting.”

He shrugged and leaned forward, the tips of his fingers grazing the top of her knee; the shiver she felt that time had nothing to do with the temperature. His fingers teased the tips of hers as if asking for permission. “Not really. I spend more nights sleeping in my car than I do a bed, and the largest audience I’ve drawn was at this dive in Oklahoma that had midget wrestling. For some reason, I don’t think people came to see my performance. But enough about me. Let’s talk about you, instead.”

“Well,” she said, her fingers caressing his of their own free will, “I’m pretty simple. I’ve run this little bed-n-breakfast since my mother passed away six months ago. Between managing reservations, cleaning rooms, and advertising, it’s an all-day job. Not much time for hobbies or anything else. The most excitement I get anymore is guests being double-booked or Mia—she’s the head chef—burning breakfast. Someone had a heart attack here once. Does that count?”