Nightingale

Chapter 26 Quicksand

Though his bed was softer than a dream, Bron slept little that night. His mind was churning with unanswered questions, whirling with excitement.

Shortly after dawn, the chopper set down outside, and Monique said her goodbyes. She hugged Olivia like an old friend, shook Bron's hand and said, "Bron, I wish you well. I hope to see you again soon."

He wondered if "soon" would ever come.

"Where are we going?" Bron asked.

"You'll go to the airport in Vegas," she said. "After that, you'll take a jet to New Orleans. It has all been arranged."

"Will my mother meet us there?"

"She has been notified that you're coming," Monique said. "Whether or not she comes, will be up to her. Bron, if she doesn't show, you should know something. Your mother is a frightened woman, for good reason."

The helicopter rose above a blue ribbon of lake, following the channel as if it were a road. Bron suspected that between the roar of the engine and the baffling afforded by the privacy glass, the pilot couldn't hear anything they might say. Still, Bron turned up the volume on the stereo, and then began to grill Olivia. He said casually, "There is something wrong with Monique's eyes. When you look into them, she seems very, very old. But I don't think that she's any older than you."

"You're observant," Olivia said.

"I was thinking about the priest. He said that he was three hundred years old. If he was an old man, and he put his memories into the head of a young person that he captured... he could make younger copies of himself. He could live forever."

Olivia's smile faltered. "That would be a very evil thing. Monique would never do that."

"Is she your boss?"

Olivia thought for a moment, bit her lip.

"You can't keep me completely in the dark," Bron suggested. "I don't want to go stumbling into something by accident. I don't think that Monique would want that, either."

Olivia pursed her lips, "No, we wouldn't want that."

"So tell me," Bron said, "what is Monique to you?"

"She's highly respected, she's ..." Olivia fumbled to explain, "special. Let me put it this way. When I was a child, I loved music, and I chose to play the guitar and the violin, and to sing. You're learning the extent of my knowledge. I don't perform for others—it would draw too much attention. So I perform for myself, for my own enjoyment. Because of the narrowness of my training, I'm only a muse.

"But you should know that a muse is more powerful than many other kinds of masaaks. For most masaaks, our powers are small. Some merchants can only draw from others, learn what others know. They might at most be able to sneak into a person's mind and learn their secrets. Thus, they can discover if a man is guilty of a crime, or steal valuable trade secrets, or learn the numbers that will let them access secret bank accounts.

"People like that, they're really not merchants, are they? They're merely thieves. So we call them 'Thieves.' Most masaaks fall into this category.

"Others can pull memories and send memories, and these are true merchants. But they can't do what we call 'deep training.' They can't go into the brain stem and follow the impulses from your ears to your fingers, so that you can train a child to play an instrument or learn to walk. That takes a muse. Even Monique doesn't have my gift for that."

"So she's not more powerful than you?"

"No, she's different from me. She's more like a priestess, dedicated to a cause."

Olivia paused and took a deep breath, as if uneasy about revealing so much, and said, "Some of us never die, Bron. As you have guessed, there is a way for a merchant to cheat death. I could download all of my memories into a child, victimize someone. But there's a moral way to do it, too....

"When Monique was only a child of thirteen, she volunteered for this. She wanted to learn the history of our people, as much as there was to know, and a wise old man who had stored that information agreed to give it to her.

"But there was so much information, that her mind could not easily hold it all, so much information that only the most brilliant of us could have tried. So her teacher had to erase all of the information that she had stored to that point—nearly every memory that she held dear—and then he emptied his mind into hers."

"What?" Bron asked. "So he taught her everything he'd learned in his lifetime?"

"More than that," Olivia said, "for he'd had it done to him as a child, and it had been done to his teacher as well—for three thousand years the chain has gone unbroken.

"Monique, if she desired, could tell you about her life as a prophetess in a temple in Greece, conversing with Homer. She speaks ancient Assyrian and Egyptian, and was a tutor to kings. She was there when Saladin re-captured Jerusalem, and fought beside Joan of Arc.

