Vault of Shadows, Page 3

  Oakenayl—the grumpy tree spirit, who, I’m pretty sure, would be totally cool with it if I got eaten by the Bugs.

  Mook—the rock boy.

  Halflight—the fiery little sprite who flew around on the back of a hummingbird.

  And Iskiel, the fire salamander who could explode and then re-form like a phoenix.

  In the real world they were strangers. Weird and a little scary and completely cool. Except for Oakenayl, who really was a jerk.

  But in dreams they were my actual family.

  And the stone, the little black jewel called the Heart of Darkness, wasn’t something that belonged only to the Nightsiders. In my dream, it was something that had always belonged to my family. When we snuck aboard the hive ship to steal it back from the Huntsman, it wasn’t just to help the Nightsiders. It was because my family needed it back.

  My family.

  This family.

  How weird is that?

  And . . . what would Mom think of all this? I mean . . . what will she think, when I find her?

  Chapter 7

  After almost an hour, Milo and Killer had nearly reached the camp. As the crow flies it was a twenty-minute hike, but stealth requires a longer path. He found no toadstool rings and heard no more strange songs from tiny people, and with every step he doubted more and more that it had even happened. How could a bunch of little creatures like that conjure the Huntsman? If they were Nightsiders, why would they? It was so crazy and made so little sense that it only reinforced his belief that he had somehow managed to have a dream while walking through the swamp.

  Something suddenly rustled in the leaves above them and they both froze, Killer with bared fangs and hair standing in a ridge along his back, Milo with a sharp stone in his slingshot.

  But then the thing that had made the noise crept out onto a bare section of a heavy limb. It was bigger than an iguana, with smooth gray-green skin marked with glowing lines of intense red that swirled and eddied with fire. It was no illusion, Milo knew; those fires really burned beneath the creature’s skin. Killer snarled with a mixture of brave defiance and obvious terror, but Milo lowered his slingshot.

  “It’s okay, boy,” he said to the little dog. “Iskiel’s a friend.”

  The fire salamander flicked out his forked tongue and hissed softly at Milo.

  “Good to see you, too,” said Milo, though in truth he had no idea whether the hiss was a greeting or not. A moment later he found out, because Iskiel half turned and used his jaws to pick up something that was out of sight on the limb, and tossed it down. It landed with a metallic clank at Milo’s feet.

  Milo and Killer both jumped backward, and once more Milo brought up his slingshot.

  It was a hunter-killer.

  Specifically, a boomer. A Dissosterin murder machine. Shaped like a yard-long steel centipede, with hundreds of legs made from stiff red wire. Each segment of a boomer contained a separate explosive charge packed with shrapnel. A single boomer could destroy a Humvee and kill everyone inside. Boomers were only one of dozens of insect-shaped robots employed by the Bugs to do exactly what their group name suggested: to hunt and to kill.

  Milo lowered his weapon, because it was clear that this particular hunter-killer was never going to cause anyone any harm. There were deep punctures and claw marks on each of the many sections, and the edges of the fang holes were smeared with a purplish goo. When Milo glanced up, he saw Iskiel open his mouth to display his teeth. Drops of the purple goo gleamed on the tips. Even though Milo hadn’t seen this substance before on the fire salamander, he was sharp enough to understand what the creature was showing him. It was some kind of venom, and from the burned-wire stink rising from the boomer, there was no doubt that Iskiel’s venom was pure acid.

  “Niiiiice!” said Milo in real appreciation. “That is so cool!”

  The fire salamander made a short, choppy hissing sound that might well have been laughter. If creatures like him could laugh.

  Killer barked at Iskiel, but Milo shushed him. “Quiet, Killer.”

  The terrier stopped barking but kept a suspicious eye on the glowing amphibian. The row of bristling hairs on his back did not lie down, either.

  “Iskiel,” said Milo, “there was a shocktrooper down by the edge of the bayou, but a gator got him.”

  The salamander bobbed his head. A nod? Sure, why not? Milo knew the creature could understand human speech.

  “Do you know if there are any others around?”

  Iskiel lifted his head and looked about as if he could somehow survey the whole of the forest.

