Eric Flint's Blog, page 235

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 04

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 04

It was bad enough being trapped in the parking lot; I didn’t want to be trapped in the car as well. I opened the door and climbed out, my movements stiff, my chest still aching. For the moment, I left my Glock where it was. No sense giving my new friends something else to attack with their spells.

They got out as well. The driver was a man: tall, athletic, good-looking. At least I assumed he was; I couldn’t get a clear view of his face, because the smear of magic on his features was too strong. The suit he wore might well have been as expensive as the Beamer. His passenger was a woman who was about as tall as he, and dressed in business clothes: black skirt, white blouse, a beige linen jacket, and black high heels. Her dark hair was cut short and I could tell through the blur of power on her face that her eyes were pale blue. It was like the two of them had stepped off the pages of Vogue and GQ for the sole purpose of messing with me.

“I’m not sure you’re allowed to park there,” I said, nodding toward the Beamer.

“We won’t be here long,” the woman said, drawing my gaze. “We have a quick message for you from a mutual friend.”

“Saorla is no friend.”

Her smile was as thin as mist. “Who’s Saorla?”

“What’s your message?”

The woman darted a glance toward her companion, my only warning.

Their attacks charged the air, like the gathering power of a lightning strike. I did the one thing I could think of. The sheath of magic that materialized around me shimmered and undulated as if made of heat waves and aqua blue glass. Their spells rebounded off the warding. One of them knocked the man off his feet, so hard he landed on the pavement, the air forced from his lungs with a satisfying oof! The other casting slammed into the BMW, scorching away part of that lovely paint job in a frenzy of white flame.

“My turn,” I said.

I’d learned the hard way that dark conjurers were good at wardings. They almost always had protective magic in place that blocked even the most powerful of my attack spells. Which is why I had long since given up on direct magical assaults. They were figuring this out, of course. Each new team of weremancers sent after me was better prepared than the last for the quirky spells I threw at them, but I was adjusting as well. And I was nowhere near running out of ideas.

With GQ Guy knocked on his keister, he and Vogue Woman were too far from each other to share wardings, and that was fine with me. Under normal circumstances, I would never dream of committing any act of violence toward a woman. But for these dark sorcerers, I was more than happy to make an exception. I threw a spell at her first. Three elements: my hand, the heel of her shoe — the left one — and a good hard twist. I heard the heel snap off her shoe. Her ankle rolled and she lost her balance. As she went down I kicked out, catching her flush on the chin so that her head snapped back. She was out cold before she hit the ground.

I spun toward GQ, who had gotten to his feet.

Once again, my casting took advantage of the sartorial splendor of my opponent. His tie, my hand, and an abrupt yank. He stumbled forward, and couldn’t defend himself from the fist I dug into his gut. I hit him again, an uppercut that connected solidly with his jaw and should have put him down on the pavement. It didn’t. He staggered, fell back several steps, but then he righted himself. Blood trickled from his lip, and even as I saw it, I cast.

His blood, his face, and a magical fist to the jaw. This punch put him down, but not out. He tried to get up, but I closed the distance between us in two strides and kicked him in the side. He folded in on himself, deflating like a balloon. I hit him once more, a chopping blow high on his cheek. He collapsed to the ground and didn’t move again. My hand throbbed from the punches I’d thrown, and I was breathing hard, but they hadn’t hurt me. I’d been lucky. Again.

“Tell Saorla to leave me the hell alone,” I said. I didn’t know if either of them could hear me. On the other hand, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Saorla herself was nearby, unseen, watching and listening to all that had happened.

I fished in GQ’s pockets for the keys to the Beamer, and finding them, moved the car out of the way so that I could back out. That I happened to ram the front grill of the BMW into a dumpster was purely accidental, all three times.

As I walked back to the Z-ster, though, I spotted out of the corner of my eye a large dog padding in my direction.

Except it wasn’t a dog at all. Silver and black fur, golden yellow eyes, and paws as large as my hands. A wolf. A were, no doubt. I froze. The wolf slowed, bared its teeth, hackles rising. It continued in my direction, placing one paw in front of the other with the grace of a dancer.

Hurting weremancers was one thing. They were sorcerers, just like me, and they were fully capable of choosing for themselves which side they fought on in the magical war that had descended on the Phoenix area. Weres — werecats, werecoyotes, and, yes, werewolves — often didn’t have any choice. They were conscripts, controlled by Saorla and her allies. I didn’t want to hurt any of them, this one included. I held my hands at waist level, palms out.

“Good doggie,” I said, trying to keep my voice level.

The wolf growled deep in his throat. Belatedly, it occurred to me that it might not like being called a doggie.

I pointed at Vogue and GQ. “Those are the ones you should be angry with. They’re the ones controlling you.”

The wolf didn’t so much as glance at the unconscious weremystes. He remained fixed on me, and his expression hadn’t softened even a little. My, what big teeth he had.

I eased toward my car, my hands still open in front of me. And I made a point of not breaking eye contact with the were, of not doing anything that the creature might construe as submissive behavior. He tracked me with his eyes, growling again and padding after me, matching my movement.

As I neared my car, however, he took three quick steps, cutting in half the distance between us and snapping his massive jaws.

I cast: my hand, his snout, and the magical equivalent of a two-by-four. The wolf yelped and backed away.

I ran to the car. But before I could get in and close the door he recovered, lunging at me and forcing me back. I tried swatting him on the snout again, but it only made him angrier.

Vogue let out a low groan. I knew that if I didn’t find a way past Rin Tin Tin, and soon, I’d have her and her partner to deal with as well. I didn’t want to hurt the were, but I couldn’t allow him to delay me anymore.

“You can understand me. I know you can. I’ve faced weres before, and all of them retained some trace of their humanity, even after they turned.”

The wolf stared back at me, teeth bared, a snarl on its thinned lips.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Then do not. Defend yourself.

The voice echoing in my head was not my own, but rather the rumbling baritone of Namid’skemu, the runemyste responsible for my training. He was the reincarnated spirit of a shaman from the K’ya’na-Kwe clan of the A’shiwi or Zuni nation. The K’ya’na-Kwe, also known as the water people, were an extinct line, unless one counted Namid, who was, for lack of a better term, a ghost.

I am not a ghost!

He hadn’t actually spoken to me, but after training under his guidance for longer than I cared to remember, I could hear his voice in my sleep.

For the past two months he and I had worked on wardings and assault spells, ignoring other castings with which I also needed practice. Like transporting spells.

But this seemed as good a time as any to practice.

This was a more complicated casting, requiring seven elements. Me, the wolf, the weremancers, the pavement on which I stood, the distance between myself and the front seat of my car, the glass and metal of the car door, and the car seat itself, where I wanted to be. I held the elements in my mind, repeating them to myself six times as the power gathered inside me. On the seventh repetition, I released the spell.

Cold and darkness closed around me like a chilling fog, and for the span of several heartbeats I felt as though I was suffocating.

And then I was in the car, heat radiating off the black leather seats and steering wheel. I rolled up the window, dug in my pocket for the car keys, and started her up. The wolf threw himself against the car door.

“Stop that!” I yelled, though I knew it wouldn’t do any good. If I got home and found that he had put even the smallest dent in my door, I was going to drive back here and kick the crap out of him, weres and ethics be damned.

 

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 25

Unless He Who Writes (Ryk Spoor) changes his mind, this is the last snippet.

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Arbiter Kelsley wavered on his feet; Tobimar and Discoverer (previously Seeker) Reed caught his elbows, helped him to sit down.

Kyri looked out of the holy circle, and Tobimar felt a phantom pain in his chest as he saw her understanding that even this had failed. “Nothing at all, Arbiter?”

The priest of Myrionar shook his head reluctantly. “I can injure her easily enough, Balance save me. But to break that curse lies beyond the power granted me by Myrionar; I could feel the power simply turned back, dismissed as inadequate. Even with your assistance,” he looked at Shasha and Poplock, “I cannot do more than momentarily blunt it, and it recovers any ground I deny it quickly, once I stop fighting.”

“Poplock? There’s got to be something–”

The little Toad flattened himself in a gesture of perfect despair. “Not that I can do. The Cursed are known all over Zarathan. They’re not like the Stelati, or the Umbrals, or even the Veridiai–those can, sometimes, be cured by the right invocations, or even by the victim fighting it hard enough, praying well enough. I’ve never heard of a Cursed being cured, even early on. Wieran might have been able to do something. The Wanderer. Calladan Wysterios at the Academy. Khoros, if he was around. Idinus, of course. One of the greater gods, directly intervening, if they could. But anyone else? Swimming through thicker mud every minute.”

Sasha Raithair simply shook her head. She can do nothing either.

Kelsley carefully cut across the lines of the holy enclosure, and the power faded. “We have tried for two weeks. Everything we could think of. I am sorry.”

Kyri’s face worked, and for a moment there was a glint of alien fury that frightened Tobimar more than anything he had seen in all his travels. “Failed again? Are you…”

She went gray with horror at what she was saying and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, Myrionar, is it happening this fast?”

