Prologue

dust devil whirled lazily in the heat, spinning in aimless gyrations.

Devils without...devils within? He scuffed the dirt, watching the dust motes drift across the cave mouth—bright bits of sunlight curtaining the darkness...

Idly, he scuffed his way inside. Only a few steps, from there to here, and his mother would never know. The dirt he’d stirred swirled around him, and he blinked to clear his eyes.

He heard it before he saw it. Behind him, there came a whisper in the dirt, and the first of the incessant rattles began. The dried husk rasp was joined by another, and another.

The boy twisted slowly, his limbs unnaturally stiff. The day was so hot...yet he’d never felt so frozen in his life. His heart started pounding in racing thuds within his chest.

He wasn’t the only one who’d come inside to escape the heat. Gooseflesh danced across his skin as the rattling tempo increased.

Snakes, and more snakes. He’d scuffed his way into a nest...

The biggest snake was in the entrance now, blocking his way. Two smaller ones slithered toward him, and one slid over his shoe. He stood there, trying not to move...trying not to do anything. Outside, beyond the snake guardian, another dust devil rose, swirled and died.

One was coiled up near his toes now. When he twitched, its coils tightened, and the head lifted into strike position...

Reason fled. He leapt for a dark gap in the rock, slid in a rain of snakes and dirt and ran for his life. Faster and faster, finding his way by feel alone, panic nipping at his heels with the sharp-fanged tension of a serpent’s bite.

Down, through the dark, away...

He was moving far too fast, and he should have anticipated obstacles. But he was only a child, trying to outrun his monsters. When he tripped over the lamp, he never expected to fall...and keep on falling.

There are things far worse than a serpent’s bite...

Chapter One

eb was only half-listening, and Randy knew it. When Zeb’s eyes strayed back to his computer screen, and he absently shoved another chocolate chip cookie in his mouth, Randy said darkly, "He deals in dirt."

Zeb choked on the cookie, coughed, swallowed, then looked at him through narrowed eyes. Randy Markington’s words had conjured up all kinds of nefarious dealings, from drug-trafficking to pornography.

He returned Randy’s amused look with a dubious frown, and another mouthful of cookie. "I’m not into soil science."

Randy grinned. "Right on the money—and lots of it. You wouldn’t believe how lucrative dirt can be. In many parts of the world, pica is a way of life. People pay big for their exotic blends."

"Sounds illegal."

"It’s not the legalities, so much as the potential for lawsuits. He needs you, Zeb. I’ve told him you freelance."

"Crock." Zeb turned several cookies over, searching for the one with the most chocolate bits.

"If growing all that mould in your homemade incubator isn’t freelancing, what is?" Randy argued. "All he wants is a guarantee, that his ‘mother-lode’ isn’t full of some weird fungus or bacteria. He doesn’t want to kill his clients."

"How novel," Zeb said dryly. "A responsible scumbag." He held out the bag. "Sure you don’t want one?"

Randy took a handful, but it didn’t stop him from scowling. "I think you should trust my judgement. How the hell are we going to fund our little research projects if we don’t take a risk?"

Zeb shook his head. "I said one, not ten. What’s in it for you, anyway?"

"This ‘test’ was your idea, wasn’t it?" Zeb asked suspiciously.

"Damned slander. You know it’s ‘Grimms Fairy Tales’ or nothing." Randy grinned, and popped two cookies in his mouth. "Truth is, I don’t know the first thing about ‘science’. That’s why we need you."

*

Zeb looked at the map once more, then up at the layered rock in the highway cut. When Randy had enthused over the find yesterday, then plopped the map on his coffee table with a dramatic, "It’s up to you, Zeb," he’d felt a glimmer of excitement. By the time Randy had left, Zeb had been almost as enthusiastic about this venture as Randy himself. He’d tried to hide it, but Randy knew him too well. His whispered "I’ll tell him you’re ‘in’," hadn’t even seemed melodramatic, any more than his "Let me know as soon as you get back. I want to see it."

"You’re in for ten percent and you haven’t even seen your ‘product’?"

Randy had frowned. "I’m the idea man—" he began.

Zeb gave a rude snort and went back to studying the map. "What’s this one?" he asked, holding up a second piece of paper.

"Detailed instructions. He figured you might have trouble with ‘X marks the spot’."

"Doesn’t ‘he’ have a name?"