  “Or any more of the hunter-killers?”

  Then Iskiel cocked his head as if listening, but all Milo could hear was the rustle of leaves and the drone of ordinary earth insects. In the distance a bullfrog thrummed. The salamander gradually relaxed and flicked his tongue once more in Milo’s direction.

  “Nothing out there?” said Milo hopefully.

  Amphibians can’t shrug, so Iskiel merely hissed. Softly and without urgency. Milo got the point.

  “Nothing out there right now,” Milo interpreted.

  Iskiel bobbed his head.

  Milo glanced back the way he’d come, then looked sideways up at the salamander. “Hey . . . you wouldn’t know anything about a bunch of little guys in armor dancing around inside a circle of mushrooms, would you?”

  The amphibian gave him a flat, level, and totally unhelpful stare. Then with a swish of his tail, he turned and vanished into the cool green darkness under the leaves. Milo and Killer stood for a moment, watching the trees, but Iskiel did not return.

  “Everybody I know is weird,” said Milo. Killer looked at him as if in wonder that Milo was just now getting that through his thick head.

  They moved off, leaving the boomer were it lay. Milo took note of its location, but he didn’t want to risk carrying it back to camp, not even to try to scavenge parts. Just because it hadn’t blown up during the fight with Iskiel did not mean that it couldn’t. Later, when there was time, Milo would come back and dispose of it properly. Ideally with Shark, who was much better at fixing—or deconstructing—things than any of the other kids.

  The camp was close, and as they approached, he noticed a figure in the shadows beneath a massive old elm. Even in that gloom Milo could see the deadly point of razor-sharp metal on the hunting arrow.

  Milo stopped in his tracks.

  “You can stop right dere,” said a cold and deadly voice, but all Milo could see was a shaggy silhouette that seemed to be made of leaves and twigs, with narrow and knobby shoulders and long arms. It looked like Oakenayl, but the voice was clearly not his.

  “Barnaby, it’s me.”

  “I know,” said the Cajun scout as he stepped into the light. He lowered his arrow and grinned. “Just wanted to see how many shades of white you’d turn. You look like sour milk, you.” Barnaby let out a donkey-bray of a laugh.

  Milo glared hot death at him. “You’re hilarious.”

  “You should see your face, you.” Barnaby wore full deep-forest camouflage: patterned clothes augmented by leaves, grass, flowers, and sticks attached by loops of strong thread.

  Milo cut a nervous look toward the camp. “Did Oakenayl see you?”

  Barnaby touched the foliage on his clothes. “Yeah, and he mad as a scalded cat, him.”

  “He doesn’t like us to cut anything off the trees and—”

  “I didn’t do that. I picked all this stuff off the ground.”

  “So why’s he mad?”

  Barnaby shrugged. “Maybe someone forgot to tell him that.”

  “‘Someone’ meaning you? He’s an actual monster, you know. Messing with him’s not smart.”

  The Cajun shrugged again. “I didn’t do no harm. He don’t like it, that creepy tree boy can go whittle himself a new smile.”

  In the four days since Milo and the Orphan Army of supernatural creatures had stolen aboard the hive ship, recovered the Heart of Darkness, and rescued some of the camp survivor
s, the initial feelings of gratitude and mutual need had given way to old superstitions and prejudices. Most of the humans kept well away from the Nightsiders, and the monsters didn’t go out of their way to make human friends. It was depressing, and the tensions were increasing every day.

  Milo was about to say something to the Cajun about it when Barnaby finally realized who it was standing behind Milo’s legs.

  “Oh my, my, my, my—where at you find this tataille-tayau, this scary hound dog?” He knelt down and held a hand out to Killer, who approached cautiously, sniffed, then wagged his tail with moderate enthusiasm. Barnaby stroked Killer from head to tail, and for a moment the Cajun looked genuinely pleased. He cocked an eye at Milo. “Big man know his dog be back, him?”

  “No. Where is Shark?”

  Again Killer perked up at the name.

  Barnaby ticked his head toward the dense oak grove behind him. “Back there. Probably eating something he don’t need to eat, him. Like he always doing.”