“If what Tashriel told you was true–and I am very much afraid it was–he was one of those there the day the Curse was enacted. He is one of the actual ancients of the Cursed, a vampire half a million years old. His blood, mingled with yours, is terribly potent,” Kelsley said, the explanation in a tone of apology and guilt, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t his fault that the last and only Justiciar was about to be lost. “It is astonishing that you have remained…yourself…for this long; he thought that the change would be complete in days, if your recital of his words was accurate.”

“So it isn’t my imagination. It’s not just my being on edge. I’m…turning into a monster.”

“Kyri, maybe–”

She made a savage cutting gesture. “No, Tobimar. No false comfort. You saw that I couldn’t burn it out myself–I can’t keep the power going once the pain gets too great. I think…I think we’re out of options.”

He didn’t attempt to hide the tears going down his face. “I wish…wish I had one. But I think Terian’s power–”

“–would burn me to ashes even faster.” She forced a smile. “But that may be what I’ll ask for.”

“NO!” It wasn’t just Tobimar; Poplock, Kelsley, Reed, and Shasha had said it at the same time.

Kyri Vantage took a long breath; it shook with repressed anger. “If necessary, yes.” She looked at Kelsley. “How…how far is the change now? How long do I have before I go mad?”

“From the records…the time for the madness varies, but tends to be one of the last changes, perhaps the last change. It is moving quickly, though. It is evening now. I…” he hesitated. Then the priest’s jaw set and he continued, “I…believe that you have seen your last sunrise, Kyri. The sun will burn you tomorrow.”

Terian’s Light, no. Not so soon.

Kyri didn’t seem to see them now. He laid his hand on her shoulder and she reached up, gripped his hand tightly; suddenly she reached out and hugged him close; he embraced her as hard as he could.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured to her.

She kissed him, then looked him in the eye; horrific flecks of yellow shimmered within the gray. “It isn’t over yet, Tobimar.”

Suddenly there was a shout from the sanctum door. “Arbiter! Arbiter! Is Lady Kyri there?”

Kelsley glanced at them, shrugged, and went to the door. “She is here, but engaged for the moment.”

“I must speak with her! It is of the utmost importance!”

“Brogan,” Kyri muttered, turning towards the door. “That’s Brogan, the Watchland’s Head of House. Let him in, Arbiter.”

The door flew open as soon as Kelsley undid the bolts and wards. Brogan, a tall man with a head bald and polished as an egg and a drooping mustache above a pointed beard, strode in and immediately dropped to one knee before Kyri. “Justiciar Phoenix Kyri,” he said. “Thank the Balance I…could find you.” His voice was clearly breathless.

“What is it, Brogan? What has happened?”

For answer, Brogan reached into his shirt and withdrew a long, sealed envelope addressed to Kyri in an elegant hand. “The Watchland–he’s disappeared. Just left without a word or warning, with just this envelope and a note to have it brought to you immediately.”

“Oh, snakes and dust, this doesn’t sound good,” Poplock said as he bounced back to Tobimar’s shoulder.

Kyri had immediately taken the envelope; the seal broke with a flash of light, showing it had been keyed to her. She reached in and took out a letter; she held it so that Tobimar could see it as well.

 

My most dear and respected Kyri,

If you have this in your hands, then I have gone. I have been frequently seized with the desire to hunt down the one responsible for using me as a puppet and a false face, and at the same time found myself unable to speak of it; merely writing this down has proven nigh-impossible.

You and your friends were right, I fear. Somewhere within me remains the knowledge of how to find our adversary’s stronghold, but it will only reveal itself when this compulsion grows strong enough to triumph over my reason and will. This I am sure it will do, for it has only strengthened over each day, without my being able to inform any of this matter.

Rather than be caught by it unawares, perhaps to the detriment of others who might bar my path, I have therefore resolved to fight it no longer. I will prepare myself to confront our enemy as best I can, and let it take me whence it will; I believe, as do you, that this will be the Justiciars’ Retreat.

Understand, Kyri, I am under no illusion that I will somehow be able to vanquish this enemy, this Viedraverion. I am a powerful warrior–perhaps stronger than you know–but I am not a Justiciar. But it may be that our enemy will not slay me outright, and so I write this note that you will know what has happened, and–if the Balance should smile upon me–perhaps be able to rescue me once more.

I do not ask you do so purely for my sake, although I certainly do not wish to die. I know you will attempt it no matter what the reasons. However, as your Watchland I give you this one command: do not risk Evanwyl for my sake. I will not be used as a hostage, and I insist that you not accept me as one. I will die for Evanwyl, as I know you would. Rescue me if you can, certainly–but not at a cost I will regret.

The compulsion has begun. I will place this in a sealed envelope to be found in my study, and then leave, locking the room so that–hopefully–I will not be able to undo what I have done here.

In the name of the Balance, I remain,

Jeridan Velion

 

“Myrionar’s Unbalanced Sword!” Kyri cursed. “Brogan, when did the Watchland leave?”

Looking slightly shocked at what Tobimar suspected was great profanity on Kyri’s part, Brogan answered, “We cannot be absolutely certain, Justiciar Phoenix, because the Watchland sometimes would isolate himself for thought or other private matters for a few days. But we believe he left last night.”

Tobimar cursed this time. “That’s twenty-four hours ago. We could never catch him, and the trail will be cold. Sand and storm!”

“Add ‘drought and freeze’ to that, too,” Poplock said. “If we’d been able to get on his trail quick–within an hour or so, say–I think we could have gotten through the diversion wards. We’d have clear indicators to follow and the wards couldn’t change those all that quick. But after this much time? Not a chance.”

Kyri’s fist had clenched down on the paper, crumpling it into a compressed wad. “Kyri…”

“What? Oh.” She slowly relaxed her grip, then nodded. “Thank you, Brogan. I will do what I can. Get back to the estate and let them know.”

“I will, Justiciar. Thank you very much.”

Once Brogan had left, Kyri straightened. “Come on, Tobimar, Poplock. We don’t have time to waste here.”

“But, Kyri…in your condition,” began Kelsley.

“My condition isn’t going to change for the better sitting around here, is it?” At Kelsley’s reluctant nod, she smiled. “Then I might as well try to do what I can.”

She kissed the priest on the cheek, then bowed, and led the way out.

Tobimar studied her narrowly from behind. “Poplock?”

“Yep. She’s not angry. She’s…scared. Scared half to death.”

“But that note didn’t have anything frightening in it.”

“I know.” The two continued in silence, as Kyri strode ahead of them, through the main temple, towards the doors. “But then why is she so frightened?”

It wasn’t obvious to anyone else, perhaps, but he could see it–it was in the way she stood so straight, so tense, as rigid and unyielding as the stone pillar she was now walking past. Kyri was deathly afraid of something, and as he walked a little closer to her, he could hear her breathing, a little too quick, a bit too ragged.

Outside, in the night-dark streets of Evanwyl, Kyri turned south. Tobimar quickened his own stride. “What is it, Kyri?”

She didn’t pretend not to understand. Her hand reached out, took his. “I believe in Myrionar.”

Tobimar didn’t quite get what she meant, but her tone showed that she was trying to explain. “I know.”

“But…Tobimar, will you trust me? Will you believe in me?”

He stopped her, put her hands on her shoulders. “Kyri, I will always trust you. I will always believe in you. Curse or no. Always.”

“Goes for me, too,” Poplock said.

She closed her eyes, and two tears fell. “And will you do whatever I ask you to tonight, no matter what?”

“Are you going to ask me to…to end it for you?” Tobimar asked quietly.

The anger of the Curse tried to flare, he could see it in the tension of her arms, the twitching of the lips–but it subsided, left only the beautiful face surrounded by its gold-tipped blue hair, a face that tried to smile and failed miserably. “Not…not now. Not that way. But…something you won’t want to do.”

He almost started to question her, but an internal voice told him to stop!

She’s asking me to have faith in her. To believe in her. And I just said I would. “Then yes, I will. No matter what.”

Her shoulders slumped in relief. “Thank the Balance. Because I can’t do this myself, and can’t trust anyone else.”

“Since I’ve agreed…what do I have to do?”

“We have to cure the Curse,” she answered.

 

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 03

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 03

CHAPTER 2

I sat low in the leather bucket seat of the Z-ster, my silver 1977 280Z. The driver’s side window was open, a camera balanced on the top of the car door, its lens trained on a motel room door some twenty yards away.

This wasn’t any old camera. It was the latest high-end Canon DSLR, with a twenty-plus megapixel APS-C CMOS sensor — 1.6 crop factor — mounted with a four hundred millimeter “L” class telephoto lens and a 1.4 times teleconverter. In short, this was a ridiculously nice piece of equipment with some serious magnification. There was no way I could have afforded to buy the thing; I’d rented it for a few days, at the expense of my current client.