Randy clapped a hand on Zeb’s shoulder. "’course he does," he said kindly. Then, without another word, he sniggered and strolled out the door.

He pulled to a stone-crunching halt as he realised he’d nearly overshot his mark. Once again, he studied the rocks overhead. Two big holes, behind what could have been a vulture’s beak.

Feeling a little foolish, Zeb started pacing off the distance. He re-thought it, decided that he couldn’t afford to make a mistake at this point, and retrieved the tape measure he’d tossed in the trunk.

He repeated his measurements five times, but there was no way around it. Cautiously, he yanked the tumbleweed out of the way, and rolled a mini boulder to one side. He peered into a gaping hole in the damned vulture’s belly.

Zeb rechecked the "detailed instructions" sheet.

But of course he wouldn’t.

He squinted down at the map. "Non-involvement" might not be an option, now that he’d seen the map. He didn’t know who the hell this Mr. X was, but he might not take too kindly to having his mother-lode revealed, without some kind of payback.

Zeb scuffed through the dirt and watched warily for snakes. He hated the things. Years ago, when he was a kid, he’d been trapped in a cave, much like this one. He hadn’t known he was visiting a snake den until he was surrounded. Terrified, he’d headed for the hills—which, in that case, had been synonymous with the bowels of the Earth.

It was a nearly forgotten memory: suppressed by time, delirium, and the horrifying events which had followed. He had only a dim recollection of that seventy-two-hour ordeal, and no memory at all of the rescue. All he knew for certain was that it had changed him—one of those formative events after which he could never be the same.

He’d been terrified of snakes ever since.

This little trek would have been easier with a flashlight. That hadn’t been on his "detailed" instruction sheet, either.

Zeb lifted his shirt over his nose, and sucked in a deep breath of hot, filtered air. He held it as he ducked in under the crusty roof.

*

The visibility was poor. No flashlight, and way too much dust. What hadn’t been stirred up by his car, and helped by the breeze, had been sent flying by an incautious scrape of his shoulder against the dirt-caked entry. His view was now disrupted by gritty, watery eyes, and dim lighting. He frowned in frustration, and heard the nasty crunching of high-flying dirt between his teeth. Supposedly, that’s what this deal was about: selling soil on the black market to all those nearly fanatical soil ingesters around the world.

There were elite coffees, teas, and special waters; connoisseurial repasts with unique ingredients. Why not specialty dirt? Try as he would, though, he couldn’t get the definition of pica out of his head. A craving for dirt and clay—and it was considered a disease. His conscience was twanging now. Am I contributing to someone’s illness, the way tobacco companies contribute to lung cancer? People with pica, who nibbled dirt for pleasure, were frequently addicted to the habit. Was he about to become a supplier?

It was a sound he’d heard many times before.

Zeb’s skin tingled with excitement, and he realised he was smiling.

He could guess how Randy would react, and felt a momentary qualm. Dammit if he wanted to disappoint his best friend, but it wouldn’t do Randy’s rep any good if he were to get involved in something illegal.

He froze. There it was again: that warbling trill that left an echo, like a pleasant aftertaste, in his ears. He closed his eyes, letting his ears do the tracking.

His panicky pant was drawing dirt into his throat and he coughed and wheezed. He pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth again and fought for control.

It was coming. The sweet echo was there again, luring him on. In that moment, the rasp of shivering rattle became a background noise. Zeb took another step.

He shook his head, in an attempt to clear it.

But his feet weren’t listening. He stumbled along, oblivious now to the snake, until he’d left it far behind. He couldn’t see a bloody thing, and the air was thick around him, but when the passage narrowed, he dropped to his knees and crawled on.

He had to be there. Before the last of his marrow melded with the soil. While there was still enough of him remaining within to summon from without.

Zeb was nearly there. The sound in his ears was deafening now, but there was suddenly no sweetness to it. No whistling lure—only a hideous scream of human agony.

Zeb struggled to his feet—and took a hasty step. The next second he tripped and went sprawling.

He shivered, and scrunched his eyes closed—suddenly terrified his eyes would get as much feedback as his ears and nose. Afraid that the visions flickering behind his eyes would somehow gain substance.

It was one of the worst. He hadn’t had an episode like this in years.

He did. Arms outstretched to deflect obstacles, he turned back determinedly the way he’d come.

