Shadow Souls: Mal'Ak Cycle, #1

Prologue: Part One

1963 - Glen Canyon

LAMECH'S EYES OPENED. Not the slow languorous opening of waking from a dreamy night's sleep but the rapt and hungry opening of a predator, gaze flicking through shadows and into the corners.

He knew it was time. It had always been now that he would wake. It was what he had waited for every time that he closed his eyes. This moment. The last awakening.

He wondered when it was, where in the process he would find himself, who it was that he would meet, and where it was he would die.

He sat up, his body creaking, joints cracking from lack of use. How long he couldn't be certain, not yet. Not until he slipped back into the stream of time.

He shook his head to clear the haze.

Something was wrong. Heavy pressure bombarded his head, pulsing in his ears.

The chamber was almost inky. The stones that emitted the chamber's light had never wavered. He had never seen them dimmed. Now they flickered like candles teased by the wind.

Whatever it was it didn't matter. The world waited. 

He stood and reached out with his senses, his mind struggled to consume the smells and sounds and feeling of the world he had awakened in. His power was damp, hazy, and shielded from him. It was puzzling.

He swung from the table and stood precarious for a moment. It was infuriating to wait.

His legs secured under him, he strode to the doorway and pushed the mechanism that would release it to swing into the corridor beyond. It responded hesitantly to his push but he was rewarded with a muffled click as it disengaged. He leaned against the heavy rock door and urged it to move. It refused. A scowl darkened his face. He pushed harder adding a strong nudge with his strengthening power. Again it refused his efforts. It was sealed.

He roared. The black cloud of his anger dimmed the flickering lights further. He pushed with his whole strength commanding the rock to move.

For a moment there was silence, then the door began to shake, wanting and trying to obey. The chamber trembled as the door shook faster and faster fighting against the force that kept it closed. Rock fell. Stone lights exploded. Blood seeped reluctantly from tiny scrapes and gashes on his exposed skin.

Still he pushed. His anger built like a hurricane as it gathered wind and rain and lightning around its eye.

At once the door exploded. Jagged stone crashed inward as the weight of millions of gallons of water rushed in to fill the small chamber. The deluge swept Lamech from his feet and battered him against the table where he had slumbered before it ground him against the wall of the canyon.

When the pressure eased he swam, feeling his way through the pitch black with his hands and memory. His face and head ached with the pressure and weight of the water. He swam out of the long corridor and up. Up to the world. Ignoring his aching lungs and the tingling in his forehead and fingertips.

When he broke the surface he sucked life back into his chest. He closed his eyes against the rushing blackness in his vision and floated, gasping, on his back.

As he recovered he surveyed the lake. It filled what used to be a canyon. His canyon. Did they think they could bury him beneath water? Did they think he could not survive?

He wasn't far from land. His labored breathing slow now he swam for the rocky shore.

His mind raced. How long had he lain in that watery grave? Had it interfered with his waking? Had he missed his time? 

He pulled himself dripping from the lake, the heat of his malevolence drying his skin like drops of water sizzling on live coals. They would regret trying to drown him. They would pay for their arrogance.

The Mahan had returned.

Prologue: Part Two

1963-Cummins State Farm

THE DANK SMELL OF URINE and wet cement clawed through the thin blanket that covered Eli Seven Crow's face. The humid summer air sat oppressive over the whole prison, compounded by the damp heat of a thousand sweaty bodies.

It was nights like these that he wondered why he stayed, why he kept punishing himself, why he didn't walk out, or just let himself fade away.

He shifted and gagged. He hoped they wouldn't come for him tonight. He needed a good night's sleep. He needed a chance to recover. Maybe if he prayed harder the Great Spirit would let him leave this dank and miserable hell. Tell him to get out. Vanish.

Then again, maybe he didn't want to leave this harsh reprieve. It was hell, but at least it was a different kind of hell.

His mind wandered as he drifted in and out of sleep. Willfully, it meandered into distant memory.

Soft snow covered grass and trees in the distance. A preternatural glow in the fading light of the midwinter day. A tired horse plowed inexorably across the white plain.

Muffled crunches carried over the still expanse as the horse's hooves packed down the freshly fallen blanket. Its head hung low from weariness and cold. Closer and closer it plodded to the trees. It pulled something behind it.

A man.

The man was stiff and dead. Snow collected between his legs as the horse pulled him through the soft white. The dry flakes spilled over him and fell away.

The line of their crossing stretched back as far as the eye could see over the otherwise blank canvas of undisturbed snow.