"More importantly, she knows most of what can be known about our own people, and holds memories from before the dawn of recorded history."

Bron wondered. "So, she gave up everything in order to do this?"

Olivia nodded. "All of her hopes and dreams, all of her aspirations. She had to surrender herself completely. She is no longer a single person. So when she took time to think about you last night, it was to consult the myriad voices in her head, compose a single plan of action."

"She wanted this?" Bron asked, amazed.

"Many of us would," Olivia admitted. "It's an honored position. She is the Weigher of Lost Souls, a creature far older and wiser than you or me. I offered myself when I was young, but I wasn't ... bright enough, and it was felt that as a muse, I had other gifts that could benefit the community."

"What community?" Bron asked, for he imagined secret meetings of hooded Ael, held by moonlight deep in the forest.

"Mankind," Olivia explained.

"But you don't consider yourself human," Bron pointed out.

Olivia grinned. "I consider 'mankind' to include both humans and masaaks."

Bron asked slyly, "But the Draghouls don't?"

"No," Olivia agreed. "They think of humans more like... food."

"And how would they think of me?" Bron asked.

Olivia closed her mouth secretively, and at last said, "As a prize. They would honor you and fete you to your face, but as soon as you slept, they would take you. You want nothing to do with them, Bron. You cannot make a deal with a devil without becoming one yourself."

Bron chuckled. She sounded so over-dramatic.

"Don't laugh," Olivia said in a tone that spoke of despair and heartbreak.

Bron didn't want to hurt her feelings. He became solemn. "So any Masaak can become a Draghoul?" Bron asked, "or an Ael?"

"That's a tough question," Olivia said. "Most people can be on either side, but not all. You can try to convert a person who is evil to the core, one who lacks the capacity for love or selflessness, but in time they'll slip back into their old ways. And there are good people in the world, too Bron, people so giving, so honorable that the Draghoul can't really control them. All of their hateful thoughts, their selfish ideals, can never gain root in such people."

Bron had always been taught that people are basically the same. "Are you saying that the Draghouls are different from us?"

"I'm saying that some Draghouls lack the capacity for compassion. They were bred that way. Pit bulls were bred to attack, while Labrador retrievers were bred to lick your hand. The same is true with the Draghouls. They've been bred for ruthlessness. For more than five thousand years, the Draghouls have been perfecting their lines. You can try changing them, but it's not easy."

They had crossed over the dam now and were heading into the desert. Down below, Bron could see rusted-out trailer homes along a highway, where dead cars rotted in yards where no children played at all.

"That priest we met, Father Leery," Bron said. "Tell me about him. I mean, he's a priest, but once he was a Draghoul?"

"Yes," Olivia said. "He was a stalker, before he became converted."

Bron wasn't sure how he felt about a priest who could rip out your memories, one who would sneak into your house at night to do it. He wondered if the man was a true believer, or if he simply used his frock as some kind of ridiculous disguise.

"So one of your people captured him," Bron asked, "and possessed him?"

Olivia smiled. "It was the other way around. He caught one of us, one who stored special memories, and when he saw what was in the man's mind, he left the Draghouls."

"What kind of memories?" Bron asked.

"Memories of visions," Olivia said. "Would you like to know what Saint Francis of Assisi knew after he saw god? Would you like to know what Peter witnessed on the Mount of Transfiguration? Or what Moses saw in the burning bush? Or Mohamed? It's powerful stuff. That's why Draghouls want to destroy it.

"Bron, there's a war going on. A war for information. The Ael want to preserve it, to spread it among those who would use it for good. But if we're captured, the light we have in us will be snuffed out forever."

"So do you believe in God?" Bron asked. He felt odd about it, as if he was asking if she believed in Santa Claus.

Olivia bit her lip, trying to decide how to answer. "Let's just say ... the universe is far more vast and strange than humans can imagine. You're about to enter a far larger world."