*

But Luke Hamilton was looking at the footprints in the dirt. He followed them, noting how Devery had walked back on his own trail repeatedly, before a singular set of prints entered the dark hole ahead. He pictured his instruction sheet, and saw how the mistake had been made. He glanced up. No doubt about it—from this angle, the rock made a better bird head than the one half a mile back.

He squatted at the entrance to the cave and peered warily within. "Devery!" he yelled.

Only a whisper of sliding gravel answered him.

Randy came running. "You think he’s in there?" he asked, a resigned note in his voice.

"Know anything about spelunking?" Luke retorted, annoyed. "Get the flashlight and rope out of my trunk," he ordered harshly. When Randy returned, Hamilton reluctantly handed him his phone.

"I’ve got my own—" Randy argued.

Luke sighed, and looked at the long shadows etched in the rock face. "I have an appointment later," he admitted. "If I’m not out by seven, punch in ‘one’. Someone’ll pick it up."

Randy shook his head. "I’m going in after him! You handle your own damn phone!"

Luke gripped the front of his shirt so tightly he was choking. Randy swung at him. The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, and Luke was peering down at him, a glint of amusement in his eyes. He said calmly, "Tell them I’m in a cave, and that there may be a ‘situation’."

Randy frowned, and his eyes narrowed. "And if I don’t?"

Luke shrugged. "They’ll turn up anyway, but it’ll take ’em longer." He grinned. "At least this way, they’ll come prepared."

Randy gave him a five-minute head start. There was no way he was going to let Luke Hamilton find Zeb first. A little reluctantly, he punched "one" on Luke’s phone, spat out "there’s a situation in a cave", and propped the phone at the entrance. Satisfied, he grabbed the other flashlight, and followed the dusty footprints into the cave. If he were lucky, he’d have Zeb out of here long before Hamilton’s friends ever turned up.

*

The trail tapered off on hard rock, and Luke didn’t dare take it any farther. He turned back, disturbed and more than a little confused. What the hell was Devery doing? Was he so ignorant of cave exploration that he’d take off on his own? Even a novice should know the hazards...

No wonder. This wasn’t Devery’s first cave exploration. He’d visited many of the caves in this area, until he’d been lost in one as a kid. It was the only record in Luke’s carefully-acquired dossier with any indication of instability. Devery had been brought out, semi-delirious, on a stretcher. He’d raved on about weird whistles and broken bones. Imagination gone wild in the confines of a narrow crevasse. Understandable, considering the kid had been in there three days.

Now, the man claimed to hate both snakes, and the holes in the ground that harboured them.

How the hell had he coaxed himself into this one? Luke watched the light throw the hard rock into eerie relief. Devery must be more greedy than any of them had thought.

There was a sound behind him, and Luke jumped. He realised he’d let his mind wander. "Devery!" he called out.

It wasn’t Devery. That irritatingly loud gum-chewing couldn’t belong to anybody but Randolph Markington. Nervous habit, purported to be worse since his recent divorce.

The man was ill-equipped to deal with this kind of situation. Hell, he taught "cryptozoology", and wrote books about fairy tales. Too damn trusting for his own good. He’d allowed himself to be suckered into this soil scheme for a quick buck.

A whiff of raspberry bubblegum confirmed the man’s identity, and Luke flicked the light his way—hiding his derision behind the beam.

Snap. Pop. Chew. Crack.

But, he’d come in after Devery.

Luke knew he was sneering, and he deliberately relaxed his facial muscles. Markington was weak—not stupid.

"Randy!" he called out.

"Any sign of him?" Randy asked.

"Not yet." Luke could resist adding, "If you’d keep the noise level down a little, I might have more—"

It was as far as he got. Something in Markington’s expression stopped him. The man had tilted his head and was now sniffing at the air. A glint in his eyes, and a tensing of muscle, and he was gone. Luke was left there alone, his flashlight aimed at a rock wall.

*

"It was the fuckin’ whistling, wasn’t it?" The hollow echo of their conversation hit Luke’s ears. "Must have been bad if you left your brains back at the entrance." The last was said derisively, in a rumble that was almost a growl.

"Bad, but in case you hadn’t noticed, I was on my way back." Devery’s voice became enthusiastic as he added, "It’s a good one, Randy. Really promising."

Zeb chuckled. "We all have our weaknesses." There was a pause. "At least I don’t chew gum to hide mine—"

"No—you just go wandering into ca-" His voice stopped abruptly. "Company."