I knew that there were professional photographers working out in the Sonoran Desert with set-ups a lot like this one, snapping amazing photos of the Southwest’s stunning wildlife.

Me? I was sweating in my car, waiting to get a shot of a cheating husband as he emerged with his mistress from the Casa del Oro Motel near Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport. Another day in the glamorous life of a private investigator.

In all honesty, I could hardly complain. Over the past few months, I had brought down the Blind Angel killer, the most notorious serial killer ever to haunt the streets of the Phoenix metropolitan area, and I had battled a cadre of dark sorcerers and the necromancer who led them. That was more excitement and glamor than most PIs experience in a lifetime, and I had crammed it all into one nearly-fatal summer. I should have been grateful for work that wasn’t likely to get me killed.

Instead, I was bored out of my mind, which probably makes me sound insane.

But what else is new? I sound insane on a regular basis. In fact, I am insane on a regular basis. I’m a weremyste. For three nights out of every month — the night of the full moon, and the nights immediately before and after, I lose control of my mind, even as the magic I wield is enhanced by the moon’s pull. What’s more, these phasings, as they’re called, have a cumulative effect; sooner or later — I have a strong preference for later — I’ll go permanently nuts and will suffer from the same kind of delusions, hallucinations, and neuroses that plague my father. He’s a weremyste, too.

The full moon, though, was still seven days away, and for now I had a case to work on, distasteful though it was.

I hated these kinds of jobs. Of all the work I did as a PI — which included uncovering corporate espionage, finding teen runaways, even investigating insurance claims — nothing was worse than these trashy failed-marriage cases. I’d started my business well over a year ago, after losing my job as a homicide detective with the Phoenix Police Department. And in the months since, I’d come to realize that regardless of whether I was hired by the disgruntled husband or the wronged wife, when all was said and done, I could find fault in both of them.

I like clarity in my cases. I like there to be a good guy and a bad guy. Helping one slimeball duke it out with another slimeball was not exactly my idea of the perfect job.

But as owner and president of Justis Fearsson Investigations, Incorporated, and as a guy with a mortgage, I was glad to have the work. My client, Helen Barr, was paying me well to track her tomcatting husband, whose name happened to be Thomas. The Barrs lived in one of the wealthier sections of Scottsdale and she could afford my new prices: $350 per day plus expenses. To be honest, I was a little disappointed by Tom’s choice of this motel for a tryst. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t have sprung for a room in one of the fancier downtown hotels. Then again, if the woman he was sleeping with — one Amanda Wagner — didn’t mind, who was I to complain?

Most cheating spouses are far less clever about concealing their affairs than they think, and Tom was no exception to this. He and Amanda had been smarter than others, but that really wasn’t saying much. They used more than one motel for their rendezvous, and they tended to arrive at the motels on foot, after parking some distance away.

But they met the same days of the week, at the same times. And they made no effort at all to confine their displays of affection to the privacy of their rooms. I wasn’t prone to squeamishness, but I really didn’t need to see Tom Barr sticking his tongue down the throat of a woman half his age.

I’d gotten a few pictures of them going into the room about an hour ago, and by themselves those photos were pretty incriminating. But, in the interest of being thorough, I wanted to get them coming out of the room as well. It wasn’t like I needed to protect Helen Barr’s feelings. She knew what her husband was up to. At this point she wanted the photos so that she could wring as much as possible out of him in the divorce settlement. I couldn’t blame her. And since she was paying me, and providing me with this fine camera equipment, I figured I should give her her money’s worth.

The door to their room opened and I put my eye to the viewfinder. The happy couple emerged into the desert sunlight and I depressed the shutter button. The autofocus whirred and the camera started to click away — eight frames per seconds burst rate. Returning this camera was going to be difficult.

I got a couple of good ones. One with Amanda’s hand resting on his chest; another with Tom patting her butt and grinning. As I said, Helen was no saint and I knew that neither she nor Tom was blameless in the collapse of their marriage. But Tom was a sleaze, and I’ll admit that I was enjoying myself a little bit knowing how much these pictures would cost him.

And then, with a suddenness that made my heart thump, I wasn’t enjoying myself at all.

Magic brushed my mind, dark, hostile, and too damn close.

Neither Tom nor Amanda was a weremyste. In all the time I’d been on this case, I had sensed no magic in them, and I saw no sign of the blurring around their faces, necks, and shoulders that I could usually see in other sorcerers like me. So, being a fool, I hadn’t taken the time to ward myself from magical attacks. One day being stupid was going to get me killed.

Since my battles with dark sorcerers during the summer, I had been a target of one magical assault after another. As far as I could tell, none had been meant to kill me. Saorla of Brewood, a centuries-old necromancer who commanded these so-called weremancers, had her reasons for wanting me alive, at least until she herself could savor the pleasure of killing me. But that didn’t mean the attacks were a picnic.

Now here I was, unwarded, in my car with the engine off, holding a camera and accessories worth more than I made in a given month, my Glock 22 .40 caliber pistol hidden under the driver’s seat. Stupid. I would have liked to toss the camera in the back seat, but I had a feeling the rental place would be less than pleased.

I set it down on the passenger side, while simultaneously reciting a warding spell in my head and scanning the street for the weremystes I had sensed. The warding would have to be general, which meant that it wouldn’t be as effective as a spell matched to a specific assault. But it would be a hell of a lot better than no protection at all. I conceived the spell in three elements: myself, a sheath of power surrounding me, and whatever magic my stalkers might throw my way. The words and images didn’t matter much. They were what I used to focus my conjurings. These days I was working on casting with a mere thought, without having to resort to the three elements thing. But this didn’t seem like the time to put my training to the test. On the third repetition of the spell’s components, I released the magic building within me, and felt it settle over me like an invisible cloak.

Tom and Amanda had returned their room key and were walking away from the Casa del Oro in opposite directions. I started up the car, hoping that I might manage to slip out of the parking lot without having to confront the dark sorcerers.

No such luck.

The first spell hit me in the chest — these damn dark sorcerers always went for the heart, and this guy was no different. I could tell that whatever spell my attacker tried failed to penetrate my warding. Most attack spells hurt like hell, and in recent months my heart had been crushed, cauterized, and shish kebabed by wielders of dark magic. This time the attack merely felt like I’d been kicked in the chest by a mule. I grunted a breath and winced, wondering if my sternum had been shattered. But that was something I could figure out later.

I threw the Z-ster into reverse, only to feel the car shudder, the way it would if I was driving at high speed along a windy stretch of road. It didn’t move, though, and before I could ward the vehicle itself, another car — sleek, midnight blue; I think it was the new BMW 6 coupe — pulled in behind me, blocking my escape. I saw two people sitting up front, which I suppose I should have expected. They had been coming at me in pairs and groups of three for some time now.

 

The Seer – Snippet 57

The Seer – Snippet 57

“I had heard something about it, yes.”

In truth, he had been up late the night before, studying years’ worth of correspondence and trade agreements between the crown and the nominally Perripin city of Kelerre.

“The ministers demand I approve everything. Perripin trade agreements, currency exchange contracts, shipping schedules…” She trailed off, raising and lowering a foot, making small waves against the side of the tub. “Surely you can take care of this.”

“Yes, of course, my lady.”

The slave rinsed Cern’s hair, and the other dried her head. It seemed a good time to leave, now that they had reached an accord of sorts. Perhaps the other subject could wait. He could do what he needed to do without telling her at all, but if it came to light and she did not know —

“However,” he said, sitting by the edge of the tub, “to find the corruption and fix it, I must hire someone with… exceptionally good vision.”

She knocked the boy’s hands away from her head. “Out. All of you.” Slaves, servants, guards — all but Innel left the room at a near run. She gave him a look. “You can’t mean what I think you mean.”

“I do.

“We do not do this.”

Innel knew how far from the truth this was, and again wondered how she could know so little about how her father conducted business.

“That is not quite the case,” he said mildly. “What we face is beyond simple graft and chit-bribes. Our soldiers are soliciting coin from towns to ignore taxation and Charter violations. The crown is losing revenue. And reputation.”

“So root out the corrupt ones and send them to Execution Square.” She waved a hand. “You are now in charge of executions. Make it right, Innel.”

“Cern, we need –”

“The laws exist for good reason.”

He motioned to the wide expanse of window. “Do you really think House Glass made this? You promoted me to Lord Commander because you trust me to do the necessary work. This is necessary.”

“You’ve seen the Shentarat plains, Innel. A wasteland. Nothing lives there now. Magic did that.”

“A mage did that. Magic does not act by itself.”

“They bring death.”

“The same can be said of our army.”

“They are like raccoons. Once they learn you will feed them, you can’t get rid of them.”

She had no idea how hard they truly were to come by, nor did he plan to tell her. “They sell their services like any merchant. Even mages need to eat.”

“They bring ill-fortune. Stone that rots, babies born dead, the melting plague.”