  It wasn’t an entirely unfair comment. Shark had no qualms about stopping for a meal. Any meal, anywhere.

  “Is Evangelyne around?” asked Milo, and saw the scout stiffen.

  “Mademoiselle Rougarou is off on her own, her, which is just fine with me.”

  “Don’t call her that,” said Milo. Rougarou was a local name for a particularly vicious breed of werewolf. Barnaby had always worn a pierced dime on a piece of twine as a charm against the evil of that kind of monster. It wasn’t a word he would dare say to her face.

  “Why not? She ain’t here right now, her,” said Barnaby.

  Milo took a small step toward him. “No, but I am. Don’t call her that.”

  The scout was taller, stronger, and older than Milo, and he was a much better fighter. He could have knocked Milo out with one fast punch, and they both knew it. But instead he simply studied the look in Milo’s eyes and after a minute gave a small nod. “Sure, whatever you say, you.”

  Milo returned the nod and began to walk past him, then stopped and told him about the boomer Iskiel had destroyed.

  “Wait, you saying that reptile done that to a boomer, him?”

  “Iskiel’s an amphibian,” said Milo, “not a reptile.”

  “I don’t care if he a dinosaur. How he kill that metal bug?”

  Milo explained about the acid venom.

  Barnaby looked uneasy. “Now, that’s just weird.”

  “Yeah, well, welcome to my world,” said Milo, and he went off to look for Shark.

  Chapter 8

  The reunion between Shark and Killer made Milo want to cry.

  His friend had not, in fact, been eating but was instead sitting on a log with his tool kit beside him as he worked on a circuit board from the alien ship they’d stolen. Behind him, covered in shadows beneath the oak trees, was the massive red bulb of the Dissosterin command ship that had once belonged to the Huntsman. When they’d all escaped the hive ship, the red craft had brought them down to Earth in relative safety. However, the following day the survivors had bullied Milo into trying to fly them all across the lake to find an Earth Alliance camp.

  Milo got the ship off the ground, but then one of the computer panels blew up and the ship crashed. Hard. It had been a terrible catastrophe. Several of the refugees were badly injured, and a lot of the ship’s circuitry was damaged. Shark, the best tech wizard in Milo’s pod, was now trying to get the craft running again. It was still an iffy proposition, though that morning he had told Milo that this particular circuit could probably get the ship to fly, just not fly very well. It was a start, and it was a lot better than nothing. They knew they were being hunted. Staying in any one place too long was insanely dangerous.

  “Shark,” called Milo from the edge of the small clearing, “look what followed me home. Can we keep him?”

  Shark was a stocky kid with big hands, big feet, a belly that, though not as ponderous as it had been, was still considerable, and a head that looked like a bucket covered in cornrows. His skin was the color of dark chocolate, and his intelligent brown eyes were flecked with gold. William Sharkey. “Shark” to everyone.

  “Geez,” said Shark impatiently as he looked up, “don’t tell me you want to adopt a Stinger . . .”

  His voice trailed off and tears sprang into his eyes. A half second later Shark and Killer were crushed into a huddle, laughing and barking and kissing and petting and wagging. And it was hard for Milo to tell where one left off and the other began.

  “Where . . . where . . . where . . . how . . . ?” began Shark, but he couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “He found me,” Milo told him, and explained about the trap he’d set for the shocktrooper and the subsequent encounter with the fierce little dog. He wasn’t sure that Shark heard one word of it. Feeling immensely happy for his friend, Milo sat down on the log and picked up the circuit board. He saw what Shark had been working on, followed the logic of the repair, and set to work, letting Shark have some privacy and not intruding on it, which is what friends should do.

  Later, after Shark had recovered his composure, fed Killer more than the dog could eat, washed him, and dressed his many small wounds, he sat next to Milo with the Jack Russell sleeping contentedly on his lap.

  “I really, really, really, really want to thank you, man,” he said, punching Milo on the arm.

  “Hey, like I said, Killer found me.”

  Then there was an embarrassing instant when they were both aware that Shark was crying and neither of them wanted to comment on it.

  Milo said, “So . . . um . . . how’s it going . . . ?”