Even as he thought it, gooseflesh lifted on his arms. The dossiers had always been fairly accurate before, from physical habits to psychological profile. With all that information, Luke should have been able to predict everything from their reactions to their next bowel movements. Instead, he was left uncomfortably aware that he was here, in the near-dark, with two unknowns.

And he was suddenly very glad help would be waiting outside.

Sweat chased the gooseflesh across his skin.

He was still standing there, wondering what to do when Randy Markington’s voice rang out. "Come on out, Hamilton," he bellowed cheerfully.

There was a pause, and then Devery’s voice followed. "Yeah, Hamilton," he said, with a trace of amusement. "We won’t bite."

*

Luke moved quietly along the passage, and climbed through a narrow hole. As he reached through, their hands yanked him up and out. It surprised him to feel how hot they both were. His own fingers and toes felt like ice.

He was still finding his balance when Devery grinned. "Zeb Devery," he said.

"Luke Hamilton," he said abruptly. He cursed himself for his clumsiness. Devery hadn’t missed the harsh note. The man was looking at him strangely.

He had a sudden feeling the time for subterfuge was past. If he wanted their cooperation, he’d have to buy it—with honesty. Devery would never believe the story he’d given Markington.

He heard a snigger from that direction. Apparently, Markington didn’t believe it, either. Luke had been considering him a fool, but now he realised Markington had actually been playing him for one. "You seem to have taken to spelunking rather well," he told him acerbically.

"Not my first cave," Randy admitted.

Zeb Devery looked from one to the other. "Did you come in after me?" He sounded surprised.

Zeb shrugged. "Oops."

"Yeah," Randy said caustically. "For all we knew, you could have lost your way, or been lured underground by some weird sounds." He smirked. "Strange places, caves."

Zeb’s eyes glinted. "Trick the eyes—and ears. A man might even think he overheard something he didn’t." He looked at Luke. "Echoes, you know."

The warning was clear, and a trickle of fear went down Luke’s spine. "Let’s move," he said brusquely. "We can talk outside." He took a few steps in what he thought was the right direction. When he turned around, Markington and Devery were still standing there, looking amused. "Well?" he asked.

"Wrong way," Markington told him.

Luke frowned and waited.

Devery listened, then told Luke, "Better hurry, before your ‘help’ stomps down here to help us out."

Luke looked startled, but Zeb’s grin was a flash of white in the dim light. "Randy told me you’d called out the troops."

The man hadn’t been startled by Markington’s appearance—merely at the reasons for it.

Luke trailed along behind them, back through the narrow passages, listening to... nothing. He couldn’t hear a thing—no distant footfalls, no shuffling, no voices to warn of rescue. The weight of rock around him seemed increasingly threatening—heavy and sombre. So were his thoughts. He realised that somehow, and for some reason, he’d been out-manoeuvred.

*

They emerged into a cloud of dirt. The whup-whup of the helicopter’s engine died away, but the dust stayed a while. Somehow, during those last few feet, their roles had become reversed. Luke was now leading the way.

Hamilton was being beckoned to one side now and Zeb saw him nodding reassurances to the helicopter pilot. Apparently, someone was on the radio who wanted confirmation from the man himself.

Hamilton had a hint of anger in his expression now. He knew, just as Zeb did, that if he were to mention the conversation he’d overheard, he’d look like a fool.

Zeb glanced at Randy to see how he was taking all the notoriety. He was smiling a little grimly—still chewing gum that by now must be both flavourless and gritty. And when his eyes flickered in Zeb’s direction for the third time, Zeb forced a smile.

Zeb nodded.

"Nasty places, caves," he replied.

"I want to go back."

Randy didn’t look surprised. "When?"

"If you’re not too busy making millions," Zeb said, that glint in his eyes, "how about tonight?"

Randy sighed. "Ever eager, aren’t we?" he hissed.

"Tourists will have left by then," Zeb muttered.

Randy gave a small nod. "I’ll bring the light."

At that, Zeb gave a rude snort. "I’ll bet you will." he replied.

*

Luke had seen the look in Devery’s eyes. It was the same one he’d seen a dozen times before, as people made the connection between his surname and the logo on the helicopter. His predecessors were neither excessively modest nor particularly subtle. His grandfather might be pushing ninety, but he still insisted on displaying his "crest" on everything he owned.

