Covenant Read online

  Table of Contents

  Part One The Ghosts of the Past

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Part Two The Hunted

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  Part Three The Kingdom

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  81

  82

  83

  84

  85

  86

  87

  88

  89

  90

  COVENANT

  Also by Brandon Massey

  Novels

  Thunderland

  Dark Corner

  Within the Shadows

  The Other Brother

  Vicious

  Don't Ever Tell

  Cornered

  Collections

  Twisted Tales

  Anthologies

  Dark Dreams

  Voices from the Other Side: Dark Dreams II

  Whispers in the Night: Dark Dreams III

  The Ancestors (with Tananarive Due and L.A. Banks)

  COVENANT

  BRANDON MASSEY

  Dark Corner Publishing

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Copyright © 2010 by Brandon Massey

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  ISBN: 978-0-9708075-5-7

  For more information:

  Email: [email protected]

  Web site: www.darkcornerpublishing.com

  “A life is not worth living until you have something to die for.”

  -- Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

  The crack of a hunter’s rifle echoed across the lake, distant and brief.

  Untroubled by the sound, a familiar noise in these parts, Anthony Thorne tilted his face to the clear Georgia sky and let the morning sunrays caress his skin. Beneath him, their aluminum bass boat bobbed on the tranquil silver waters of Lake Allatoona. It was June, a week after school had let out for summer vacation, and there was no better place to be in the whole world than out fishing with his father.

  Seated across from him, his father sipped coffee from a steel thermos. He was a slender man with a mocha complexion, salt-and-pepper mustache, and wire rim glasses, dressed that morning in a Georgia Tech baseball cap, checkered shirt, and khakis. A silver Seiko sports watch encircled his wrist, band glinting in the sunshine.

  His father’s gaze rested on the tip of his rod suspended above the water, but his eyes were unfocused, as if he were deep in thought.

  It puzzled Anthony. During the drive there, his father had been quiet, too. Dad had never been especially talkative, but this brooding silence, broken only by the occasional terse comment or grunt, was weird even for him.

  High above, a falcon silhouetted against the sky circled the lake. A flock of ducks cruised the waters, oblivious to the watching predator.

  Anthony adjusted his fishing rod, the handle of which rested inside a slot alongside the boat. A tackle box sat in a side compartment, full of lures and fresh bait. He and his dad had been fishing together regularly since Anthony was ten, and the feel of the boat, and the sights, sounds, and smells of the lake, had become as familiar to him as his own neighborhood.

  The only thing that wasn’t normal was his Dad’s mood.

  “Nice out here today,” Anthony said, to break the silence.

  Dad glanced at him, gaze muddy. “What was that, Junior?”

  “I said, it’s nice out here today. A good day for fishing.”

  Dad grunted. “We haven’t caught anything yet.”

  “I’m gonna catch me a big bass. How much you wanna bet?”

  Dad didn’t respond. He had retreated into that strange silence again.

  Anthony wondered if Dad was upset with him over something, though that didn’t really seem likely. His report card had been excellent—he’d wrapped up his sophomore year with a 3.4 GPA, and had lettered in three sports. Unlike some of his friends, he hadn’t gotten into any kind of trouble, and he’d been doing all of his household chores, without being nagged by either of his folks.

  Anyway, on those rare times when Dad had an issue with something he’d done, he came right out and presented the problem up front with Anthony, expressed his thoughts in clear terms, and then moved on. He didn’t hold it in like he was holding in this thing, whatever it was.

  Maybe he’d gotten into a big argument with Mom. But on second thought, that seemed just as unlikely. His parents got along pretty well—Anthony couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard them raise their voices at each another, and when they went out in public together, as a family, his parents always held hands, like a couple of infatuated teenagers.

  Something with his younger sister? Again, not likely. His sister spent all her time on the phone with her giggly girlfriends, and besides, she was a true Daddy’s girl, practically broke into tears if Dad so much as gave her a stern look.

  The last possibility he could figure was Dad’s job. He was a sports writer for a big Atlanta newspaper, loved his work for all Anthony knew, and why not? Thanks to Dad, he’d met several of his favorite pro basketball and football players and had a roomful of autographed jerseys, trading cards, and balls. He loved writing and had actually decided that he wanted to be a sports journalist, too, and often fantasized about working side-by-side with his father in the newsroom, or maybe writing a column together.

  Job problems didn’t make much sense, so Anthony had decided to go ahead and ask Dad what was on his mind, get it right out in the open the way Dad liked to do with him—when suddenly the falcon circling overhead banked, dipped, and swooped to the lake’s surface. The ducks took flight with a frenzy of squawking and batting wings, but the falcon easily overtook one of them, seizing the unlucky bird in its powerful talons and spiriting it away into the treetops.