"Do you think the priest would show me what he's seen?"

"I think he'd like to, but you're not ready for it. Let yourself grow a little."

Bron wondered about that. Could the priest prove that there was a God? And what if he did? How would that knowledge change a man?

"Do the Draghouls have muses, too?" Bron asked.

"They do," Olivia admitted. "You might learn music from them, if you liked—but they're more likely to train you in the finer arts of assassination. Avoid them. These people have no love for one another, no affection. If you meet them, do not confuse solicitation for kindness. They're at their most dangerous when they are at their most subtle."

Bron wondered at that. Father Leery had turned Blair's old acolytes into poppets. Could such creatures be trusted?

Bron tried to rest on the helicopter flight to the airport in Las Vegas, but he was too anxious. He'd never traveled outside of Utah, except for a short trip to Idaho. He had no idea what to expect once his plane landed in Louisiana.

The flight to New Orleans was uneventful, and they touched down a few minutes late, arriving in the early afternoon. Olivia called Mike while they taxied in from the runway. He didn't expect them home for a day yet. Olivia pretended that they were still on a lark up in Salt Lake. She didn't tell him about their trip to New Orleans.

Neither Bron nor Olivia had packed any luggage, so they simply walked out of the airport.

As they neared the baggage claim, they found people lining the exit. Some were limousine drivers, men in fine gray or black uniforms, each holding a sign with a name, such as "Mr. Brandt." Others were family members, bearings signs like "Welcome home from Afghanistan, Dad!" A few cabbies with ragged hair held signs.

Olivia halted and searched their signs, their faces. Bron looked eagerly for something that might have his name on it. At the back of the crowd, an old coot with gray hair raised his hand for a brief flash, splaying his fingers just a bit. He didn't show any suction cups, so Bron figured that he wasn't a masaak. In fact, he suspected that the man was just waving to someone behind him, but Olivia grabbed Bron's hand and headed in the old man's direction.

When they reached him, the old man said in a heavy Cajun accent, "Come to see some big gators? You picked da right spot, by gar."

He reached out to shake Bron's hand, and that's when Bron felt the suction cups on his fingers. Bron didn't have time to flash his own sizraels. The old man pulled his hand away as if Bron's touch had burned.

"Sorry," the old man said. "I was tinkin' dat you is someone else."

He turned to hurry away, but Olivia said, "We'd love to the see gators." She grabbed his hand, flashed her sizraels, and the man halted, looked at Bron in confusion, then shook hands again. This time Bron gave him the sign.

There was so much to learn about masaak etiquette.

The old man smiled in relief. "Le's go, then!"

Bron felt nervous. "Are we going to see my mother?"

"Mebbe," the old man said. "That jus' maybe." He said it as if he didn't trust Bron and Olivia, as if he was still making up his mind.

They stepped outside, and sultry air hit them in a wave. As they headed to the parking lot, Bron studied the old man. He had a week or two of white stubble on his chin, and a large wart under his right eye, but he had the same coloration as both Olivia and Bron—skin that was slightly olive in complexion, as if they shared Greek ancestry, but this man's face was broad and heavy of brow, while his hair was as coarse as a brush.

He looked weathered, beaten.

He led them to an old red Ford pickup, dinged and rusted in spots. A couple of aluminum lockboxes sat in the back. The old fellow flipped one open and said, "Dass is whar you stow yar chut chuts." Bron had no idea what "chut chuts" were, so he just stared blankly. The old man nodded toward Bron's school backpack.

Olivia put her purse in the lockbox, and Bron dropped in the backpack. Before the old man closed the box, he nodded to the cell phone in Olivia's pocket, "Toss dat phone in dare, too, beb."

Olivia set the phone in. Bron's was already in his backpack, so he got in the truck's cab.

Bron took the middle, and when the old coot got in, he reached under his seat and pulled out a huge, old revolver. The fellow took off the safety, set it down on his lap, and then started the truck with a grin.

