Brethren

  BRETHREN

  By

  Shawn Ryan

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  EPILOGUE

  "A gripping debut…"

  —Robert R. McCammon

  BRETHREN

  To find a grisly killer, a homicide detective will

  need all the powers of heaven… and hell…

  SHAWN RYAN

  ISBN 0-671-79243-1

  HIS FOREFATHERS ARE INDEBTED TO A DEMON.

  TO SURVIVE HE MUST ENTER THE HEART OF THE BEAST…

  The devil has come to the Atlanta, Georgia, suburb of Gwinnett County, in the person of The Mercy Killer—a serial rapist and murderer whose gruesome calling cards are the mutilated, beheaded bodies of children. He strikes without warning, escapes without trace, and his appetite for slaughter is insatiable. But the life he craves above all others is that of Jason Medlocke-the homicide detective assigned to catch him.

  It's been eighteen months since Jason lost his wife and small daughter to a drunk driver… and nearly lost his own life to despair and booze. But a worse horror is waiting-for Jason is the last Medlocke son, and the doomed heir to a centuries-old curse that has left his family stained in blood and abomination.

  Jason's warlock ancestors have summoned the hideous fiend, Moloch, to rain vengeance down upon the Medlockes' enemies. But now Jason must harness that same magic, which still pulses within him, to stand against Moloch, who has sworn to rule the world of humans… and to bathe in the blood of the last surviving Medlocke!

  Was He Crazy or Worse?

  Badger reached out with his left hand. His index finger touched the animal, then sprang back. Nothing. Maybe he hadn't left it there long enough. He touched the frog again, resting his finger on it for several seconds. Nothing again. Just a toy. He picked it up. The instant he did, he knew it was a mistake. The eyes of the frog, simple button eyes moments before, opened. They stared at him, the color of cold silver, the frigidity of hatred. Like an evil Cheshire cat, the frog grinned, an ugly grimace full of stained teeth with bits of flesh dangling from the corners. Badger could feel his sanity sliding down a long tunnel. Then the mouth opened and Badger knew his world would never be the same…

  "BRETHREN is a hard-hitting, fast-paced novel that will have the reader turning pages with both fear and anticipation. Shawn Ryan is a new novelist to watch."

  —Lisa Cantrell, award-winning author of The Manse and Boneman

  "BRETHREN is a fast-paced read. Ryan shows great potential with his first novel."

  —R. Patrick Gates, author of Tunnelvision and Grimm Memorials

  "BRETHREN cleverly mixes starkly realistic police work with ultimate supernatural horror… Unflinching and grisly, this book takes you on a rapidly descending roller-coaster ride through hell…"

  —Rick Hautala, author of Twilight Time

  BRETHREN

  SHAWN RYAN

  POCKET BOOKS

  New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 1993 by Shawn Ryan

  ISBN: 0-671-79243-1

  First Pocket Books printing October 1993

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of

  Simon & Schuster Inc.

  Cover art by Vince Natale

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  To Connor, who makes everything worthwhile

  Writing is a solitary task, but no one—especially a first-time novelist—writes a book completely alone. I'd like to thank Gina, for forcing me to start what I'd always talked about doing. I am indebted to the members of Magic City Writers, especially Elsa and Bryan, who focused me and kept me moving forward. I am also deeply grateful to Rick, for his help through the years; to Matt, for his unflagging belief in me; and to Eric, for his enthusiasm and energy.

  BRETHREN

  PROLOGUE

  ^ »

  The black loam crumbled in Glendon's fist, falling to the earth in rich, dark cascades. It was good soil, capable of nurturing whatever he planted.

  Glendon felt fortunate to get this plot of land five years ago, nestled as it was between the shrub-covered heath and the eastern edge of Blackthorn Forest. Three hectares was enormous for a common landowner, but his blacksmithing talents and deferential yet witty personality made him a favorite of Lord Briane Terlaine. The lord gave him this land in return for years of loyal service—and more than a few ribald tales spilled over flagons of mead.

  Glendon missed the old lord. His death three years ago led to great uncertainty. Gilles Terlaine, the lord's son, was not fond of Glendon and made it known he coveted the land now being wasted, as he put it, by that "dirt-farming smithy."

  Glendon tried to keep a low profile, doing his farming quietly and providing free blacksmithing services to Lord Gilles. There was no need to upset the applecart, or the young lord.

  As Glendon stood up from kneeling, his knees popped in protest. He was only thirty-three but life in Scotland was hard in the mid 1500s and people aged quickly. Still, his upper body was heavily corded with muscle from the blacksmithing, and his legs were tree-stump thick from days spent behind an oxen-pulled plow. His health was good and he felt as if he would last for years, the good lord above willing and the young Lord Gilles not interfering.