If he were to be more than Cern’s consort, he must be able to hold his own with her. He took a deliberate, insulting tone. “Is that what your father told you?”

Her lips thinned, edges down. She looked away a moment, silent and angry. For a long moment her expression did not change, and Innel wondered if his rise to power might have found its ceiling.

“No mages, Innel.”

Innel clenched his fist, tapped it lightly to the tile at his feet, and considered. He had worked hard for her throne, perhaps harder than she had. He knew he needed her; without her he was only a mutt, rising above his station. Perhaps she needed him, too, or perhaps she could do without him if she must.

Most important was what she believed. It was time to find out.

He shifted onto his knees then touched his head on the tile toward her, then did it twice more.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I will need you to scribe your commands for me, so that I miss none of them.”

“What? Get up.”

“A list of what I may and may not do,” he said, head still down.

She snorted. “No mages, Innel. Do whatever else you like.”

“Next week, my lady,” he said, lifting his head and meeting her gaze, “it will be no mages and no elk-horn buttons. The week after perhaps no horses with spotted manes. Then — no yellow flowers. After that –”

“You mock my laws.”

“Your father’s laws. Perhaps you should put me in charge of the kitchens instead of the army.”

“You are starting to annoy me.”

If he annoyed her enough, she could divorce him. Quite easily, as her seneschal had pointed out. Or she could have him sent to the towers without fingers, as her grandmother had done with one of her consorts who had presumed too much.

If she were truly vexed, she could have him torn to pieces in Execution Square, relieving him of his oversight of that particular job. That would be an irony many would appreciate.

He was betting she was too smart for that. Betting rather a lot.

“Then, my lady,” he said with a calmness he didn’t feel, “give the job to someone else. Someone you trust to make such decisions.”

“No mages,” she said, slowly, forcefully.

“I’m sure Lason would take back his command if you offered it to him.”

“Cold crack your balls.” She slammed her hand against the side of the tub. “Do as I say.”

Their gazes locked.

“I am your queen.”

“Without question, ma’am.”

“You will obey me.”

“You’ve given me conflicting orders.”

“No mages. Isn’t that simple enough?”

She was not yielding. Don’t push until you must. And then go in with all you have.

“Perhaps you should break the marriage, my queen.”

A step too far, he judged from her sudden change of expression. She was furious now, eyes wide, fists tight.

Innel suppressed a wince; worse yet would be to retreat. So with effort, he stayed silent, letting his last words echo.

“I’ll have you in charge of the kitchens first,” she said at last.

“I am reassured,” he said, dryly, to hide how reassured he really was. He sat back on the tiles, letting himself softly exhale. “The Houses use mages, Cern. We must have at least the advantages they do.”

She gritted her teeth, splashed the water a little. “Be sure your hire is a citizen of the empire. One who pays taxes.”

Unlikely, given the laws about practicing magic.

But, he realized, she had just said yes.

“I thought it prudent to find one from outside Yarpin, outside Arunkel. Someone without obligations or ties here.”

Her expression bordered on the incredulous. “You have already done this thing.”

He hesitated, then wished he hadn’t. “Yes.”

“You broke the laws.”

“Your father’s laws, which he himself broke regularly. Your laws now, my queen.”

“When did you –” She broke off, stared at him with hard, green eyes. “How long have you been planning this?”

He wondered what answer would pacify her most, decided to risk the truth. “A year and some, my lady.”

To his surprise, she smiled. “When my father still ruled. You planned ahead, for me. I like that.” Then the smile turned brittle. “But don’t hide things from me. If there’s a mage in my palace, I want to know about it. No secrets from me, Innel, the way you did with him.”

“No secrets.”

Cern moved through the water to come close to him at the edge of the tub, then reached up and grabbed the back of his head with her wet hand, slowly pulling him close. She kissed him for long moments.

This he had not expected. For a fair number of moments afterward she continued to surprise him.

#

When Innel returned at the fifth bell, Lason left, finally and gracelessly, storming out of the office along with an entourage of his remaining loyal retainers. They left with the best of the old king’s travel set. “Stole” might be the more accurate word, but it was unclear what the legal status of the king’s royal horses was now that Cern was queen. From there the group had headed north, Innel was told, but to where no one knew.

It had better not be to cause trouble at the mines. He instructed Srel to send word to his people there to report back anything that sounded like Lason’s work.

Finally the Lord Commander’s office was Innel’s.

He signaled Srel, who gestured to the many servants who were unpacking his things onto the mantles, making the final touches Innel wanted — new maps on the walls, weapons on racks so they were more accessible than ornamental — to stop. They streamed out the door, leaving only the young, uniformed woman who had just arrived, who stood arrow-straight, staring at nothing.

When the two of them were alone, he spoke. “Identify yourself.”

“Vevan sev Arunkel, Lord Commander.”

 

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 24

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Kyri found her hand on Flamewing’s hilt, the sword already half drawn, before she caught herself. The horrific thought echoed through her, a sentence of death and failure. Not summon Myrionar’s power? Be barred from Myrionar? No!

“That fast?” Xavier asked, unbelieving. “C’mon, she’s gotta have some time!”

“The Curse is already on her,” Tashriel said, the same horror in his voice, and a part of her understood that he knew what she felt. “Perhaps she has…a few minutes? A few hours? But no more than a day or two.”

She concentrated, called on the power, intending to heal the scratches on Poplock from Tashriel’s sandblasting assault.

Gold-fired agony exploded along her skin, danced through her veins like molten steel. She heard her own anguished scream and dropped to her knees. “I…think I have…no time at all.”

Tobimar whirled on Tashriel, and it took Xavier, Nike, and Aurora to restrain him. “If we’re going to kill him, fine,” Nike said, “but not like that. We will do this with justice and judgment, not impulse and hatred. Right?”

“Right,” Kyri said, and despite the pain which was slowly ebbing she felt a warm gratitude towards Nike. I swore to Myrionar that it would be Mercy and Justice before Vengeance, and that is more important for me than for anyone else, because I am the one who will be judged.

The pain had, strangely, cleared her head, and in its aftermath she felt less anger, more sympathy for the damned boy-demon in front of her. Her instincts told her that Tashriel was telling the truth now; it fit with what she knew of many demonic tales, and the way in which she had been told vampires of his sort worked.

But Tashriel was speaking again. “And you–you five–don’t have time, either.”

“Why not? We could at least take a few–”

“Then you have to kill me now,” Tashriel said, and a blood-tinted tear ran down his face. “I will have to go back to Balinshar, and if he learns what I know of you, the Black City will be prepared–Kerlamion will be prepared, for Balinshar will surely tell him the truth, to ingratiate himself with Father and undermine Viedra.”

Kyri heard multiple curses, and knew one of them was hers. As Rion, Tashriel had been present throughout their discussions; he knew the goal of the five from Earth and much about their abilities.

“Maybe we could lock him up, at least for a while,” Tobimar said slowly, sheathing his swords.

“Where?” Poplock demanded. “If we were in Zarathanton, okay, sure, put him in the Star Cell where they locked those guys up, that’d probably hold him, but there isn’t a place in Evanwyl that could do the trick. Didn’t you watch this guy? If he hadn’t been holding back, we could’ve all gotten bad hurt before we took him down.”

“The Temple of Myrionar,” Kyri said. “Maybe they could–”

Tashriel shook his head. “Arbiter Kelsley is a good man, and honest, but you know as well as I that Myrionar is very weak now. Weaker now than mere months agone, despite the works you have done–because Viedra’s plan has taken all this into account, to weaken that faith beyond any easy point of return. All of the god’s power is bound within or tied directly to you, outside of the simplest powers of the priests. I do not think he could create a sealed prison strong enough to hold me.”

“Do you f–fricking want us to kill you?” Xavier said in outraged tones. “Because you’re like really trying hard to make it happen!”

“I’m trying to keep you safe! I…he let me stay with you too long, with her too long! Don’t let me be a weapon against you! I DON’T WANT YOU TO DIE!” Tashriel shouted.

Silence fell in the wake of that agonized declaration, and Kyri saw the bleak choices lying before them. But only one of them allows mercy or justice.

“Stand up, Tashriel,” she said quietly.

He rose, slowly, eyes fixed on hers. She could read his readiness for the end in the way he kept his mouth clamped shut, tension in the jaw and down the neck clear in the lines of muscle and tendon.

She reached up, let Flamewing rise from its sheath, a foot, two feet–

–and let it drop back with a ringing chime. “Go.”

The sight of that jaw dropping, the eyes practically popping from Tashriel’s head in Toadlike fashion–an expression echoed by all the others–would have made her laugh under other circumstances; as it was, she managed a smile. “You are someone’s tool and weapon, and perhaps in cold, hard policy I should kill you. But you were a companion, and I think–from your words, your voice, and your willingness to pass on–that you mean what you say, and thus in your heart you are no enemy.

“Were we still in the heat of battle, yes, I might well strike your head from your shoulders; but I will not kill you in cold blood.”

