David Meyer
Behemoth
Acknowledgements
Creating a new story is, for me at least, an incredibly solitary journey. But that doesn’t mean I’m alone along the way. With that said, I’d like to thank all of you fans, booksellers, and librarians for reading my books and recommending them to your friends, family members, and customers. Without your support, this journey would’ve ended a long time ago.
Also, many thanks to Julie, my muse, for your love, inspiration, and editing work on BEHEMOTH. And finally, thanks to Ryden for being a part of my life.
The curtains are about to open. So, take your seat. Get nice and comfortable.
Welcome to the world of Apex Predator.
Welcome to BEHEMOTH.
Chapter 1
This can’t be heaven, Bailey Mills thought as bright rays of waning moonlight filtered through her half-opened eyelids, so it must be hell.
For a moment, she lay still in the swamp, inhaling the odors of clay, rotten oranges, and bird droppings. Tall blades of green grass, partially trampled, surrounded her. Farther back, she saw a layer of orange-barked trees, forty to sixty feet high and dripping with yellow-green fruit. More trees, towering and ancient, lay beyond the fruit trees. The view reminded her a little of that Thomas Cole landscape adorning the bedroom wall of her ex-boyfriend’s Hamptons getaway.
And she hated that painting.
With a soft groan, she lifted her face off of the soggy soil. Clenched her teeth as a searing ache struck the back of her skull. Closing her eyes, she took a few deep breaths and tried to think. Where was she? How had she gotten there?
Gradually, the pain dulled. With some effort, she pried her eyes back open and stared out at the small marshy clearing, the four-foot tall reeds, and the multi-layered forest. Twisting her neck, she looked for a sign, any sign, of civilization. But all she saw was more foliage, more nature.
Her brain clicked into high gear as she tried to remember the sequence of events that had led her to this place. She recalled waking up late on the morning of June 18, 2016. Then a late lunch and three or four cocktails with her besties at Bullish Bistro, Manhattan’s newest hotspot. Afterward, her driver, Gregory What’s-His-Name, had driven her back to her five-story brownstone. She would’ve preferred a night on the town, drinking and dancing herself into oblivion at the invitation-only Carlyle Lounge. But instead, she’d sacrificed her evening to attend the Galeton Charity Ball, a boring annual extravaganza to raise money for conservation projects throughout Africa.
She glanced down at her clothes, confirming they were the same ones she’d worn to the ball. A slinky black dress, stained with grime, covered her carefully sculpted body. Matching high heels, a stylish silver necklace, and a couple of chunky bracelets on her right wrist completed the look. It was an eye-popping outfit, well suited for a charity affair.
But completely useless in her present situation.
Her brain continued to churn, searching for additional memories. But it came up blank. She didn’t remember the party or if she’d even gone to it.
A wave of dizziness swept over her. Queasiness erupted in her stomach, the sort of queasiness one feels after imbibing way too many mojitos and mai tais. The first few pangs of regret rocked her grumbling belly. She must’ve done it again. That was the only explanation. She could already imagine the headlines crisscrossing the New Yorker Chronicles as well as the countless other celebrity sites that loved to hate her. Stuff like Billionaire Bailey Humiliates Herself at Charity Ball! and The Boozing Bad Girl Strikes Again!
She understood the public’s fascination with her. At least to an extent. She possessed fabulous wealth despite never working a day in her life. Plus, she was blessed with supermodel looks. Her eyes were blue like the ocean. Her tanned skin was flawless. Her long blonde hair, perfectly styled at all times, lacked split ends or frizz. And of course, her rail-thin body, ample chest, and long legs were the stuff of fantasies.
Indeed, she was America’s favorite — and sometimes its least-favorite — spoiled little princess. The gorgeous party girl with oodles of inherited money. Desired by men. Despised by their girlfriends.
She enjoyed the attention. But it embarrassed her a bit. It wasn’t like she was curing old age, inventing the next great gadget, or creating art that touched the soul. She was, if all the layers were stripped away, little more than a professional partier.
Gingerly, she touched the top of her head. A slow grimace crossed her face as she felt the grime packed into the layers of carefully pinned locks of hair. It would take her personal hairstylist hours to clean it. Hours!
Her feet screamed in protest. Reaching down, she slipped the heels off her manicured peds. Slowly, she massaged the soles of her feet. Then she rose to a standing position.
Her stomach grumbled, but the only thing resembling food — the yellow-green fruit, much of which lay rotting in the marsh — creeped her out. They might’ve smelled like oranges, but they looked like bumpy tennis balls. Plus, they appeared to emit some kind of milky white sap.
Gross. Just… gross.
A cool breeze chilled her mud-drenched torso. Tiny flies buzzed around her, nipping at her perfect skin, ignoring her repeated attempts to drive them away.
The more she thought about her situation, the more confused and frightened she felt. The Galeton Charity Ball was always held at the historic Quimros Hotel on the Upper West Side, not far from Central Park. But this wasn’t Central Park. Not even close. It was an honest-to-goodness forest with nary a skyscraper to be seen.
Panic engulfed her, stretching through her veins and streaking deep into her heart. Clutching her shivering shoulders, she turned in a circle. There was no way she’d wandered into a forest by herself. Someone had taken her here. But who? And why?
“Ohhhh, my head… hot damn…”
Heart pounding, Mills whirled toward the unfamiliar voice. A grizzled older man stood about ten feet away, wobbling on unsteady legs. He sported thick glasses, a fat face, and a gray beard.
He wasn’t cute or stylish and he didn’t project much in the way of wealth or power. No, he was the sort of hapless loser Mills would’ve ignored as she and her besties swished their way down Madison Avenue. But here, in this strange, ancient forest, she was grateful for his company. “Hey,” she called out. “Over here.”
The man gave her a suspicious glance. “Who the hell are you?”
She blinked. “You don’t recognize me?”
“Should I?”
“I’m Bailey Mills.”
He stared at her.
“You know, the Bailey Mills.”
“Well, I’m the Brian Toland.” He cleaned his glasses on his shirt. Looked around. “Where the hell are we?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Last I recall I was in my office. Hunched over my keyboard, pecking away in the dark.”
Mills frowned, trying to make sense of it all. “You’re a writer?”
“Damn straight.”
“I hate writers.”
A smirk crossed his wrinkled face. “A hatred for the humble scribe, my dear, is clear evidence of a pathetically primitive mind.”
“I… what?”
“Uhhh…” A new voice, feminine and hard-edged, drifted out of the clearing.
Toland’s head swiveled to his right. “Who’s there?”
After several seconds with no response, he trekked toward the voice, his shoes squelching repeatedly in the marshy soil.