  Wiping his palms on the thighs of his gray woolen pants, Glendon looked around the field. Underneath the soil, the potatoes were growing firm and fat. On the next field over, thick waves of barley twisted in the breeze. Many a good meal would come from these potatoes, and many a fine tankard of ale would be made from the barley.

  Still, Glendon couldn't be completely happy. His good fortune was in direct contrast to the misery of his neighbors a few miles away. They were facing a host of problems—a year of insects, poor seed, blight, even a battering hailstorm several weeks ago that smashed the barley flat.

  Glendon knew the reasons for his luck, and as much as he wanted to help his neighbors, he felt it better to keep his "gift" a secret. Too many spies, too many suspicious people roaming the country these days. Best to keep such a thing hidden and enjoy its bounty in solitude.

  Oh, his wife, Adeleen, knew. He never could keep a secret from her. Three years ago, when he discovered his gift for making things grow, she was frightened. F
or two weeks she wouldn't sleep in the same bed.

  "I don't know what's happened to you, Glendon," she'd say. "And I'm not sure I want to know. It reeks of Satan's touch."

  "But have I changed?" he'd ask. "Am I not the same man you married? This good luck seems less a curse of Satan than a gift from God."

  Finally she came to see the truth in his words. He was the same man—good, kind, loving to her and their six-year-old son, Cameron. In time, she even came to accept his power as a blessing from above. He used it sparingly, only for things like good crops and a healthy litter from the pig. He never used it against another person—as much as he would like to blast Lord Gilles off the face of the earth.

  As Glendon shook the soil from his trews, he could hear Adeleen singing a plaintive song about a gallant lad and his lady true. Her light, airy voice weaved through the trees like a melodic breeze as she washed clothes down at the stream.

  Glendon had married at twenty-five, late for an era when building a family usually began before the teen years were left behind. But Glendon had been selective when choosing a wife. Although several fathers—and more than several girls—had made Glendon aware that a man with his future needed someone to bear him children, he refused to give in. That is, until he met Adeleen when she and her parents moved into the region. From the moment he saw her he knew she was the one he'd been waiting for. He crumbled before her bright green eyes, ringing laughter, and blond hair.

  Perhaps if the crop is big enough this year, Glendon thought, I can set aside a few coins for that fabric I caught Adeleen eyeing in the village. She deserved something pretty, something frivolous. He decided to go down to the stream and give her a quick hug, perhaps more if time permitted.

  Those plans were thwarted almost instantly as Glendon heard the laughter of Cameron bubbling up underneath his wife's singing down near the stream. The sound of his son's joy made Glendon's heart swell.

  Bright with an insatiable curiosity and an unflinching habit of asking questions of anyone and everyone, Cameron was his father's absolute pride. Glendon dreamed of the days when he and his son would plow the fields together, work at the red-hot forge together, even drink a tankard of wine together.

  Adeleen's singing ceased and Cameron's laughter slowly lowered. Glendon decided to visit them, steal a hug and a kiss from them both.

  The trembling of the earth shook the happiness from Glendon's stride. The thunder of the hoofbeats thrummed through the ground, the vibration reaching Glendon before the noise.

  Eight horses ridden by men bearing the banner of Lord Gilles crested the hillock behind the cottage. Each man wore a sword on his hip and all dressed in chain mail. Thick, bludgeoning maces dangled from the saddles of two riders.

  As they reined in at the front door of Glendon's cottage, one of the soldiers, a man with long, black hair braided down to his beltline, stood in the stirrups and looked about. Obscured by a thick beard, his face was cold and cruel, an impression intensified by the scar that began at his left eyebrow and ripped downward, a river of white scar tissue that ran through his beard. A wicked-looking whip, the end stained a suspicious shade of rusty brown, was looped around the man's left shoulder.

  Glendon felt a chill. His visitor was William Morven, the bloodthirsty right-hand man of Lord Gilles.

  Swallowing the fear rising in his throat, Glendon calmly walked from the field to the house, waving his hand in greeting.

  "Hail, good soldiers," he said.

  "Where is your wife, smithy?" Morven asked in a tone usually reserved for dogs.

  "I'm not sure," Glendon answered cautiously. "Can I help you?"

  "You'd do best just to stay out of my way, smithy," Morven answered. "I'm here to bring your wife to the castle to stand trial for witchcraft. Lest you wish to be included in the trial, be quiet and don't interfere."

  "Witchcraft?" Glendon asked, his voice incredulous. "My wife is no witch. Why has such judgment been passed upon her?"

  Morven looked cooly at Glendon, as though eyeing a rabbit about to be skewered with a lance. A sadistic smirk creased his face.

  "I need not answer to you, peasant," he said. "But I suppose there is no harm. There is nothing you can do anyway."

  Morven swept his arm in a circle.

  "Why does your farm prosper when so many in this region do not?" he asked. "Why do your crops stand healthy and strong? Why does the rain come here and not down the road? Why do the insects not devour your plants? Where is the blight that eats the heart out of all the other potatoes?"