“Kyri–”

She looked at Tobimar calmly. “Would you kill him as he stands?”

She saw the lean, dark face go grim; the hands grasped the twin swords. But the swords stayed in their sheaths, and with a curse Tobimar let his hands drop. “No.”

“No more will any of us,” Toshi said. “Which leaves you, Poplock. If any of us could do it, I think you could.”

The little Toad drew his blade Steelthorn and bounced to Tashriel’s shoulder. Despite the nearness of the glittering steel, enchanted–Kyri knew–by the spirit mage Konstantin Khoros himself–Tashriel did not move so much as a hair.

“You would let me do this, wouldn’t you?” Poplock said after a moment. “Just run you through the throat and chop the head off.”

“Yes.”

“Well mudbubbles. I can’t do it either.”

“Then we do have to leave now,” Toshi said grimly. “Can you at least…dawdle on your return?”

Tashriel gave a weak but definite smile. “I promise to drag my feet as much as my compulsion allows. And I have more advice for you.”

He turned to Xavier. “Xavier, you are the greatest weapon your group has for this. Not because of your stealth, though I’m not ever going to discount that, but because…well, of who you are.”

“Who I am?”

“I can’t say–not for absolutely sure–if it was your father, or your grandfather, or, at most, one of your great-grandfathers, but one of them was–had to be–the being that the demons fear above all others. You–and to my surprise Kyri!–have his eyes, but you have more; you have his face, his build.”

“Whose face?”

“Torline Valanhavhi, the Eternal King of Atlantaea,” Tashriel said. “I met him, once, long ago, when I was living, a child younger than any of you.” Tashriel gestured.

The figure of a man appeared, tall, slender, dark-skinned. Kyri stared; except for the appearance of greater age–the man seemed to be about thirty-five–it was like seeing Xavier in a mirror, even to the gray eyes. Before him, the figure held two silvered-green blades identical to those which Xavier carried.

“And you wield blades like his. By your appearance, by your image alone, you will frighten and dismay any demon–up to, and including, the King of All Hells himself. So I say to you that you should remain hidden, even more than your friends. Show yourself only at the end, when you will need all advantages, and your adversary is the worst of all.”

Poplock had straightened. “You know…he’s right.”

“What?” said Tobimar. “What do you mean?”

“Remember when we got ambushed by those demons, with Xavier? That Lady Misuuma?”

“Yes…?”

“Well, if you remember, she actually bailed on the whole battle right in the middle. I was chasing after her and I heard her saying…” The toad’s face wrinkled as he thought, “um…’Those blades and eyes…it is worse than she believes. If this new ally is truly what we think–c’arich! We must retreat.'”

“She seemed to have a thing about eyes–she was looking at mine before–”

Poplock waved that away. “Yeah, we know, but that got cleared up once we saw that you had Terian’s blood in you. Terian’s eyes are the same color, a pretty weird color for people from your part of the world, so that’s what she was looking for. But then they got a good look at Xavier, and what’d she do? Flipped right out of her pond, that’s what she did, and tried to run out on her own allies–when she’d set the trap to catch Tobimar.”

“You’re right,” Tobimar said slowly. “Just the sight of Xavier’s eyes and swords were enough to convince her to abort her own mission so she could carry the news back…”

“Except I punched her ticket canceled,” Xavier said. “And thinking back, there were a couple demons I fought in my own quest that sure looked kinda panicked when I drew the swords and they got a good look at me. Makes sense.” He looked over to Tashriel. “Okay, thanks. We’ll remember that. But before we go, I’ve got some advice for you.”

Tashriel bowed his head. “I will listen.”

“You don’t want to work for these guys. You’ve tried to help us. But then you say you can’t fight ’em. I dunno, maybe you’re right. But you know what?”

When Xavier didn’t continue, Tashriel raised his head, met the Earth boy’s challenging gaze. “No, what?”

“I think that’s bullcrap.”

“But I am controlled by the Curse! I am bound to the–”

“Bullcrap!” Xavier repeated. “You’ve got your own mind now, right? You’re not formally with one or the other now, right? Okay, maybe it’s not gonna be easy, but you’ve stayed here to tell us all stuff I know your bosses didn’t want you to say, and you know what? You did that because you fought to tell us.

“I think you’ve been so convinced by those bastards that you can’t fight that you’re fighting yourself hard enough to keep you imprisoned. My sensei told me that there isn’t any enchantment that can hold someone forever, if the enchantment isn’t binding the person’s will, their mind. If they can fight it, they can break it. ‘The waves and wind can wear down a mountain, Xavier, and so it is with any binding, any enchantment; with enough time, none can withstand constant work, constant pressure, constant determination. All that is needed is the will to do it.’ That’s what he said.”

She saw ages of conviction warring with a spark of hope. “But…”

“Yeah, but. But you have to find that will. You have to decide to do it, even if that’s maybe going to get you killed. But hey, you were willing to die right here. You’ll have to make a choice: is your own freedom worth dying for, even right after you get it?”

Tashriel stared at him for a long moment, then bowed deeply. “I…don’t know. I don’t know if I can believe in what you say. If you’re right…I’ve lived as a slave because I bound myself there, as much as they bound me.”

Kyri remembered the ancient, ancient tale of the Fall of the Saurans, and the tragedy and redemption of the Hell-Dragon, and its title. “Chains of the mind, Tashriel. Remember the lesson Syrcal learned.”

The white-haired youth nodded, face still conflicted. “I…will think on this.” A smile. “While I drag my feet.”

“Still…we’d better stop dragging ours.” Gabriel looked at her gravely. “But Lady Kyri, how–?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the Temple of Myrionar will have an answer there. But I know there is an answer, for I have kept faith with Myrionar, and It told me that always there is a way for me, if only I believe.

“And I still believe.”

 

Changeling’s Island – Snippet 03

Changeling’s Island – Snippet 03

His mother shook her head, her face set in that surly-cross expression, like a bad-tempered tradesman’s dog, that she got when she was setting out to be really nasty. Her Irish accent came back strongly whenever she did that. “Not anymore, I don’t. You’re just like your father. And you’ve brought this on yourself. Pack your things, Tim. You’re only allowed fifteen kilos of luggage, and Tom has booked you on the plane at midday. I’ve had to take another day off work for this. And you can clean up this pigsty before you go!”

He could hear the sound of rush-hour cars in the street, and see that the sun shining through the window was sparkling on the dust motes dancing in the air. If it was that bright and noisy he should be on his way to school, to another miserable but predictable day.

So. It wasn’t all some kind of nightmare. He was leaving Melbourne. Leaving the life he knew, leaving everything and everyone. He hoped at least that that was true. He’d be leaving his friends, if he had any. At St. Dominic’s there was only Hailey, and then, he had to admit, only if she didn’t have an audience and if she wanted something. His heart still hurt thinking about her. She was drop-dead gorgeous, in spite of it all. He didn’t even want to think farther back in his life. He’d been sort of happy here, once. Had a few guys he played about with at junior school, but then they’d moved, and he’d gone to St. Dominic’s. Before his father left, before his unlucky thirteenth birthday, when the weird accidents had started happening around him.

He turned to his room, determined not to think about it all. It was like deciding not to think about pink elephants. So what did you pack when you could only take fifteen kilos of your life with you? Well. Not barbells. Not that he had any. He’d kind of wanted some, so he could get stronger and bigger…only, they were expensive and…Books? Some of them. Sabriel. Lord of the Rings. The Harry Potters could stay. Did his laptop count? It was old and heavy, a hand-me-down. The battery only did twenty minutes. He was still sitting there, trying to reach decisions, when his mother bustled back in carrying a suitcase. “Haven’t you done anything yet? Don’t just sit there, Tim!”

And on his desk, just behind her and across the room from him, a pile of books tilted, tipped, and the first fell, bang! to the floor.

They both stared as the next book tipped over the edge and fell to land on the next. And then the next…

“I suppose you think you’re incredibly funny with these tricks! Grow up!” shouted his mother, and stormed out of the room.

Tim sat and stared at the books. They didn’t move again. So he got up, and went to the kitchen and had a bowl of cornflakes. He didn’t really know what else to do, and he was past caring, and into the hopelessly resigned phase of coping. Books overbalanced, especially in tottery piles, when people stomped into the room. And actually, he didn’t really give a toss what he packed. Well. He had to take a couple of books and his “I love Ireland” T-shirt. It was way too small by now. But like the stamp in his passport, it proved he’d been there. Looking back, he could see the trip had been his father’s attempt to patch his failing marriage, taking Mum for that trip back “home” to Ireland that she’d always claimed she wanted. But at the time Tim had just enjoyed it. And there’d been something about that green and ancient place that had made him think it was sort of home-ish too. It wasn’t, of course. This was.