The horse reached the tree line and stopped, its breath billowed from its nostrils. It hesitated then stepped to the swift creek that bubbled out of the woods and drank deeply. Crows descended on the still body of the dead man and picked at his face and neck.

A young brave in heavy buckskin and furs stepped from the cover of the trees and placed his hand on the horse's muzzle. The horse snorted and stamped his foot in dazed surprise.

The brave walked around the strange duo. He brushed the loose snow from the body. Frozen blood caked the man's neck and heavy clothing; his arms were closed protectively over his chest, hands holding his coat shut. Something pulsed beneath the coat.

The crows burst into the air. The brave jumped backward startling the bone-weary horse. He soothed the animal and cautiously made his way back to the dead man. The crows hopped anxiously to the other side of the brook.

He reached down and with effort pulled the man's frozen arms apart. He unbuttoned the coat and pulled it aside.

A newborn bound in blankets opened his blue eyes and stared up at the brave. A heavy amulet of a tree within a circle hung from the baby's neck.

The brave gasped, Mal' Ak. He picked the boy up and held him in one arm and led the horse into the trees with the other. He stopped and looked back across the white plains. They come for you, Mal' Ak.

Hey! Injun! Officer Watson's irritation cut through Eli's dream. Shut up or I'll drag you out and shut you up.

Eli's glazed eyes searched the semi dark. Sorry, he muttered and rolled over. He drifted again gently feeling his way through the turmoil of thought.

Inky smoke coiled into the sky behind the old man and seeped into the gray winter clouds. It looked as if the delicate bare branches were trying to snatch it from the air.

Foamy sweat boiled from his painted pony's tired body, and the smell of burning flesh was in his hair. Crooked Beak's headdress was gone, his war paint smeared with tears and blood. 

The little blue-eyed, brown-skinned boy sat in front of him, his face and fingers buried in the pony's mane.

Everything was gone. His people, his herbs, his family. Only this boy and the buckskin bag resting between them were left. They had come for little Seven Crow, this era's Mal' Ak. They had come for him and the bag that had been his father's. They had failed, but they had taken everything else. He had known they would come, had known since the day he found the child wrapped in a dead man's coat.

Stark limestone rocks began to appear here and there growing taller as they rode. He was getting close. Soon the rocks would become cliffs, and the cliffs would become a canyon where he could hide. Here was shelter from the dark eyes and blackness that hunted the boy. 

The boy must learn why he was hunted. He must grow to be strong and keep the sacred secrets. He must learn to walk the world unseen and deadly. He must learn to use the tools that Crooked Beak had given so much to save for him.

He put his weathered hand on the sleeping boy's head, leaned forward, and urged his tired pony on.

One more time and I'm opening this door! Watson hammered the bars with his baton. Angry mutters promised tomorrow he would pay for keeping the wing awake.

The world ground to a slow stop. Sound warped around him, grating in his ears. Eli felt him come. Felt his oily footfalls on pristine ground. Felt his poison seep into the air, his insidious evil caress the breeze as he snaked again into the world. It had been only a matter of time. Lamech was back. The Mahan had returned.

It was time. He would have to go soon. He gathered his things and stepped through the fog to the cell door.

Great Spirit, I am ready. I feel the Mother's need. Send me. Eli placed his hand on the cell bars and the world came crashing down on him.

Holy shit! Watson screamed, Hevner! I need help! His baton was already cracking the bone in Eli's arm when Hevner's heavy steps hit the floor.

Chapter one

The Night Comes through My Window

KEEZIE STOCKMAN SHOOK her long curly red hair as she stepped out of her brand new Pontiac Firebird. The year had been good to her. Three closings a month for the first five months of 1987. Life was perfect for a successful single lady. New car, full bank account. Everything except this.

She peered through the waves of heat snaking up from the hot summer pavement at the classic red brick of the college. Her grandfather's office was in there, waiting for her to pack.

She dabbed at the sweat beading on her pale, lightly freckled nose and shut the car door. She focused on the chorus of cicadas, hoping that the noise would distract her from thinking about why she was there, and began walking. The shade trees in front of Hardin and Martin Halls were dappled reminders of her days here. She was smiling as her heels hit the crushed shells of Pecan Court. She breathed in the earthy smell of pecans and humidity. It was going to be okay.

The chill of the air conditioning hit her hard as she stepped past the doors of the Mills Center, sending a shiver down her lithe form. Her feet knew the way, and her echoed steps kept her company to the door of her grandfather's office. She touched the placard gently before she opened the door and said good-bye. Dr. Stockman. Anthropology. Mampa to her. His ready smile now alive only in her head.

