Pandora's Box: Book 3 of the Crystal Raven Series

When she arrived home, Crystal’s girls were all laughing at her. Aiko had secretly taken a picture of her in her wet suit, and someone had kindly posted it on Facebook. Now everyone could see how ridiculous she had looked at the moment she stood to summon the water elemental. With girls like these who needed enemies? And to make matters worse, they had come back with less than nothing. At least no one had captured her most embarrassing moments of the trip, those panicked antics as she discovered she had ripped the bum of her wet suit. Stupid rocks! To make sure her secret was safe, she snooped through Aiko’s cell phone for any hidden video before deciding she merely needed to hurt the girl and not kill her.

“Well, not exactly nothing,” Gwen pointed out. “He did direct us to Mount Ararat.”

“Mount Everest, Mount Ararat,” Crystal countered. “Same diff.”

“Big diff,” Gwen retorted. “One is in Nepal; the other is in Turkey. We would need mad climbing skills to start up one and end up on the other.”

Worse, they had accomplished nothing. Crystal refused to let Gwen cheer her up. She had gone through all that for nothing. And to rub salt into her wound, while they were gone Cantara and the Wandering Jew had been busy checking through the records for known vampyre crèches. The old Transylvanian crèche seemed like a good place to start. If they felt threatened here in North America, it stood to reason the guardian might return home to where it was born. And so they had waited for the others to return with word of the success or failure of their mission, and quietly planned a trip of their own. Water elementals were too unreliable. What had happened in the last week to change that, let alone in the last thousand years?

They met now in Crystal’s apartment, those who ate picking at a lasagne April had brought back from the diner.

“So,” April teased, “you just couldn’t keep your mind clear when you asked your question?”

“I was tired,” Crystal laughed at herself, “and Alvaro was making faces at me.”

“I assure you,” Aiko shot back, “that is his normal face.”

“You have been spending too much time with human teenagers,” Alvaro complained.

“And what’s wrong with that?” Ember demanded as she walked into the living room and flopped down next to April. “We rock.”

“Eat some lasagne,” April urged, playing with the girl’s hair as she lay her head in her lap.

“I’m not hungry,” Ember pouted. “Why can’t I go with Cantara and the Wandering Jew when they go to Europe?”

“Because you have school, dear,” April soothed, “and someone has to take care of your dogs. You won’t be able to take them with you.”

“Especially that blue nuisance,” Gwen threw in. “Yesterday, he threw all my bras out the windows, even the lacy ones.”

April raised an eyebrow at her daughter. “It never would have happened if you had folded them up and put them away like I asked you to.”

“It’s not the point, mom,” Gwen pouted. Geez, the woman is supposed to be on her side. They were, after all, flesh and blood.

“It’s exactly the point,” April replied.

“And when you see what he did to your crockpot,” Gwen shot back, “is it your fault because you left it soaking in the sink?”

“You mean the crockpot you promised to wash this morning?” April asked dangerously.

“I never got the chance,” Gwen replied innocently. “And trust me, it’s better off in the garbage.”

“Let me see it.”

“Sorry,” Ember squeaked. “I’ve been potty training him. And Tangerine got into the garbage while I was getting Strawberry out of Alex’s closet. And, well, he ate it. But they are getting much better.”

“I see it’s been interesting around here,” Angel said over Alex’s head. She had claimed his lap the moment he had sat down and did not look like she would relinquish it any time soon.

“Oh,” Cantara countered, “we’ve had our ups and downs. And speaking of ups, we need to find our feet if we are going to make our flight.”

“You sure you two want to risk the airport?” April asked, suddenly worried.

“I doubt the Vatican’s released our descriptions let alone admit our existence,” the Wandering Jew shrugged. “It’s a private flight. We’ll be fine.”

Besides, he thought as he held the door, Cantara could use a break from the girls. Too much humanity for her peace of mind. Let her kill a few vampyres and get it out of her system. Better them than the girls, he thought.

Security was no more nor less a problem than it had been since nine-eleven. They placed their luggage in the check-in and then waited with all the others to pass through the metal detectors. The Wandering Jew wished he had Cantara’s ability to place her contraband beyond the reach of human security and its scans. Her knives went into the Betwixt-and-Between, beyond the mortal realm, and would be waiting for her when she deboarded the plane. He would have to buy another sword when they reached their destination, and when he started to love it, he would have to abandon it. Not having access to the Vatican diplomatic pouches was going to hurt.