He slouched back to his room. Looked at the case his mother had dropped. Groaned. It had a Spiderman II logo on it. He’d thought that was really flash…when he was nine. It had been cheap, getting rid of old stock, but then he hadn’t cared. If anyone saw him with it now they’d crack up. He put it on the bed. Began putting things into it, more or less at random, after the books. He looked at the “I love Ireland” T-shirt. It was faded, the collar frayed, and it was way, way too small. He wasn’t big for his age, but that shirt was, like, not going to ever fit again. He blinked. He wasn’t going to let it get to him. He firmly put it back in the cupboard, walked out into the hall and dug in the top drawer of the cabinet. He fished out his passport. This was dumb, and he knew it. He’d never be able to afford the ticket, ever. But he still took the passport and put it into the zipper pouch of the case. And then picked up the T-shirt again anyway. He could always leave out something else. His deodorant was nearly empty. It had to weigh less like that, right?

Things went in. Came out. Went in again. It was…something to do.

“Tim! Are you finished? We’ve got to go. You’ll be late,” shouted his mother.

Like I should care, he thought, glumly. But he closed the case, slid out the handle — he had to sort of wrestle with it and it wouldn’t go all the way back in either, and squeaky-rattled his way to the door, trundling the case behind him. He walked out, not looking back.

* * *

Áed waited. His kind had a poor sense of time, or time as it was in these earthly realms, anyway. He was not so much patient, as unaware of not doing anything. When his master left the building he did too, perched on the bag as it trundled on its erratic wheels, and he slipped into the boot of the metal chariot with it. Creatures of air and darkness do not have much in the way of weight, and so — as usual — his presence was not noticed. Only those humans with a trace of Aos Sí blood who were gifted with the sight could see Áed or his brothers. And, mostly, they refused to believe what they saw. That was good too…which Áed could not say of the oil-smelly iron chariot he and his master were trapped inside, but that too could be endured, because it had to be.

* * *

Essenden Airport was almost exactly the opposite of what Tim thought defined “airport.” It wasn’t big. There were no queues, or moving walkways or announcements you could hear only half of. And the place wasn’t full of strangers. Well, they were all strangers to Tim, but they all seemed to know each other. It made sitting there in silence worse. At least nothing weird happened, except to the scale when they tried to weigh his bag. The airline official just shrugged, and picked it up and said with an easy smile, “Bit heavy. But the plane’s not full and he doesn’t weigh much.” That wasn’t quite how he remembered boarding at Tullamarine International when they’d flown to Ireland. But he’d been younger then and excited and eager.

At last someone came along and said, “Well, we’re all here. You can board now for Flinders.” Tim stood up. His mother kissed him, half missing, on the jaw and not the cheek. “Try to pull yourself right, Tim.”

There was an awkward pause as people filed past them through the open glass doors and onto the runway. Tim swallowed the lump in his throat. He wanted to hold onto her and beg her not to send him away, but all he did was nod. Anyway, he couldn’t find his voice to say anything right then.

His mother patted him on the shoulder, awkwardly, and turned him toward the door.

So he walked, not looking back, out into the sunlight and to the waiting Metroliner. A very little plane, Tim realized. It had propellers! And the man who had said they could go…was the pilot.

* * *

Áed loved flying in human flying-machines. They moved so much faster than creatures of air and darkness could fly on their own! He liked to sit on a wing and feel the rush of the wind blowing through him.

Besides, the air was cleaner up and away from the human habitations.

 

Changeling’s Island – Snippet 02

Changeling’s Island – Snippet 02

The scene, when he’d arrived at the flat with the two police officers, just as his mother got in, just having received a call from the school…was something Tim would rather forget forever.

She’d been silent. That wasn’t like her. He hadn’t said anything either.

They stood silent for what seemed like forever, until in desperation he’d said he was sorry.

And then the yelling started…but not at him.

Instead she was shouting it down the phone line to his father in Oman. And she normally wouldn’t even speak to the man. Kept communication to snarky e-mails about money. Tim knew. He’d looked. Her password was so lame.

Accidents happen. Just more of them happen around me than anyone else in the world, Tim thought.

“I just can’t cope anymore!” His mother had stormed.

Tim Ryan was used to that. She said it at least twice a day.

Usually about him.

Huh. He couldn’t cope with himself either, and he had no escape. He was stuck in his life; she could duck out of it. She didn’t always have to be the one who didn’t fit in, who didn’t belong anywhere. But that was situation normal, making like it was her who had a problem that she couldn’t cope with, not him.

“He’s a changeling, Tom! He’s not normal!” his mother yelled, as if Tim wasn’t even in Melbourne, let alone the same room.

Like I can help the weird stuff that happens around me, Tim thought bitterly, looking out at the dirty sky beyond the high-rises of Williamstown. This poltergeist rubbish they accuse me of causing is all bull. I wish I could do it. I really do. Only he really didn’t. All he wanted right then was for it all to go away.

Tim couldn’t hear his dad’s answer. But he was ready to bet his mother didn’t even know what a changeling was. He kind of wished that he was one. It had to beat “loser.” Maybe Faerie glamour let you look taller, cooler, like you had an iPhone. Maybe it let you get away with shoplifting without getting busted, he thought. He was sort of dead-man-walking resigned to the consequences by now. It could only get worse, but at least he wouldn’t be at St. Dominic’s anymore. At least he wouldn’t be the new kid in the secondhand blazer, who didn’t know any cool people or do any cool stuff. The kid whose friends from middle school were all in ordinary state schools. The kid everyone, even the losers, kicked.

“That won’t work,” said his mother, angrily. “The school has asked me to remove him. I don’t know what to do, Tom!”

That must be the first time she’s ever admitted that, thought Tim, sourly. He wasn’t too good at it himself, but this time the truth was he didn’t know either. He wished he was dead. Only that would please some people, he muttered to himself. Not Mum — it would upset her, he supposed. And she’d stop getting money from Dad then too, and that would upset her more. But Hailey — she’d said that he was a creep and a loser, and stalking her. She’d looked at him like she wanted him to drop dead. Well, he didn’t feel like making her day. Not after she’d lied and left him to take all the heat. Put on that sweet, pretty, innocent little-girl look and fluttered her eyelashes at the store security guy and walked out, scot-free. His heart still ached anyway. She was…gorgeous. And, yeah, she was wild in a scary but still fascinating way.

“I can’t,” said his mother. “I can’t afford it, Tom. The flights cost a fortune.”

For a moment, just a heart-lifting moment, at the end of that day of shame and despair, Tim thought his dad was going to have him in Oman.

Yeah. Likely.

Not, his mind said.

But his heart was still beating faster when his mother said: “All right. But only if you pay for the flights. And only if you call the old bat to arrange it. She always gives me hell because you never call. Like it’s my fault.”

When she got to the part about “if you call the old bat and arrange it,” Tim knew that his dad had slithered out again. Dad’s a champion slither-outer, thought Tim, glumly. And everyone always says that I look just like him.

Tim knew then that he was off to the end of the earth. Being sent into exile. Transported. Being got rid of. Being dumped on his grandmother. Being sent to the worst and most boring place in the world.

Well. Flinders Island, anyway.

Then she put down the phone and there was more yelling.

* * *

Áed sat, as was his right, at his sleeping master’s feet. Those few who could see him, and his kind, tended to take him for twisted bits of shadow and angle, which looked oddly like a sharp-faced little manikin, a tiny little man with black shards of eyes. There was no flesh or blood or true bone about him, but Áed was stirred by the boy’s anger and fear, and numbed by his resignation. He didn’t understand his master. Of course, as one of the lesser spirits of air and darkness, he didn’t have to understand. His kind of Fae were bound to the bloodline, and only had to obey. Áed was loyal to this one, even if the child carried only a little of the old blood of the Faerie kings of the Aos Sí, and neither commanded his sprite, nor gave the traditional rewards and honours to Áed. The sprite knew the old ways and understandings were lost among modern men. That was the way of it, but he regretted their passing.

This day he’d served his master well. He’d woken the need-fire in an air-conditioning unit. Fortunately it was mostly plastic, aluminum and copper wire, with little cold iron. Even the iron bones in these buildings caused Áed discomfort. It had been hard to do. Raising fire was an achievement deserving of reward, uisge beatha or at least a bowl of old mellow mead…

It wouldn’t be forthcoming, Áed knew.

Still, he was loyal.

* * *

When he woke, Tim wasn’t too sure how he’d gotten to his bedroom. He hadn’t changed or anything, or even gotten into the bed that he’d fallen asleep on. He was still wearing the same school clothes with the smell of smoke from the burned-out store clinging to them.

He tried not to wake up. Tried to bury himself safe in sleep. It couldn’t have been real. It must have been a really bad dream. Please? He closed his eyes again, determined to ignore the school uniform and the smell of smoke.

And then his mother was yelling at him lying there. That, at least, was normal.

“Get up! I don’t know what is wrong with you, Tim! Have you been smoking that filthy weed again? I’ve begged you to stay away from that stuff. But would you listen to me? No!”