  He looked at Glendon.

  "We have reason to believe your wife has the answers we seek. Perhaps she has powers that make such things possible. Being the whore of Satan can provide many earthly rewards, I understand."

  Glendon's face burned a deep crimson and he felt anger building in his gut. He also felt something else, a deep stirring within every fiber of his body, a righteous power ready to lash out. He reined it in.

  "You do not truly believe my wife had anything to do with our good fortune?" he said, straining against the hungry push of the gift. "Why couldn't luck or the blessing of the Lord above be the answer?"

  "Why should the Lord help a common blacksmith?" Morven said. "Why shouldn't he help those who can do the most with it? Why not Lord Gilles? Or even me?"

  Glendon stared straight into Morven's eyes. "I know you, Morven," he said. "You do not truly think my wife is a witch or you would not have had the courage to ride out here. Your cowardice would have held you back and you would've sent lackeys.

  "You come because it is another way to kiss the arse of Lord Gilles, who wants my land and will do anything to get it. Well, he won't get it or my wife, unless he takes them over my lifeless body."

  "As you wish, smithy," Morven said in a low voice. His right hand reached over and drew the whip off his shoulder. His arm flicked back and the only thing Glendon heard was the crack of the whip as it licked his face like a snake fang. He staggered backward, his hand on his left cheek. It came away bloody and his fingers felt a jagged wound running from above his eyebrow to the edge of his beard. Blood dripped from his jaw.

  "Papa!" a small voice cried. Cameron ran up the path from the stream and toward his wounded father. "Papa, you're bleeding. Your eye is hurt."

  "Get back, Son," Glendon said. "Go into the house. I'm all right. My eye is fine."

  "A miscalculation on my part, smithy," Morven said. "I'll rectify that mistake now."

  Morven's arm reared back again, preparing to strike, when Adeleen's voice rose again from the stream. His arm dropped.

  "So, you do not know where your wife is?" he sneered. "Well, I do."

  He reined his horse to the right and charged into the woods, toward the soft singing. Glendon started in pursuit, but a horse jumped in front of him, knocking him to the ground, the horse's hoof grazing his temple. Glendon sat up as the world spun, and he knew he couldn't stand without falling.

  "Papa, Papa, Papa," Cameron cried. "They're going to hurt Mama."

  As the words left the boy's lips, a scream erupted from the woods. It was coupled with the sound of snorting horses and trampled underbrush. Then the scream was cut short like a twig snapped off a dead tree.

  "Maaaamaaaaa," the boy cried and ran toward the sound.

  "Cameron, come back here," Glendon yelled. "Don't go down there."

  The boy disappeared into the woods.

  Glendon got to his feet, the world swaying beneath him. The pain in his temple shot lightning through his brain, while the dripping cut on his cheek hurt down to the roots of his teeth.

  I don't care about the pain, he thought. I must get to Adeleen. Protect her from Morven.

  He took two steps when Morven emerged from the woods. Glendon's knees gave way when he saw his wife's body draped across the front of Morven's saddle. Blood covered one side of her head.

  Immediately behind Morven ran Cameron. Glendon could hear his son's pitiful sobbing. The boy beat on Morven's foot with both hands.
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  "You killed my mama. You killed my mama," he cried.

  Morven took his foot from the stirrup and kicked the boy in the side of the head. It was a glancing blow but knocked Cameron to the ground. Crying, the boy jumped up and beat on Morven again. This time the soldier ignored him.

  A hard look was etched into Morven's face as he rode up to Glendon. He stopped the horse and unceremoniously dumped Adeleen's body on the ground. Glendon crawled quickly to his wife and pulled her body into his lap, cradling her head in his arms. Tears flowed freely down his face as her head lolled backward and bloody blond hair flowed over his thighs. Cameron sank to his knees beside his father and gently lifted his mother's hand, holding it to his cheek while he sobbed.

  The other soldiers slowly filed out of the woods on their horses. They rode fifty feet behind Morven, ashamed and unwilling to be part of his cruelty. Their heads hung forward and they were silent.

  "She tried to get away across the stream," Morven said. "She slipped on a mossy rock and fell. Her head struck another stone. It broke her neck, as you can see. But I suppose it saves us the time and trouble of trying and executing her as a witch." He shrugged.

  Cameron fell onto his belly and buried his face in his mother's skirts, grief consuming him. Glendon felt other emotions, ones he could not—would not—deny. The fire scorched his insides, burning the fear and hesitation from him.

  His back to the soldiers, Glendon brushed the hair from his forehead and glared at Morven. The soldier gasped in shock, his face turning ashen.

  Glendon had no eyes. Only a cobalt-blue fire burned in his sockets, flaring like sunlight reflecting off an executioner's ax. It was the crystalline heat of hatred.