Bron swallowed hard. He couldn't keep his eyes off the gun. He tried to break the silence.

"So, what's your name?" Bron asked.

The old fellow smiled. "It doan matta." He dismissed the question, then let out a nervous sigh.

They rode in silence for over an hour, skirting the towns, heading down back roads past dilapidated houses with huge yards. Many of the homes had tattered barns, with a swaybacked mule here and there.

The roads looked like a kill zone. Bron spotted dead turtles and frogs everywhere, with an occasional skunk or raccoon or coyote or beaver or rabbit. He'd never seen so many dead animals in so short a time.

"Sure are a lot of dead animals on the road," Bron said, trying to get the driver to open up.

The old coot didn't speak. He neither asked questions nor answered them, and so Bron figured that the old guy just wasn't the type for conversation.

Or maybe he was just too scared. The old guy didn't trust them, that was for sure.

At last the truck pulled onto a dirt road that bordered a swamp. A sign just before the turnoff said, "Black River," and soon they reached a broad river whose water was darker than coffee.

The man pulled up beside a small wooden dock, where an old silver motorboat was chained. He got out, still carrying the gun, and Olivia and Bron tumbled out of their door.

The old fellow waved his gun at them, motioned toward the boat. "Ya all go climb 'board, now."

He let them take the lead, then stood by the pickup for a moment, eyeing the road behind, making sure that no one followed.

Bron walked over the uneven ground toward the boat, a little worried. He'd heard about the dangers of the swamps—gators and cottonmouths and rattlesnakes, and he began to wonder if he'd encounter any of those things.

On the far shore, the banks were covered in saw grass and cane. On this side the grass had been clipped a week or so ago, so that it was short enough that a big snake couldn't hide in it. A few gnarled pines clumped along the bank, creating a wooded feel. As Bron stepped onto the dock, he heard a large "plock," and something dropped into the water near his feet.

He stopped cold, unsure if he should move.

"Just a turtle," Olivia said, "trying to catch some sun."

Bron hurried onto the dock. Across the river, something long and gray slid into the water. An alligator splashed its tail.

Bron peered into the river, to see if anything might be moving within it, but thick sediments, like bits of black moss, floated in the water, hiding anything below.

Bron walked to the boat and peered up toward the pickup. The old coot was just standing there at the back of the pickup, as if peering into the bed. He had his revolver in hand, hidden just behind his back.

A black sedan with tinted windows came down the road and slowed a bit, then rolled on down the highway. The fellow watched it suspiciously, gun ready, as if trying to decide whether to pop a few rounds through the windshield. By the time that it had passed beyond a screen of trees, his fidgeting had calmed.

He limped on down to the boat, as if his hip were stiff, and unlocked the chain that held it to the dock. He motioned to Olivia and Bron. "You all take de frent!"

The both of them sat on an aluminum slab at the front of the fishing boat, while the old fellow took the back. He pushed a button on the motor, and it coughed a bit, then took hold. In moments they swung out from the dock, onto the broad river.

Bron felt stupid. With him and Olivia sitting in front, the weight on the boat was distributed unevenly, so that the bow was deep in the water while the motor rose too high, almost high enough so that the propellers were in the air. The helmsman didn't seem to mind, though. He wanted to keep his passengers as far away from him as possible.

So the boat plied the dark water, slowly at first, then picked up speed. Bron watched the banks and trees. Every few hundred yards, a dead log would poke up out of the water, often with a few turtles sunning on it. Blue herons strutted in the shallows on stilt-like legs, hunting for fish, and sometimes a snowy egret would do the same. Every few hundred yards, he'd spot an alligator floating as still as a log, until the boat neared. Then the gator would thrash and dive.

Most of the gators were small, a foot or two in length, but a couple of times he glimpsed bigger gators ahead—ten-footers. The big gators never let the boat get close.