Tim sat, blinking, on the edge of the bed. “I told you, I only ever did that once. But you never believe me, do you?” he muttered, sullenly. It was true. He’d been scared to try it, but Hailey told him not to be a nob. And that the tagging that he’d done on the train had been so cool. He’d wanted to be cool, not a nob, so he’d taken the joint from her. And then he’d been really, really sick. Couldn’t breathe, and saw weird things, which wasn’t what happened to other people, from what he’d heard. Hailey had panicked, and had run away and left him. Some passerby had found him and called the ambos. The doctor at emergency said that he had an allergic reaction. The doctor hadn’t been very sympathetic, but it was nothing, absolutely nothing, to the fit his mother had thrown — nearly as bad as last night. She didn’t believe him, and she was at him all the time about it. It had been after the fight about the bill for breakages at Harvey Norman. She hadn’t believed him then, either. Well, no one did. There had been a few other things when it had been him, he had to admit. But he didn’t ever want to touch cannabis again.

 

The Seer – Snippet 56

The Seer – Snippet 56

Innel plucked a dagger from the wall, hefted it to see how it balanced, waiting for Lason to object, which he did not. He put it down, walked the periphery of the room. “How old were you when you took this office?”

“Times were different then. She needs my expertise, now more than ever. No one trusts you, Innel.”

Innel closed fast on Lason, stopping short of arm’s reach. The other man took a startled step backward.

“Lason,” he said. “Your command is over. Step aside. Grow old in glory.”

“I’m not done.”

Innel glanced at the map on the desk. The northern expansion, some decades back. The one Innel’s father had given his life for.

“You most certainly are done. I’ll give you until this afternoon’s fifth bell to leave my offices.”

“The queen will see reason. I’ll go to her.”

“Don’t challenge me. If you do, it will be the last time.”

“It’s all been so easy for you, hasn’t it? Your rise to power. Just one long streak of good luck.”

Innel was startled at these words. That anyone could see him as fortunate, in any way, as though he had somehow stumbled his way to where he now stood, was beyond his comprehension.

Lason snorted. “And all because your father managed to get himself killed in battle in some clever way that the king noticed. I assure you being killed is not at all difficult, boy, and it doesn’t matter how clever you are about it, because you’re dead. Your father was clumsy.”

Innel fought a craving to slam the man to the ground. He was simply not sure, once he started such a thing, that he’d be able to stop.

Bad for appearances, Innel beating the old king’s brother. The queen’s uncle. It would look as if Cern had married and promoted a man with an unstable temper, and that would do them no good.

But it was tempting. Agonizingly so. He struggled to keep his hands at his side.

“You mutt,” Lason spat. “You’ll ruin Arunkel, piss on this glorious empire, shit all over everything we’ve built.”

One of the advantage of Restarn’s ways, Innel realized, was that this confrontation would never have taken place.

Innel walked to the door, unbolted it. “The fifth bell,” he repeated.

“I trained you, Innel. I know what you know. I’ve seen your mistakes, and I know every one of them. It’s disgusting, what you did. We lost one of our best when you slaughtered your brother. Pohut had good sense, and patience. But you –”

Innel shut the door behind him and wondered if Restarn’s methods might not have something to recommend them after all.

#

“What else?” Innel asked, keeping his voice low, despite that the two of them were alone in this small cellar room, vegetables and bags stacked high on shelves.

Innel had made sure Rutif was part of the team that delivered fruits and vegetables to the palace. The man had one leg shorter than the other and always stood lopsided, now splaying a hand to lean against the wall as he spoke.

A dockworker from childhood, until a crushing accident had taken most of his foot and ruined his knee, Rutif had a knack for getting people talking, and remembering what they had said, so Innel paid him to sit in the taverns and drink, which the man liked very much.

“Ser. Well –” Rutif drawled, rubbing his head in thought. “They liked the coronation parades. Especially the part with the sweet bread thrown from the carriages, the ones with the royal sigil baked in? They liked that very much.” He grinned, a gap-tooth smile.

That had been Innel’s idea, which the seneschal had not much cared for, muttering about propriety and expense.

“Tell them it was the queen’s idea. What else?”

“Yes, ser Commander. Let me think. Complaints from some of the captains.” Rutif scratched the back of his head, examined his fingers as if to see if anything had come off under his nails. “Since His Grace the old king’s been so sick, they haven’t been getting their full take. Don’t like it so much. Whining a lot.”

Full take? Innel needed to have a conversation with the finance minister. And a look at the ledgers. Perhaps the ledgers first. “Names?”

“Ahead of you there, Lord Commander,” Rutif said, handing Innel a folded piece of paper that was stained with what Innel hoped was only food.

“What else?” he asked.

“People saying how things are going to be better under the new queen. They say she looks like the Grandmother.”

She didn’t, not a bit, and anyone with a whole nals could see that, but it was a good rumor anyway. “I like that one; keep it going. Meet again next week. Now, you can get back to –” he waved at the stacks of vegetables.

“Oh, and there’s a young sergeant, got her drunk the other night, on about you and your brother. Something about a hard ride south a couple of years ago.”

At this, Innel froze. “Who?”

“Last name on the list, ser.”

#

Innel stepped to the edge of the large sunken tub where Cern bathed in steaming water. The royal bath was now Cern’s and the old king was bathed in his own rooms with a basin.

And yet here Innel was, almost as often as before. One of the ways in which she was very like her father. Which he would not say.

A slave boy knelt at the side of the tub, beginning to work a scented paste into Cern’s hair. When wet, Innel could see the hint of mahogany that was characteristic of the Anandynars. Like embers, he thought.

“Good afternoon, Your Majesty.”

Her mouth twitched at this coming from him, as though she could not quite decide how she felt about it. But Innel knew that his respect soothed her, and soothed she was more reasonable.

She stared out the window at the Houses and city spread below.

“Lason and I have spoken,” he said after a moment. “It wasn’t a friendly talk. He is refusing to leave my offices.”

“Ah. That explains why he demanded to speak to me today.”

“And?”

“I am busy.”

Innel made a thoughtful sound, not sure if this was loyalty on her part, or avoidance. “Perhaps you should talk to him, my lady. You might persuade him that it is in his best interest to cooperate.”

Her shoulders twitched in a shrug that sent ripples across the tub. The blond slave lathering her arm paused, sponge in hand. “You take care of it, Innel.”

There was a fine line between her letting him make decisions, and appearing not to rule at all.

“I can hardly send him to survey the roads in the outer provinces, as your father would have done at this obstinacy, much as I might like to. He’s your uncle.”

Her mouth turned downward. “I will talk to him.”

Innel rubbed his chin, fingers still surprised at the naked skin there. Cern didn’t like beards, so now everyone shaved. Those who did not were watched closely, in the Yarpin style, by the many who did.

“I’ve been talking to some of the captains about the rails to the north,” he said. It had been a challenge to find any who would confide in him about what was going on out there.

The slave poured water slowly and carefully over Cern’s head. Innel could see the effort involved as the slave boy poured with great attention to avoid her eyes. It must have been especially challenging when she nodded, as she did now.

“Good,” she said, distracted.

“There’s widespread corruption. Transporting goods via rail, to and from the mining villages. Without House sanction or royal accommodation.”

A second slave was tilting a bowl into the bathwater of dried flowers and scented herbs. Cern raised two fingers, and the slave froze in mid-tilt. Two more leaves escaped, fluttering down to the water.

“I suppose this has been going on for a while?”

That there were black-market arrangements up and down the Great Road and throughout the city, they both knew. How many, and how far it went, how much it was costing the crown, they had not. To grab hold of it, they would have to unravel the tangled knots that made up Restarn’s web of unwritten arrangements.

“Yes. It will take a while to sort out.” Some knots were better sliced across, but Cern’s rule was yet too young to take such abrupt action.

“I have sufficient things to take my attention,” she said. “Kelerre wants us to pay for repairs to their port, did you know that?”

 

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 23

Phoenix Ascendant – Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Poplock looked at Kyri, who was clearly weakened and shaking with reaction from the attack and shock, and Tobimar standing near her. Right, I can take this myself.

“Okay, you’ve got a chance to talk. Better make the talk good. So you’re a demon under Viedraverion’s command?”

Tashriel’s face twisted in half-amusement, half-misery. “I was…on loan to Viedraverion. He made my real master, Balinshar, give me to him for a special project–and used his father to put pressure on Balinshar to do it.”

“So the first big question is…why you?”

“Because I’m…not really a demon. Not entirely, not in my…what’s left of my soul. I was a human being, once. Then I became a vampire, then the demons came for us and they captured me instead of killing me. At the time,” another twisted smile, “I almost thought they did me a favor. I was deep in the madness that all the Cursed get when the blood takes hold. I…I think I’d killed some of my own people, it’s all blurred, but I know that when I came to myself I really was grateful for a moment. Before I realized they’d simply killed everyone anyway and were making me one of them.”

“Interesting,” said Toshi. “But you must have had something special about you that made you worth saving.”