  Anthony glanced at his father. Dad had followed the falcon’s hunt, too.

  “Better than watching Wild Kingdom, huh, Junior?” Dad
smiled for the first time all morning.

  Anthony felt a loosening in his chest, like a stone rolling away from his heart. “Yeah. I wouldn’t want to be that duck.”

  “I wouldn’t mind being that falcon. Duck tastes pretty good if you cook it right.”

  “You’ve eaten duck?”

  Dad nodded. “Duck, rabbit, squirrel, squid, snake.”

  “Snake? Dad, that’s gross.”

  “I had it in China when I was there covering a story on their national basketball team. A buddy of mine dared me to try it, so you know I had to take him up on it.”

  “What’d it taste like?”

  “Like chicken. A little beefier, though.”

  “Nasty.” Anthony laughed. “You have more guts than I do. I wouldn’t have touched that stuff.”

  “If someone had dared you, you would have. You’re like me. You’ve got that I’ll Show You gene.”

  “What’s the I’ll Show You gene?” Anthony asked.

  “If someone says you won’t or can’t do something, then you have to prove them wrong. Remember when Coach Tripp said you weren’t good enough to start?”

  Anthony remembered. Basketball squad, freshman year. Coach Tripp had put Anthony on second string, and when Anthony had asked why, the coach had flatly stated he wasn’t good enough to start. Determined to prove him wrong, Anthony had put in long, grueling extra hours of practice, and by the third game of the season, the coach had promoted him to a starting spot at forward.

  Anthony shrugged. “I guess I like challenges.”

  “Your entire life, Junior, people are going to challenge you.” A shadow passed over his father’s eyes, and for the moment, that sense of his dad being submerged in troubling thoughts was back, though he continued to talk: “They’ll draw a line in front of you and warn you not to cross it. They’ll threaten you with dire consequences if you do. Most of the time, they’re hollow threats. Other times, though, they’re serious about keeping their promise to make things tough for you if you cross the line.”

  “So do you cross it anyway?”

  Dad stared at him. His gaze was so intense, so furious, that Anthony felt something inside him shrink, and he abruptly decided that he didn’t want to know what could make his father that angry.

  “If the line is worth crossing—yes,” Dad said, iron in his voice. “You’ve gotta have the good sense to know the difference between doing it for pride, and doing it because it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Always do the right thing,” Anthony said automatically. It was one of his dad’s favorite sayings.

  “Good to know you’ve been listening during these father-son chats of ours.” Dad smiled, eyes brightening once more. He nodded toward Anthony’s rod. “Hey, check it out. I think you got something there.”

  A fish tugged at the line. The lake was full of cod, perch, and bass, some of them quite large, and this one was pulling so forcefully that it might be a big one.

  Grabbing hold of the spinning reel, Anthony stood. He lifted the tip of the rod, turned the handle of his reel.

  The fish jerked at the bait, yanking him forward. Anthony nearly lost his balance, but his father placed a steadying hand on his arm.

  “Easy now, son. Draw it in, nice and slow.”

  “I think it’s a huge one.”

  “You can handle it.” His father prepared the landing net, as if Anthony catching the fish was a foregone conclusion.

  Heart knocking, Anthony wound the reel. The fish fought him with each turn, but Anthony dug his feet in, and kept spinning.

  “There you go, Junior. You’ve got it, keep it coming.”

  With a triumphant yell, Anthony tore the fish out of the water. The fish flailed on the line, a gorgeous largemouth bass, gleaming like quicksilver in the sunshine.

  “Whoa!” Anthony shouted. “Look at him!”

  “Hell, looks like it might be a ten-pounder.” Dad rubbed his hands together. “Bring him home.”

  Anthony swung the rod around and lowered his catch into the awaiting net. Dad looked up from the flopping fish, grinned.

  “Guess what we’ll be eating tonight?”

  “Not snake,” Anthony said.

  Laughing, Dad slapped him five. He bent to the net to attend to the fish.

  The crack of a rifle shattered the morning, much louder than the distant gunfire he’d heard a few minutes ago.

  Although he and his father didn’t hunt, Anthony had heard rifles discharge many times during their fishing trips, had seen the hunters in their blaze orange vests and hats entering the woods to stalk deer and quail. Hunters were supposed to keep to the northern side of the lake, but this shot sounded as if it had come from nearby, behind them.

  Turning, Anthony looked to the shore.

  A couple of hundred yards away, a figure raced away from the banks and into the forest. The person didn’t wear the orange vest of a licensed hunter. He wore dark clothing and moved like a fleeting shadow through the pine trees.