Bron's thoughts were a muddle. He tried to imagine his mother. Out here in the swamp, she'd probably be wearing blue jeans and a work shirt.

How old was she, anyway? If the old guy was her husband, she might well be in her sixties. He hadn't thought of that.

But Monique had said that she was a young woman.

What will she think of me? he wondered. Almost he felt as if he were going there to be judged.

What should I do when I see her? Say hello and stand at arm's length? What if she wants to kiss me?

He couldn't imagine kissing the woman who had abandoned him. He resolved that he wouldn't do it. He wasn't even going to touch her. If she hugged him, she'd get no hug in return.

Along the channel, a few cabins on stilts began to rise up from the water. Some houses floated on giant pontoons. Some had motorboats or jet skis parked out front, and he saw a few kids at one. Four children, ages eight through twelve, were swimming in the water. They were diving off the deck of the cabin, while one boy swung on a rope.

Bron wondered where their mother was, or where they'd left their common sense, for he'd seen three or four large gators in the past mile.

Soon a forest closed up around the river, and the channel began to narrow and wind through a swamp. In many places, the ground was dry on either side, and here the cypress trees and forests of alders and magnolia, interspersed with palms, began to darken the channel.

Trumpet vines with flowers of red and yellow hung over the limbs of trees, creating living walls, while dragonflies and linnets, gnats and butterflies and hummingbirds darted in and out of shafts of sunlight.

Bullfrogs croaked in the shadows, while strange birds emitted piercing cries.

Everywhere was the scent of water, mold, vines, and an earthy odor that Bron couldn't name.

As they began to pass beneath the shadows of trees, Olivia whispered, "Watch out overhead. I've heard that sometimes snakes will drop out of the branches into a boat."

Bron didn't have to be warned twice. Almost an instant later, he saw a huge dark snake drop out of a tree and hit the water with a splash. It went twisting through the waves. Suddenly something dark lunged up out of the water, and the snake disappeared in a flash of teeth.

Bron hated to think what might have happened if he'd been in the water. He hoped that the boat wouldn't hit a snag.

Soon the old coot had to slow the boat, skirting submerged logs as he took a narrow path. Every so often, the river would fork, and he would veer to the right or left. He did it so often that Bron felt convinced that he was only doing it an effort to confuse his passengers. He didn't want them to be able to find their way back to his lair.

After a lifetime of dreaming about his mother, wondering what she had looked like, Bron found himself trembling with anticipation. He had never imagined being here, had never envisioned a mother in hiding, out in the deepest swamps.

At last they entered a dead-end, where weeds and water lilies choked the shallows, and the old fellow gunned the engine so that the boat slid up over the foliage under some dark trees.

They got out and stood on the shore, Bron searching the trees above and the grass below for any sign of snakes. He spotted a white egg in the water, and said to Olivia, "There must be chickens around here." He thought that was a good sign. It meant that they were probably close to someone's cabin.

"Dat's a gator's egg, son," the old coot informed him. "Dere be a nest round-bouts."

He climbed out of the boat, and led them through a forest. Vines clung to the ground, and every few yards, some lizard would slink up the trunk of a tree. Bron heard a warning rattle and stopped, but it was just a big snake making the leaves of dried vines shiver as it slithered away.

The woods were baking, oppressive, and Bron found himself opening his shirt, trying to stop the flow of sweat down his front. For three miles they walked over vines, climbing fallen trees, negotiating a landscape that seemed to have no trails. Darkness began to fall, until the only light was a blush on the horizon, and the shadows grew thick. They waded through a bog, where young alligators watched from the rushes, and then finally dropped down into another swamp.

The old man waved the gun at Bron's back. "Dere is da pirogue, unner dem vines. Take care you doan get bit by no bebette."

A thick carpet of vines was draped over a tree, and beneath it Bron spotted part of a boat. He didn't know what a bebette was, and imagined that it was some kind of snake. Since the old man had the gun, Bron pulled the vines off, uncovering a long, flat-bottomed skiff. A pair of colorful black salamanders with red spots lurched away. A millipede trundled about in confusion. A long black snake went slithering under the boat to hide.

