"Watch for dem eyes," the old fellow said, "glowin' like diamonds." The spider's eyes shone bright yellow and crystalline in the light, like gems. The old fellow shined his light about near the water, and Bron saw that at nearly every one of the cypress trees, where its base met the water, there was a bright pair of eyes on a giant spider. The wolf spiders hung upside down, with their mandibles in the water, where they could easily hunt for minnows and frogs by touch alone.
"I get de freesons when I see dem critters!" the old fellow said.
Suddenly the river opened up, broadening, and in the pool ahead, Bron spotted a truly huge gator, perhaps twelve feet long. The thing dove and the water churned.
He kept poling for an hour more, following a watery road through the trees, and the noise of frogs deepened, becoming deafening, until at last he spotted a light.
A pair of dogs began to bay and howl.
There was a cabin in the swamp, hidden away. The roof was shingled with wooden shakes, so old and mossy that they blended with the trees themselves, as did the ancient planks that lined the cabins' walls.
It would have passed as an abandoned hunting shack, if not for the light of a single gas lantern hanging from a hook out front, along with the howls and barks from the hounds.
"Dere we go," the old man said softly.
The house perched on stilts at the very edge of ruin, at the end of the world. This long lagoon seemed to dry up just down the way. They were on a watery road that came from nowhere, led to nowhere.
Like my life, Bron thought.
People who did not want to be found could not have resorted to a more desolate place.
Bron poled up to a floating dock some eight feet beneath the house, and tied up the pirogue. Two red-bone hounds were chained to the porch above, and their chains rattled as they lunged excitedly. They quit barking, except for little yelps, and stood with tails wagging. As the light flashed about, Bron saw a couple of giant spiders down at the waterline. His back and shoulders were aching from all of the work. He suddenly felt weary as he peered up that crumbling ladder that reached the porch, but he placed his foot on the bottom rung and shinnied up.
One of the dogs came to inspect him, and Bron held out his hand, then petted its wet snout as it began to lick.
Olivia and the old man followed, and when he reached the top, the old man waved his pistol toward the door.
A small sign above the door said in faded letters, "Adder Manor."
Olivia took the lead, opening the door, while their guide grabbed his lantern. He unleashed both of the hounds, and they stood wagging their tails. "Gwon, then!" he told them. "Gwon and getcha them coons!"
Both dogs lunged away and raced into the woods out back, baying and barking.
Bron steeled himself. He wanted to savor the moment, the first sight of his mother. He stepped through the doorway.
The house was utterly dark inside, but a woman's voice warned, "I've got a gun, and I can see you against the starlight. Don't make any sudden moves."
She spoke elegantly, but with a Louisiana drawl. Bron had never imagined that his mother might have an accent.
Bron and Olivia entered the shack and stood uneasily, as their guide came in from behind. These people obviously didn't trust Bron.
Bron just hoped that none of the guns would go off.
In the light of the lantern, a petite woman was revealed. She sat on an old sofa, as if the better to remain completely hidden in shadow. Her thin dress was pulled over a lithe body, her breasts almost non-existent. Her hair was hacked short, as if by a butcher's knife. She looked surprisingly young, maybe only thirty? But no, she had to be older.
If he'd seen her in a supermarket, he would not have recognized her as his mother. She couldn't be. She was too young, slender, impish.
Even now, he wasn't convinced. He even suspected that Monique had sent him to the wrong place.
Could this really be his mother?
All of her attention was focused on him. She was shaking, staring at him in terror, as if afraid that he might be a fraud.
She looked like the victim of a war, or perhaps a refugee hiding from police. Her clothes were worn to rags. Her hand moved, and Bron's eyes adjusted enough so that he suddenly spotted the double-barrel shotgun pointed right at his throat.
I'll get no welcoming hug from her, he realized. They've got me in a crossfire.
She nodded just a bit. "You have the look of your father about you, boy. You remind me of that sick old bastard."
Bron didn't know quite what to say, so he asked the one question that most often came to mind. "Why the hell did you leave me?"
The mousey woman stared at him, and her jaw began to work, as if she were speaking, but no words would come. Tears welled in her eyes, and she shook her head no. "Oh, god, I am so sorry! I wasn't abandoning you. I was trying to save you!"
"From what?" Bron demanded.
"From Lucius," she said as if it were obvious, but the name didn't ring a bell.
She frowned, then said, "Lucius Chenzhenko, your father." She said the name as if it should strike terror into his heart, and to Bron's surprise, Olivia gasped.
"I, I haven't told Bron about Chenzhenko," Olivia apologized. "I never imagined...."
Bron's mother peered at Olivia accusingly, her mouth widening in horror, then looked back to Bron. "Your father is Lucius Chenzhenko. You've never even heard the name?" she asked in disbelief, as if a major part of Bron's education had been neglected.
"You know what the Draghouls are, though," his mother asked, "those who belong to the dark guild?"
Bron nodded.
"Lucius is their leader, their ... king," his mother explained. "He is the Shadow Lord who rules the stock markets and the banks. He is a puppet master who controls the nations. He has held his position for the last five thousand years. Though you might not have heard of Lucius, an older version of his name has passed down through history. Certainly you've heard of Lucifer?"
Chapter 27
A Child's Tale
"The greatest leap in human evolution took place when men realized that they could use their brothers as tools to meet their own ends.
"For most people, to do this remains morally repugnant.
"But as masaaks, we need not refrain from using mankind on moral grounds. We are lions, and they are cattle.
Sommer was Bron's mother's name, Sommer Bastian, and she did not move from her chair as she spoke. Instead she jutted her chin toward a couch, ordering Bron and Olivia to sit, and both of them took seats uneasily.
Olivia looked about the two-room shack, torn between the desire to know more, and an aching thirst.
As she settled into a seat, Olivia studied her surroundings. A wood stove sat quietly in the corner. There was no need for heat tonight, and probably had not been for months.
There was no sign of electricity that Olivia could see—no refrigerator, no microwave, no phone or clock. The only burglar alarm came from the hounds on the porch. The only sound from neighbors erupted from the frogs outside, croaking in hysteria, and the occasional barking call of an alligator or the hoot of a great-horned owl.
Olivia could only guess at the fear that had driven Bron's mother to such a primitive existence. The petite woman bore little resemblance to Bron.
"Could we have a drink?" Olivia asked. Sommer kept them covered with her shotgun, but the old man went to a corner and opened a cabinet. He rummaged around for a moment, pulled out a couple of tin cans. He tossed them across the room. In the dim light of the lantern, it was hard to read the contents. Bron's can contained lemonade, sugar free. Olivia had a beer. Their hosts didn't apologize for the fact that the drinks were warm.