  Knowing instinctively there was something wrong about what he was seeing, Anthony felt his insides seize up with cold dread.

  Dad gasped. “Junior . . .”

  Anthony spun. Dad had dropped into his seat. Bright blood soaked the front of his shirt.

  Anthony couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

  His father’s eyes rolled. He clutched at his chest, where there was so much blood, oh God, more blood than Anthony had ever seen in his life.

  Although his father’s glasses hung askew on his face, his gaze fastened firmly on Anthony, lips quivering.

  “I love you . . . and . . . your sister, your mom . . . . tell them . . . I’m sorry . . . .”

  He spilled forward and hit the floor of the boat, body as lifeless as the fish in the net.

  Soon after, a boy’s scream echoed across the lake.

  Part One

  The Ghosts of the Past

  1

  Fifteen years later

  Anthony was running late. He was supposed to meet his wife for lunch at noon, and as usual, Atlanta traffic was uncooperative. It was five minutes to twelve, and though he was only a mile away from the restaurant in Midtown, traffic looked as if it would turn the rest of his drive into a frustrating, half-hour ordeal.

  He brought his Chevy Tahoe to a stop at a red light. The day was far from over, but it had already proven to be as awful as he’d expected.

  The anniversary of his dad’s death always was.

  The searing June sunshine bounced off the windshields of oncoming cars, boring like laser rays into his brain and intensifying the dull headache that had dogged him all day. He slid on a pair of sunglasses, but the headache remained.

  Located between downtown on the south and Buckhead on the north, Midtown was a bustling district of high-rise condos, trendy restaurants and boutiques, corporate headquarters, art venues, and lately, it seemed, endless construction projects. Ahead, Peachtree Street narrowed to one miserable northbound lane, while construction crews on break gabbed on cell phones and gawked at women strolling past in short skirts.

  He was looking forward to lunch with Lisa, but he wondered if he should have stayed in and saved himself some aggravation. Although moping around at home, chest tight with emotion he couldn’t eradicate, probably wouldn’t have been much better. Lisa, well aware of how he tended to brood around this time of year, had lured him out of the house to try to cheer him up—but what she failed to accept was that nothing would truly cheer him up on that day.

  The light switched to green. He inched through the intersection, saw a side street ahead, and swung a sharp left at the corner. The road was empty of traffic and intersected West Peachtree, which paralleled Peachtree Street for a good distance, far enough to carry him to his destination.

  Problem solved.

  Five minutes past noon, he pulled into an asphalt parking lot across the street from the restaurant. He hurried inside, smoothing down his rumpled button-down shirt and cargo shorts, absent
ly twisting the band of his father’s silver Seiko.

  Gordon Biersch was a brewpub that created micro-brews on the premises. It had a sort of Industrial décor: high ceilings, hardwood floors, leather booths, and a large, polished wood bar. The beer was brewed in giant steel tanks partly visible through windows near the back of the building.

  The place was packed with the business lunch crowd: fresh-faced college grads in Polo shirts and khakis or bright blouses and skirts, Blackberries clipped to their waists and company-issued ID badges dangling around their necks from lanyards. The youngish wait staff, attired in black, moved about with calm efficiency, balancing pints of beer on trays.

  Anthony spotted Lisa waving at him from a booth on the far side of the dining room. She rose to meet him and clutched him in a tight embrace.

  “Sorry I’m a little late.” He kissed her on the cheek. “The usual traffic issues.”

  “Gotta love the ATL, baby.”

  Lisa wore a tan, double-breasted pantsuit, and black pumps. Elegant diamond studs twinkled in her ears, and a small gold cross dangled around her neck. Her dark brown hair was styled in a cute bob that framed her fine-boned sienna face and accentuated her cinnamon eyes.

  Whenever Anthony looked at his wife, his heart rate kicked up a notch. Of course, she was fine—with her tight dancer’s body, baby-smooth complexion, soft full lips, and big eyes a man could lose himself in, she demanded attention wherever she went. When their paths had crossed four years ago at a Memorial Day cookout hosted by a mutual friend, he had to admit that his initial, intoxicating attraction to her had been purely physical. Within five minutes of talking to her, however, he realized she was much, much more than just a pretty face and knockout figure.

  He’d been doing his own thing, recently discharged from the Marine Corps, high on a lucrative book deal and planning to enjoy his status as an eligible bachelor, but meeting Lisa changed everything. A year and a half after they met, they married. Three years into matrimony, he could honestly say, much to the chagrin of his single buddies, that every moment he spent with her was the best part of his day.