  Shark cleared his throat and took the circuit board from Milo. “This is the last one to fix before we try to restart the engine. Then I think we’d better get our butts out of here. We’ve been in this swamp way too long.”

  “I know. That shocktrooper I fed to Old Chompy was getting too close to camp.”

  Shark grinned. “‘Old Chompy’?”

  “I figured he needed a name.”

  Shark thought about it, nodded. “Old Chompy,” he confirmed. “Better than some of the things Barnaby’s been calling him.”

  “Barnaby’s got issues,” complained Milo, “and not just with gators. He’s going to get in trouble with Evangelyne and the others.”

  “Yeah, he is. Oakenayl nearly took his head off earlier.”

  “Why? Because of the camouflage stuff?”

  “That and because he wanted to cut up a tree for firewood. I mean, the tree was old and dead already, so it’s not like he’d be killing one of Oakenayl’s relatives. Wouldn’t be like tossing his favorite uncle onto the fire.”

  “Maybe it would. Like a funeral pyre.”

  Shark sighed and shook his head. “Man, this is really, really weird.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  Killer began snoring.

  Milo told Shark about Iskiel destroying a boomer, and his friend was deeply impressed. “Okay, that might be the second coolest thing that’s happened today. Coolest being the return of the world’s smelliest dog.” Shark grunted. “A fire salamander with acid for venom. Life keeps on getting weirder.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Milo, and he almost shared the story of his encounter with the tiny soldiers in the mushroom circle, but ultimately he did not. Despite his knowing several supernatural creatures, this encounter now felt too much like a daydream. Besides, try as he might, he couldn’t really remember many of the details. It was like trying to remember an elusive dream. The harder he grabbed for it, the more it pulled away.

  Instead he looked around. The camp seemed deserted and quiet. “Where is everyone?”

  “Well . . . ,” began Shark slowly, “your new friends all kind of bugged out this morning after you left. Don’t ask where because none of ’em wasted a lot of breath telling us ‘Children of the Sun’ much of anything. Or is it ‘Daylighters’? I keep hearing both.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Shark, they’re not cutting you up. They’re the Nightsiders and we’re th
e Daylighters. ‘Children of the sun’ is mostly what the Witch of the World calls us.”

  Shark didn’t even try to comment on that. He was having enough of a hard time accepting Mook, Oakenayl, Evangelyne, and the other supernaturals, but believing that there was some kind of witch who only existed in dreams was still beyond his reach.

  “Daylighters, sunbathers, whatever. Don’t really care. What I’m saying is that one minute they’re all here, next—poof. And by ‘poof’ I don’t know if I mean they just up and left or if they actually vanished in a puff of smoke.”

  “I don’t think they can do that.”

  “Why not? They can do a lot of other really, really weird stuff.”

  “I guess.”

  “I tried to talk to Vangie to, you know, try to get to know her. To try to wrap my head around what it must be like to be a . . .”

  “A werewolf?”

  “Well, yeah, that too, but I was going to say I wondered what it was like to actually be supernatural. You ever talk to her about that? About what it’s like?”

  “I tried,” said Milo, “but she’s not the easiest person to have a conversation with. I mean, that first day, when we had to team up to fight the Huntsman and all, we talked a lot. And I thought we were, like, I don’t know, becoming friends.”

  Shark nodded. “So what happened?”

  “It’s weird, but since we got back from the hive ship, since she got that Heart of Darkness thing back, we haven’t said ten words to each other. Not that I haven’t tried. She hangs around the camp and all, but she hardly talks. Oakenayl never does. Iskiel can’t, and Mook only says ‘Mook.’”

  “‘Mook,’” said Shark, and they laughed.

  “So, no, we haven’t really talked about the whole supernatural thing. I guess it just is.”

  Shark looked at him. “I don’t get you, man. You act like hanging around with werewolves and fire salamanders is no big.”

  “It’s big, believe me.”

  “So how come you’re not freaked? I know I’m freaked. Everyone in camp’s freaked. Barnaby is totally freaked. And why are we all freaked? Because this is pretty darn freaky. Freakity-freak-freak with a capital FREAK.”