The flight was peaceful. They chatted quietly for what seemed like the first time in months. Already Cantara seemed more relaxed, although she flinched now and again as if expecting some disaster or practical joke. The djinn did not know how that human woman did it. Even with Alex and Aiko around, it was not much better. Those two were barely out of what passed for their teenage years amongst their perspective species and fell in with the teenagers and their mannerisms all too easy.

“What are you thinking, love?” the Wandering Jew asked.

“That if we ever have children, we should drown them at birth,” Cantara laughed. “No court in the world will convict us.”

“Are they really that much of a handful?” He chided.

“Are you kidding?” Cantara demanded. “The youngest collects demons like trading cards and talks to ghosts. Crystal alternates between an awkward girl and a goddess of vengeance. And Gwen -.”

“Is your favourite,” he teased. “One day, she will be a competent field commander if the Wiccan don’t steal her first.”

“You can only say that because she’s never zinged you with her vampyre zinger,” Cantara grumped.

The Wandering Jew laughed.

The plane touched down in Amsterdam some nine hours later. They were getting off here and would make the rest of their trip by train. Coming off the plane and through customs, weary and jetlagged, they went off to collect their luggage and find a taxi. There were a few swordsmiths in the city that the Wandering Jew wanted to check out, often having to look at several pieces to find something to match his long arms. It was a risk buying a sword now, with several borders still to cross, but you could not always trust the vendors in East Europe.

“Should we get a hotel?” Cantara asked, checking the train schedules.

“Oh definitely,” he replied and grinned wickedly.

“Watch it,” Cantara threatened. “Mom warned me about men like you. She said they’re almost impossible to take advantage of.”

“Then we will go shopping.”

It was in the third shop he dragged her into where she found the set of daggers. While he argued the merits of Damascus steel with the proprietor, Cantara picked up each blade and studied it with loving care. They were Djinn forged, crafted from black steel, and while a little pricey, worth every penny. The hardest mail or demon hide would not dull their edges, and the balance of each was a knife-thrower’s wet dream.

“And it looks like we’ll be taking the dagger set,” the Wandering Jew said as he came up behind Cantara. “Can you do anything on the price?”

“On that set,” the proprietor shook his head sadly. “It’s on consignment.”

“Where did you find them?” Cantara asked. A djinn warrior never gave up his or her blades.

“A strange man,” the proprietor explained. “With red hair. Wore a bow-tie and sweater vest. Looked too bookish to be the type, but one can never tell.”

The two exchanged looks. There were very few establishments that catered to the needs of the Brotherhood. But still, it couldn’t have been Jean-Claude. Could it?

It was a puzzling end to their stay in Holland. They were still trading the occasional comment when the train deposited them somewhere in Romania. Collecting their luggage, they took a taxi to the nearest car rental, a difficult task that carried them out to the airport. East Europe was not his favourite place, and their needs could be a little odd. From the airport, the Wandering Jew went looking for an abattoir. Not many people came looking for offal, but there was always the odd hunter or poacher around that used it to bait their traps. For these two, the riper the flesh, the better. The scent of decay would bring the Eaters of the Dead faster than black flies to bare flesh in the deep woods.

It was a ticklish proposition in a strange country, but both had been here at one time or another in the past and knew the language. In an emerging free-market economy like this, money covered a multitude of sins, and some bright entrepreneur would find a way to fulfill their need. For these two foreign scientists here to study bats a supply of offal could be found, even if it started off as someone’s pet. The Wandering Jew and Cantara did not want to know. Sometimes ignorance really was bliss.

With a fresh supply of food and bait, they set off for a cave system on the border of the Transylvania region. In the Thirteen Hundreds, these caves had been the seat of a vampyre nation and had been left to the rats and the Eaters of the Dead centuries ago. Until the patriarch or matriarch of their clans moved, these vampyres would remain, feeding on their own kind when their food supply ran low. Seldom would they emerge to forage for fresh bodies, but always a few lone travellers would disappear, or a fresh grave would be dug up. And always there were those like Anastasia who was there to explain away these disappearances.

Animals. The Brotherhood would go to great lengths to reinforce the official lie to maintain the balance in this and all things. The time when the balance could no longer be kept would come but at a time of His choosing and no-one else’s.