Keezie stepped into what could have been an Industrial Age gentleman's lair and began sorting through the remnants of her grandfather's academic life. Ungraded papers, elegantly scrawled reminders to himself, books, pictures of her or some obscure celebrity with her grandfather, and the occasional artifact tucked away in some back corner or overfilled drawer.

She had spent long hours scouring the halls of the college as a child. Mampa sent her far and wide to hunt for tiny treasures or books that he had secreted in classrooms or the offices of other professors. Looking back, she knew they must have all been in on the game, but they played along so well she felt as if she were uncovering things that only she had seen in hundreds of years.

She bit the edges of her tongue to keep the welling tears at bay. She would not do this here. She had work to do.

She lost herself as much as she could in the sorting, between visits from well-wishers and hunting for boxes. The sun was low, and the street lights flickered on as she taped the bottom of the last box. It looked like she would only fill it half way with what remained on the last bookshelf.

She packed two rocks, a circular metal Chinese calendar that ran through 1972, an outdated anthropology textbook, and an Aldous Huxley novel with the paper cover missing.

She picked the last item up and sat in her grandfather's chair. She set the small wooden box on the desk. The box was shaped like a little treasure chest, the outside was covered in small pieces of bamboo, a beach scene lightly burned into the wood of the top. She opened it slowly, not wanting to let go of the last thing in the office.

The interior was lined with faded red felt. On top of a pile of folded bills was a smooth glass tube.

Keezie picked up the tube and turned it over in her hands. She wasn't sure what it was for. Underneath the tube was a bundle of paper money. The bills were all from different countries, and strangely all twos. Two pesos, two dollars, two rupees, a couple with strange lettering but still clearly twos. She unfolded them all and set them on the desk.

Under the bills were coins, again all twos. Centavos and ones she couldn't read. She upended the box, emptying all the coins on the desk and looked back into its belly. Wedged into the bottom was a folded paper star, just big enough to catch the tips on the sides of the little treasure chest.

She tugged the star free and examined the intricate folds. Someone had taken careful time in crafting this perfect little star. She turned it over and noticed faint and faded lettering in her Mampa's careful hand. She clicked on the desk lamp to try to determine if the word was intentional or just random lettering on an old page used to make the star.

Her eyes adjusted to the light as she peered at the letters. Her breath caught in her throat. It was her name.

Keezie

Ms. Stockman? The janitor's voice from the doorway startled her. She felt oddly exposed and shoved the star in the front pocket of her dress shorts. Unsure of why she was feeling such unease, she replaced the money and lifted the box with the last of her Mampa's things and smiled at the man.

I'm done I think, she said, trying to keep the surprise from her voice. They were waiting for her, she realized. They wanted to go home. The man nodded and led a small group of men into the office. I'm in the lot by Hardin Hall.

No problem. We'll carry the rest down for you.

She smiled and nodded. Thank you. She stepped into the hallway with her box, and wished her hands were free to check the little star in her pocket.

Chapter Two

I Play No Games

THE YARD WAS QUIET. That was never good. It meant death was coming, like the hush that covers the forest when a mountain lion hunts, it crept over the sweat drenched inmates. He heard the shuffle of feet. The heavy breathing of excitement.

Eli's breath deepened as he readied himself. It could be him. He had been the target many times over the last four decades. He widened his vision, taking in as much of the yard as possible. He tried to remember when the last bounty was placed on him. It had been Walrus. The fat man hadn't appreciated Eli's humor. That was at least ten years ago, and he had dealt with that. He was old now, who would even care? Eli slunk over to lean on the lone bench in the yard, his left hand casual in its unfastening of the rope that served as his belt.

A circle of men confirmed that he was the target as they hemmed him in. He stared hard at the tattered slip-on shoes they all wore. The shuffle of men stopped, their nervous energy a hint that this was the most fun they would have for weeks. He wound the rope belt around his hand as he waited for the circle to part. He was glad he had tightened his warrior's braids that morning.

Eli watched as the greedy eyes of the circle gave his attacker away. He entered the coward's way; behind Eli. He turned slowly as the circle closed behind Big Ronnie B and put his rope-wrapped hand in his pocket. Big Ronnie grinned as he pulled a sap made from a portion of old leather strap and rocks from inside his pants.

Murderer. Hand for hire, Big Ronnie was the last of the unofficial trustees. Guards and prisoners alike gave the deadly man wide berth. He stunk. Even from a couple of yards