Mark Stone - The Judas Line

Two days earlier, I had received the summons from Julian, a summons I couldn’t refuse and one that surprised me. As the last male in the direct Line, it was understood that I would not have to undergo the rigorous final test. I guess my inclusion was a testimony to the Voice’s displeasure. What really piqued my interest was Burke’s involvement. He had never evinced any interest in wet work, preferring to run his highly successful R amp;D department of Wellington Arms Manufacturing-one of the Family’s largest companies, in fact-which was producing his design of the new repeating ballistic knife prototype that had been touted as the next big thing in urban warfare.

The mission was simple: all of us would attempt a high altitude drop at night and must survive the next four days in the forest on our own. If we encountered another, we attempted a ‘kill’ with a paintball gun. Those who struggled back to the estate alive were SS. Words were not allowed and the Professor supplied potions we were forced to drink to block our access to all magic, so for the next few days, we were effectively “normal.”

Fergus, a wild-haired blond from a distant Scottish branch, grinned sourly at us just before leaping out of the helicopter. Next came Burke, then Annabeth, Simone, myself, and Anton.

I gave my French cousin a cheeky grin, which he returned with enthusiasm. A short twenty-year-old, he had an infectious good humor that made him my second favorite cousin after Annabeth.

On a summer’s day twelve thousand feet slaps your face with a chill you won’t soon forget, but in winter-with the winds approaching 50 mph, in the dead of night where the demons of imagination roam-it is like having your skin removed, layer-by-layer, by a sadist with a cold iron knife. The wind’s passage clawed at my ears and I was extremely grateful for the thin plastic goggles that shielded my eyes, certain that they would otherwise have frozen solid on the way down.

At three thousand feet the altimeter automatically deployed my parachute and the world became silent except for the gusting of the blizzard. After the terror of the fall, even the storm was a relief.

No night vision, no magic, no relief from the fear of not being able to see where I was going as the parachute was buffeted remorselessly by frigid winds. Not for the first time I cursed Julian for his sadistic streak.

Branches and twigs slapped and scratched me, tearing with woody fingers. A ragged piece as big around as my thumb punched into my left bicep, not ripping though my protective clothing, but hitting with enough force to sear the muscle with a pain that momentarily paralyzed the arm.

I flexed my knees just in time to absorb the bone jarring impact that even a foot of snow didn’t lessen. My right hand slapped the chute release as the shock of my landing traveled straight up to my balls and set up shop for a few painful moments.

Teeth gritted, I unclipped a glowstick, bent it to break the glass capsule inside and shook it hard, letting the phosphorescent chemicals mix. A cool green glow lit the immediate surroundings. Stark sentinels-beech trees bare in the harsh winter climate-surrounded me along with tall hemlock and creek maples. Not what I needed. If I were unable to find shelter, all that would be left would be my corpsicle.

Not wanting to abandon any resource or leave telltale signs of my arrival, I searched for and found my ’chute, tugging it out of a grasping hemlock. With the white fabric tucked under one arm, I went in search of shelter, flexing my left arm to work out the pain of the growing bruise.

By the green light of the glowstick I finally found what I was looking for-a white spruce, its bottommost branches so heavily laden with snow that they touched the ground. Perfect. Imitating a snake, I slithered underneath the branches to find myself in a sheltered cone next to the trunk, a spot safe from the clawing wind. Withdrawing a small packet from the pocket of one arm, I worried the plastic apart and unfolded a thin Mylar blanket. That along with the ’chute would keep me alive until morning. Rolled up like a burrito, I took calm, even breaths to ease the burning in my lungs, the plumes of frost from my mouth hanging like the spirits of the dead in the eerie light of the glowstick.

Despite the howling wind and freezing cold, it was surprisingly easy to fall asleep.

Footprints, poorly hidden and leading west. The diffuse morning sunlight oozed through the wooden bones around me, faintly illuminating the drag marks that failed to fully conceal the passage of what I assumed was one of my cousins. Slowly, carefully, I followed those drag marks, alert for the possibility of ambush.

According to my watch I had been following those marks for forty minutes and it was only a handful more before I rounded a maple and saw my target, heavy white winter coat and leggings blending almost seamlessly with the pristine surroundings, the same kind of camouflaging winter gear I wore. The figure crept along, evergreen branches dragging behind.

I smiled, lifted my paintball gun and fired. Alcohol and blue dye spheres tore through the air to splat onto the figure’s back, knocking the person down.

“Kill to me,” I called softly.

Grunting, the person rose, sky blue blotches marring the formerly white coat. “Yeah, you got me,” came a voice I knew so well.

“Annabeth!”

She turned, arching her back in discomfort and raised an eyebrow. “That’s the problem with you, Olivier, you lack the killer instinct.”

“What?”

Her smile was mirthless. “You followed my tracks. I meant for you to find me.”

The smile that had so beguiled me was wrong. That situation was wrong. My danger sense kicked in too late to avoid three sharp impacts along my spine … the last thudding home with a hollow sound that tore my body away from conscious control.

Cold on my face, needles of frost that melted and reformed with every hitching breath. Coppery blood filled my mouth, my nostrils. A lung was punctured, quickly filling with blood, but I could not feel the wound. A numb feeling of horror gripped me as I realized that my spine had been severed near my neck and I was insensate to the cold stealing through my body.

I was dying.

No Words, no potions, no elementals. Cut off from all help, I could only lie there and feel my life slowly drip away.

Abruptly my perspective changed and the cold left my face as light flooded my eyes. Someone was kind enough to turn me over. That someone was Burke, also clothed in heavy white winter gear.

“Hello, Olivier,” he smiled nastily, holding up one of his prized repeating ballistic knives.

I grunted painfully in reply.

“You really are a simple creature,” he continued. “So easily duped.” Annabeth came within view to stand next to him. Her grin was anything but nice.

“Bitch,” I bubbled, spraying blood from my lips in a red mist.

“Opportunist,” she corrected haughtily. “I always go with a winner and we know who the real winner is, don’t we, Olivier?”

Burke’s teeth shone as white as the snow around him. With one gloved hand he casually reached through the opening of her white coat and cupped her left breast. Fury ripped through the blood in my throat as I vented a sharp whistle of a scream, soon followed by Burke’s laughter.

Annabeth’s sweet voice floated toward me. “So what do we do with him?”

“Nothing,” came the contemptuous reply. “Let the forest swallow him up.”

Gray skies and snow flurries. A cold wind brushed my face with icy fingers and blood steamed on my lips as I desperately struggled for air. I couldn’t feel it, but I knew my body was starting to get colder and colder as I slowly froze to death. That is, if I did not bleed out first.