This meant more to her lover than it did to Cantara. The only thing that had carried and kept her on this plane was to kill vampyres until her family’s death had been avenged with a full measure of blood. The Wandering Jew knew this made his lover cold and bloodthirsty, although Gwen and the girls had softened her a bit over the last eighteen months. Which meant she would only chase a wounded vampyre across two countries before letting it live. She was still the quintessential djinn warrior, ruthless and implacable. Esoteric things like Armageddon and the End Times meant little against her personal grief, and he was glad he had been able to convince her to accept the Brotherhood and its protection all those years ago.

They parked the van in amongst a small copse of trees, where it would be less likely to attract the attention of unwanted eyes. From here, the hike to the cave entrance was a short one. It was one of twelve known entrances into this complex and required climbing several hundred feet down into a chasm. It was the logical choice both because of its remote locale and its difficult approach. It would attract fewer outsiders, giving the Eaters of the Dead unfettered access to the surface should it become necessary. And for the two spelunkers, it offered them a chance to work undisturbed. Explanations, even well-prepared ones like their cover story as a team of scientists, wore thin if told too often.

At the lip of the chasm, Cantara unlimbered the ropes. She had always been the better climber in their squad, except for Angel, whose wings gave him an advantage that was outright cheating. When one could fly, was born with an innate ability to do so, one should not claim to have any skill as a climber – so fairy boy did not count. Using a piton and ring as an anchor, she slung a rope over the side and tested its heft. Satisfied, she lowered herself over the side of the cliff, and leaning backwards, repelled down the side of the chasm. A moment later, the Wandering Jew joined her. If someone else did all the work of getting the climb ready, beating them to the bottom really didn’t count either.

On the bottom, they paused to organize their gear. They would not be going in too deep, about a quarter of a mile into the cavern system, but they might have to stay for several days. They wanted to be as comfortable as possible while waiting in the dark without a fire and only themselves for warmth. There was no point in being hungry and thirsty as well as cold and cramped. At the same time, neither Cantara or the Wandering Jew wanted to lug any unnecessary gear with them. One rope, one set of climbing gear, and no marshmallows.

Inside, the cave was typical of the limestone formations found in the region – too many sharp edges and no smooth surfaces. Cantara pushed in front of her companion. The offal he was carrying was rather on the ripe side. Downwind was the only option, although below ground deciding where downwind lay was a might difficult. If that did not attract every hungry Eater of the Dead for a thousand miles, nothing would. The stench of shit and guts was certainly putting her off her feed. Damn, the boy’s choice in cologne left something to be desired.

Within a hundred feet, the passage branched, but they knew their way. Both had been in the raiding parties that had stormed these caves during the Long Night of the Vampyres. Three times they had led parties down underground during the final siege, and the first quarter-mile of passages were indelibly etched into their memories. Those bloody nights and days were not something anyone was likely to forget in a thousand lifetimes. During the first two raids, both had lost more than half their squads down here, many to Eaters of the Dead, who were attracted to the light of their torches. And bringing bodies back had not been possible.

Coming close to their goal, the Wandering Jew found a cubbyhole that may have been a lair for an Eater of the Dead, or some over daring animal. Lined with tufts of fur and well-gnawed bones, it looked to have seen recent use. And frankly, he was glad to get rid of his gristly burden. He would smell of decomposition for a month and would be sleeping alone for at least two. Some sacrifices they made for the Brotherhood were not worth it.

Cantara led the way off from the lair, finding a semi-flat ledge several hundred feet away. Climbing up, they settled in their gear. The Wandering Jew surprised her with a bottle of wine, a rare vintage that had been a favourite when they had first started dating. ‘What the hell,’ the djinn thought, ‘at least it will keep me warm and help me forget my companion smells like a dead fish.’ If he could have seen the look that crossed her face at that moment, the Wandering Jew would not be feeling so pleased with himself. He had been carrying the offal so long he had begun to become inured to its stench, but some things were hard to ignore, even for the sake of love. God, they should have packed a shower, or even a washing machine or three.

For the next eighteen hours, they huddled beneath a thermal blanket, whiling away the time in idle talk. From time to time, Cantara drew her daggers, twirling them in her hands and wishing she could find a target. Just once. Several times they had ventured out to the lair to check on their gift, and always found it untouched. Finally, out of boredom, Cantara suggested they both go and stretch their legs. As little as three months ago, these caverns had had a healthy population of Eaters of the Dead. The Brotherhood routinely checked out all such abandoned crèches. When they came up to the alcove and found their bait untouched, they knew it was time to admit defeat.

“It looks like no-one is home, my love,” the Wandering Jew sighed.

“Okay,” Cantara sighed back, “where did they all go?”