Page 41 of Crimson Moon Falling

Gunnar eyed him. “I have full-blood troll relatives, and he makes them look civilized.”

I patted Mangus’s head. “They help me so the implant doesn’t suppress my emotions as much.”

Jamie’s lips twitched. “It’s ironic that the thing responds positively to sulfurous demon dogs.”

I gave Mangus a good ear-scratching. “He’s not a demon dog, he’s a sweet, good boy. Aren’t you?” The hellhound sat, his huge tongue lolling as black smoke curled from a nostril.

As we climbed higher, the forest grew denser and the trail narrower. Occasional steam vents appeared, releasing thin clouds into the air.

The area vibrated with palpable energy, and my body buzzed in response. “Yellowstone sits atop a massive magma chamber,” I explained, gesturing broadly. “It’s the continent’s largest supervolcano, and the Earth’s crust is thin in spots around here.”

“You’re such a nerd, Sparky,” Jamie teased.

I held my sweaty hair off my neck. “And you look like you’re modeling for a high-end outdoor clothing catalog. We all have our quirks.”

The sun dropped lower, and dusk was approaching. My legs burned, my pack feeling twice as heavy as when we started.

“Let’s find a campsite within the next mile,” Freda suggested. “We’re losing daylight.”

I checked my watch. It was just before six, and the temperature was beginning to drop. I’d previously identified a few potential campsites based on visibility, defensibility, and proximity to water sources.

Freda pointed ahead. “According to the map, there should be a stream about half a mile ahead. That would be ideal.”

We walked in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. Athena ranged ahead, her white form ghosting among the trees, while Mangus stayed closer to me.

The forest grew quiet as we continued. The usual chirping of birds and small animals rustling in the underbrush faded away. My implant registered it first. Something had disrupted the wildlife.

Mangus suddenly froze beside me, his massive body going rigid. His hackles rose along his spine, and a low, subsonic growl vibrated through his chest, like the rumble before an earthquake. Athena materialized from the trees ahead, her crimson eyes fixed on something none of us could see, her white fur standing on end.

“Listen,” I whispered to Jamie. “What do you hear?”

He paused, head cocked slightly. Then he straightened. “Nothing.” His hand drifted toward his weapon.

“Gunnar,” Freda called softly. “Hold up.”

The troll stopped and turned his massive head. “What?”

“The forest is too quiet.”

He nodded slowly, his expression grim. I rested my hand on Mangus’s neck, heat radiating through his fur. A dry leaf crunched underfoot ahead, faint but distinct. My head jerked toward the sound, every sense heightened. Mangus pressed against my leg, his body vibrating with a silent growl. Jamie held up a fist, signaling the others to freeze as I strained to hear. Low, clipped, professional voices drifted through the trees. The cadence was too disciplined to be hikers.

Freda appeared beside me and gestured to have us move off the trail. We crept into a dense thicket of undergrowth and melted off the path, the hellhounds following. My mouth went dry as I slid into the shadow of a massive fallen pine, its trunk partially hollowed by insects and time.

Jamie pressed his back against the rough bark beside me, his breathing shallow and controlled. Gunnar’s massive form disappeared behind a cluster of boulders, and Freda slipped into the shadows as she tucked her light hair beneath a dark cap.

I calculated our odds. There were four of us plus two hellhounds, and right now we had the element of surprise. I silently pulled my sidearm out.

We could hear them better now. Not the casual gait of hikers or the more measured stride of rangers, but the synchronized movement of trained operatives. My body tensed.

They came into view through gaps in the foliage. Four figures in black tactical gear, moving in almost synchronized formation. The one in front bore that vacant look of the operatives in Roswell. Two carried modified assault rifles with suppressors.

And then I saw him.

Commander Marlowe was in the center of the formation, his silver-streaked hair gleaming in the dappled evening sunlight. His posture was impeccable as always, shoulders squared, chin slightly raised. He wore the same charcoal uniform I remembered, the fabric so dark it seemed to absorb the light around it. Air left my lungs, and my vision tunneled as the present dissolved in my mind.

The cold metal table sucked the heat from my body as leather restraints cut into my wrists and ankles. The room smelled like antiseptic and burning flesh. It was my flesh. Marlowe loomed over me, his eyes clinical and curious as he pressed the red-hot brand against my shoulder.

“You’re special, Riley,” he’d murmured, his voice gentle even as the metal sizzled against my skin. “This mark identifies you as mine. A perfect subject.”