Bron checked the boat. A spotlight was attached to a huge battery, and a long pole lay in the boat's bottom. Bron shoved the boat out into the little lagoon. The snake that had taken refuge beneath it hissed and raised its head, displaying fangs and a white throat.

Olivia pulled Bron back a pace, and the snake turned and raced into the water.

They loaded onto the boat, and the old man took a seat in the back, with his flashlight, and pointed the way. "You ken punt da boat."

The pole was light of weight and rough on the surface. It felt as if the wood was rotting away, but it was strong enough to push through the black water easily.

Bron began to pole as night fell completely, with only the thinnest of starlight shining through gauzy clouds. Vines and creepers hung down from the cypress trees. The water could not have been more than two feet deep. Yet with the coming of night, the sounds of the swamp grew raucous.

Frogs croaked everywhere, millions of them. Some he recognized as deep-voiced bullfrogs, but there were several other frogs peeped or emitted high-pitched croaks. Leopard frogs, like the ones he'd dissected in biology class, were everywhere. The sound grew in volume until Bron felt as if he was in a football stadium and crowds were cheering.

The old man shined his light out over the waters, and Bron could see the frogs under the trees, each of them with a bloated sac under its throat, croaking like mad. The males were serenading females, and each of them seemed to be shouting, "Me! Come to me!" with all of his might.

As a musician, Bron wondered, is that what I'm doing when I play?

Yet with the frogs came the gators—many of them newly hatched in the spring, a foot or two long. Their older cousins from last year were out in force, too, and they silently cruised the waters, legs splayed for stability. Bron could see their big yellow eyes, like golden coins, and their toothsome smiles.

He'd hear a frog croaking for attention, oblivious to all else, and then see a gator float up behind it. With a snap the frog would go silent.

There has to be a lesson in that, Bron thought. He understood now why Olivia would not play in public.

So he poled for a long hour. From time to time, green flashed in the bushes as fireflies lit up the night.

They reached some shallows where the boat could hardly get through the mud, and Bron found that the pole sank for two or three feet in the muck. Quicksand, he realized.

They went through a narrow space, where dead cypress trees blocked the way, as white as old bone. Their bark had rotted off long ago, and gaping holes could be seen at their bases, habitat for raccoons.

Bron was just about to push off on a tree, when the old fellow called, "Hop! Watch da han'!"

Bron halted and saw in the wan beam of the flashlight that he'd nearly put his hand on top of a giant spider, a wolf spider with a leg span wider than a tarantula's.

"Watch for dem eyes," the old fellow said, "glowin' like diamonds." The spider's eyes shone bright yellow and crystalline in the light, like gems. The old fellow shined his light about near the water, and Bron saw that at nearly every one of the cypress trees, where its base met the water, there was a bright pair of eyes on a giant spider. The wolf spiders hung upside down, with their mandibles in the water, where they could easily hunt for minnows and frogs by touch alone.

"I get de freesons when I see dem critters!" the old fellow said.

Suddenly the river opened up, broadening, and in the pool ahead, Bron spotted a truly huge gator, perhaps twelve feet long. The thing dove and the water churned.

He kept poling for an hour more, following a watery road through the trees, and the noise of frogs deepened, becoming deafening, until at last he spotted a light.

A pair of dogs began to bay and howl.

There was a cabin in the swamp, hidden away. The roof was shingled with wooden shakes, so old and mossy that they blended with the trees themselves, as did the ancient planks that lined the cabins' walls.

It would have passed as an abandoned hunting shack, if not for the light of a single gas lantern hanging from a hook out front, along with the howls and barks from the hounds.

"Dere we go," the old man said softly.

The house perched on stilts at the very edge of ruin, at the end of the world. This long lagoon seemed to dry up just down the way. They were on a watery road that came from nowhere, led to nowhere.