It was one of the reasons Luke had left it all behind. For ten years, he’d worked with the sordid and corrupt while his family had labelled him temporarily depraved. It was only six months ago, when he’d taken two bullets in the gut, that he’d been forcibly brought back into the fold. For weeks he’d been too ill to argue, and the department had been happy to limit their fiscal responsibility for his recovery, while his family put him in the hands of specialists.

Now that Luke was back at work, John Colton was using his corporate ties to provide a cover. It made sense to utilise the connection to his—and the ISEA’s—advant age. Luke, for his part, was forced to comply, but he’d added a codicil: neither his ties to, nor his activities on behalf of, the ISEA could be allowed to unfavourably influence the firm’s standing—nor could any intimate knowledge of Hamilton Industries be used to drag the corporation down.

Now that he was fully recovered, Luke found he was chafing at the constraints. Maintaining a pose at Hamilton might make sense, but it damn well limited his usefulness. One identity could only go so far, and the more notoriety, the less he’d be able to function undercover.

During his recuperation, in those weak moments when he’d thought he’d never regain his strength and endurance, he’d sometimes wondered whether his father and Colton had struck a deal. James Hamilton was no fool, and he knew Luke was playing both sides of the fence. There might be merit in his son’s accomplishments, but he couldn’t see why the hazardous tasks of following through on an investigation couldn’t be performed by someone else. Someone with less to lose.

But, Luke was his own man, and had seen too much of both coercion and extortion to be susceptible to his father’s manipulations. The best way of accomplishing James’ goals was to get his son involved. From James’ point of view, as long as Luke kept his hand in, the day would come when tracking down felons would become secondary. A mental exercise only, which could eventually be turned over to Colton and others like him, while the real "players" manipulated currency and commodities.

Luke nodded to his escort, then—at a thumbs up from Markington—climbed into the helicopter. He was irritated because he’d informed Colton about the cave situation, yet Hamilton Industries had responded. Oh, there were a few ISEA people around, but, by and large, this was his father’s show. If he’d needed any further evidence of duplicity, it had just been shoved in his face.

And it was the first time in years he could recall feeling any embarrassment over the trappings of wealth that surrounded him, and the apparently store-bought concern of his "employees". It was as though he’d punched "911", and the Queen’s Royal Guard had responded. He felt like a fool.

And it wasn’t necessary for them to approve of his fiscal arrangements or business concerns. His eyes narrowed, and he focused on the investigation. The proposition to Markington and Devery had been much simpler than that: they were either in, or out.

What bothered him now was how little he really knew about them. It was the first time he could ever recall being so misled by someone’s dossier. The facts might be there, but the interpretation was entirely wrong.

An unreasonable solution would be to have both of them tailed. Surveillance was expensive, and he’d have to justify it to Colton. Unless he funded it directly from his own pockets. Colton would never agree to funding for something so impractical—and there was hardly a rationale for such a precipitate move.

Except his suspicions, unfounded as they were, that Markington and Devery were hiding something. Something very important, that might, in the end, prove nearly as valuable as underground sources for unusual crystals.

Luke’s eyes glinted. Maybe Colton’s arrangements had nothing to do with a golden handshake between the ISEA’s strained finances, and Hamilton Industries’ overflowing ones. Maybe it was much more simple than that. John Colton had always encouraged his agents to act justly, reasonably, and intelligently within the budget.

It could be this is what he’d intended all along. Luke Hamilton’s budget constraints had just been lifted.

*

The moon perched, half-full, just above the mountains. The jagged silhouettes were etched in a faint orange glow from the city beyond. Now that the dust had cleared, he could see the sharp crystalline glints of stars, and the milky streaks of galactic turbulence. Hot day, but chilly night. It ate through his thin jacket.

For now, it was enough to soak up some residual engine heat, lean back against the windscreen, and watch for low-flying bats, night birds, and pollinating moths.

And headlights. He’d never been one for patience—not since he’d been trapped in a hole with bones and blood. No, patience had never been his strong point. Waiting merely made anticipation worse.

Damn, it was tempting! He picked at a bug splat on his windshield. Randy would find him—no doubt about it. He glanced at his watch, gave the hood an impatient thud, then slid to the ground. He had work in the morning, and there was no telling how long this would take. He picked up his flashlight, a rope, and a bag of Snickers, then headed back into the cave.