Like my life, Bron thought.

People who did not want to be found could not have resorted to a more desolate place.

Bron poled up to a floating dock some eight feet beneath the house, and tied up the pirogue. Two red-bone hounds were chained to the porch above, and their chains rattled as they lunged excitedly. They quit barking, except for little yelps, and stood with tails wagging. As the light flashed about, Bron saw a couple of giant spiders down at the waterline. His back and shoulders were aching from all of the work. He suddenly felt weary as he peered up that crumbling ladder that reached the porch, but he placed his foot on the bottom rung and shinnied up.

One of the dogs came to inspect him, and Bron held out his hand, then petted its wet snout as it began to lick.

Olivia and the old man followed, and when he reached the top, the old man waved his pistol toward the door.

A small sign above the door said in faded letters, "Adder Manor."

Olivia took the lead, opening the door, while their guide grabbed his lantern. He unleashed both of the hounds, and they stood wagging their tails. "Gwon, then!" he told them. "Gwon and getcha them coons!"

Both dogs lunged away and raced into the woods out back, baying and barking.

Bron steeled himself. He wanted to savor the moment, the first sight of his mother. He stepped through the doorway.

The house was utterly dark inside, but a woman's voice warned, "I've got a gun, and I can see you against the starlight. Don't make any sudden moves."

She spoke elegantly, but with a Louisiana drawl. Bron had never imagined that his mother might have an accent.

Bron and Olivia entered the shack and stood uneasily, as their guide came in from behind. These people obviously didn't trust Bron.

Bron just hoped that none of the guns would go off.

In the light of the lantern, a petite woman was revealed. She sat on an old sofa, as if the better to remain completely hidden in shadow. Her thin dress was pulled over a lithe body, her breasts almost non-existent. Her hair was hacked short, as if by a butcher's knife. She looked surprisingly young, maybe only thirty? But no, she had to be older.

If he'd seen her in a supermarket, he would not have recognized her as his mother. She couldn't be. She was too young, slender, impish.

Even now, he wasn't convinced. He even suspected that Monique had sent him to the wrong place.

Could this really be his mother?

All of her attention was focused on him. She was shaking, staring at him in terror, as if afraid that he might be a fraud.

She looked like the victim of a war, or perhaps a refugee hiding from police. Her clothes were worn to rags. Her hand moved, and Bron's eyes adjusted enough so that he suddenly spotted the double-barrel shotgun pointed right at his throat.

I'll get no welcoming hug from her, he realized. They've got me in a crossfire.

She nodded just a bit. "You have the look of your father about you, boy. You remind me of that sick old bastard."

Bron didn't know quite what to say, so he asked the one question that most often came to mind. "Why the hell did you leave me?"

The mousey woman stared at him, and her jaw began to work, as if she were speaking, but no words would come. Tears welled in her eyes, and she shook her head no. "Oh, god, I am so sorry! I wasn't abandoning you. I was trying to save you!"

"From what?" Bron demanded.

"From Lucius," she said as if it were obvious, but the name didn't ring a bell.

She frowned, then said, "Lucius Chenzhenko, your father." She said the name as if it should strike terror into his heart, and to Bron's surprise, Olivia gasped.

"I, I haven't told Bron about Chenzhenko," Olivia apologized. "I never imagined...."

Bron's mother peered at Olivia accusingly, her mouth widening in horror, then looked back to Bron. "Your father is Lucius Chenzhenko. You've never even heard the name?" she asked in disbelief, as if a major part of Bron's education had been neglected.

"You know what the Draghouls are, though," his mother asked, "those who belong to the dark guild?"

Bron nodded.

"Lucius is their leader, their ... king," his mother explained. "He is the Shadow Lord who rules the stock markets and the banks. He is a puppet master who controls the nations. He has held his position for the last five thousand years. Though you might not have heard of Lucius, an older version of his name has passed down through history. Certainly you've heard of Lucifer?"