Tashriel paused, then swallowed, looking at the others. “Yes. It was a huge secret. Balinshar kept that knowledge absolutely hidden from everyone; he figured that I might be a hidden weapon, a blade from nowhere, if he played things right. Realizing that Viedraverion already knew about it…that was a shock.”

“Well?”

He took a deep breath. “I was trained in Thanalaran–I don’t know what to call it in your language, exactly. It combined alchemy, sorcery, the powers of the mind, and mechanisms of science, devices–”

“Technomancy!” Xavier blurted out.

“Technomancy? Well…I suppose, yes, that’s not a terribly bad way to put it. It was an ancient and secret discipline even in my era, long, long ago.”

That makes sense. Poplock gave a satisfied bounce. “Okay, so now I understand why you were sent to Wieran. He was doing a lot of that technomancy stuff already.”

“I found it almost impossible to believe when I saw it. He seemed to have singlehandedly reconstructed things not seen since Atla’a Alandar. I was there as an assistant.”

Gabriel was nearby, leaning against one of the unbroken trees. “Pardon me for saying so, but you’re being very pleasant, apparently forthcoming, and so on. If you’re such a pleasant fellow, why were you working for these people?”

The yellow gaze dropped, Tashriel’s expression went nearly dead. “They…made me what I was. They can…are…making me do things. You’ve beaten me for the moment, I can think and act for myself for a little while…but soon I’ll have to go back.” He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood with one of his sharp fangs. “I…don’t want to. But it’s so hard to fight. Now that the matrix is gone and my service to Viedra’s failed, I’ll have to return to Balinshar, and I don’t want to do that. But…I’ll have to.”

“Not if you’re dead,” Aurora said grimly. “And you haven’t said anything that makes me sure you’re leaving alive.”

“She’s got a point. We still don’t know how you got in that tube, and whatever you have to say about Viedraverion.”

“I…Speaker’s Name, this is hard for me! I am fighting…very hard…to try to tell you. If I wasn’t sort of between masters, not formally returned to Balinshar, I wouldn’t be able to act at all!” The white-haired youth’s hands shook; he clenched them into fists. “The tube was prepared by Wieran to Viedraverion’s precise specifications and secured as you found it. Wieran was simply told to leave it available for later use. I was told to enter the tube, and what part I was to play and how I was to disguise myself, when it became clear that the ‘endgame,’ as he put it, was starting. At that point Wieran would be far too focused on his own work to worry about my location.”

“So Master Wieran had no knowledge of this trick of Viedraverion’s at all?”

“None. Well…I’m sure he knew that there was a much larger purpose in the tube’s presence, but not what it was, nor did he care much.”

Poplock saw Kyri’s head come up. “How did you manage to play Rion so well? You knew things that only he should know. How?”

“That was the ‘matrix’ I mentioned. Viedraverion transferred it to me when he sent me to Wieran, but didn’t activate it until I entered the tube. It was…” He met Kyri’s gaze; Poplock saw more sorrow there than he had expected. “You had already guessed the essence of it, really. It was a part, a scrap of the real Rion’s soul, that I could…well, wrap around my own like a cloak and make into a sort of front that reacted on its own, using my soul and strength to translate its echoes of memory. I’ve never seen anything like it; I didn’t think it was possible to do that so…perfectly. When I spoke as Rion, I almost was him. If I didn’t let myself think too much as myself, if I didn’t try to look ahead or behind like an actor, but rather let ‘Rion’ act…it could be nearly perfect. There were only a few minor gaps in its memory, but you already noticed and discounted those.”

“What about our truthtelling? It covered that, too?” Kyri demanded.

Tashriel shook his head again, a slow, disbelieving motion. “In truth, I thought I might be discovered then. The matrix was already breaking, I had become too…caught up in it, too interested in becoming part of what I saw, for it to remain untouched. I…I didn’t want to PLAY the part, I was trying to make the part follow what I wanted, and that stressed it too much. It managed to still hide my nature, but I had to be very, very careful about how I answered and literally force the remaining matrix to help in the answers. Some of them were…evasive, at the least, such as whether I attacked Helina–I made myself believe it was not really an attack, because she was cooperating with me–or whether I was your brother, because I was, with the matrix, the only part of your brother left. But at that point I knew that I had very little time left. Days, perhaps not even that. So…”

“Let’s go back. Tell us about Viedraverion. We’ve heard the name, we know he’s a demonlord and a plotter and all, but can you tell us more about him?”

Tashriel nodded vehemently. “Oh, yes. Balinshar hated Viedraverion, so he made sure I knew all about him, and spent time studying him to find weaknesses and blind spots.” He looked at the others regretfully. “But…he doesn’t really have any.

“Viedraverion is the first son of Kerlamion Blackstar himself. He has served a key role in many plans by the King of All Hells. After Atlantaea was brought down and the Sauran Kingdoms shattered, Viedraverion was sent out to scour the galaxy for remnants of the old civilizations and destroy or neutralize them…until there was effectively no chance for anyone out there to learn the truth.”

Toshi looked up sharply. “That would have taken nearly forever. Galaxies are big.”

“He knew that too. So–according to the records–what he did was let civilizations rise to a certain level, where they started locating and collecting the relics themselves…and then arrange the civilization to collapse. In effect, he got literally trillions or quadrillions of people to act as his searching parties.”

Oh, mud and drought. “He’s a long-term thinker.”

“Very long-term. He spent over a hundred thousand years on that assignment.”

Nike stared at Tashriel. “I know Khoros was that old, but I still have a hard time imagining something living that long without changing.”

“Oh, it can change even Demons some. Balinshar used to rant about that; apparently before he spent a hundred thousand years manipulating civilizations, Viedraverion was really bright and manipulative but had a cold, hard approach that tended to drive people away. After he came back, he had learned how to work with people.”

“I see,” said Toshi. “Then when he sent you to Wieran, he had already planned your integration with Kyri’s party. He was certain they would triumph over all odds, and return here.”

“He wasn’t certain,” Tashriel corrected. “He believed things would work out as they did–with many, many contingencies prepared for various alternative outcomes.” A corner of his mouth curled upward, and the yellow eyes were distant for a moment. “He…it was one of the good things about working with him, that I could see something so incredibly…well, beautiful as his strategies, laid out like a map of the future, illuminated in gems and gold.”

“Screw your admiration for the artist,” Aurora snapped. “What had he ‘mapped’ for you?”

Tashriel looked at her and Poplock saw what seemed honest guilt in his eyes. “I was supposed to gain your complete confidence, let you ‘help’ me regain myself, er, well, Rion’s self, and then lead you to the Retreat where Viedraverion and the other Justiciars would be waiting for you.”

“Then what were you doing–”

For the first time, color flamed on Tashriel’s cheeks. “Rion loved his sister very much. And I was playing him for months. But I’m not her brother, and those emotions going through me…being near her…I found I didn’t want to lead her into danger. I didn’t want to. And my feelings…weren’t brotherly, really, not once I started feeling them myself. Combined with everything else…I stopped thinking.”

There was a moment of silence; Poplock could see that most expressions were a combination of sympathy, anger, and revulsion. Complex situation. “So,” he said, “The important questions: what’re his powers, and do you know any weaknesses or quirks he has we might be able to use?”

“Powers are easy. He’s…really powerful in most areas. In his natural form–which is about seven feet tall, really broad, gray-skinned–he’s phenomenally strong and fast, even for a demon. He’s very resistant to most forms of magic and very tough against weapons of all kinds. He’s also a rannon master–what you call psionics, powers of the mind–with a lot of experience in using it to kill, control and so on. Telekinetic, telepathic, self-enhancement, he knows how to use it all at an extremely high level of power.”

Tobimar looked grim. “When you say ‘extremely high,’ what–”

“That big wall of stone Aurora threw in front of me? He could just think at it, and it’d fly up a mile and come down on top of you. That’s ‘extremely high.’ And he might be a lot stronger than that.”

“Great Balance,” muttered Kyri. “I…don’t know if we can face this.”

“Maybe you can,” Tashriel said. “If he has any weakness, it is that of all demons: the power of the Gods of Light is a major weapon against them, and you are Myrionar’s only real representative, now. Tobimar…I know he has true holy power as well. Together you might…”

He stopped suddenly, and his face showed horror and regret that sent a chill of fear dancing along Poplock’s skin. “Oh, no. Oh, I’m sorry, Kyri. I’m so, so sorry. That’s why…”

“What? What’s why? Why what?” Poplock knew that didn’t sound very coherent, but it asked the questions he needed answered.

“I…that’s why I couldn’t stop, why I had to…” Tashriel trailed off, cursing in a Demonic tongue. “No! By the Speaker and the Lady! That was why I couldn’t stop myself! It was his contingency–he’d made sure I would do it!”

“Do WHAT?” Poplock bellowed.

Tashriel’s face was even whiter than it had been. “I…exchanged blood with her. Some of hers in me, then some of mine to her.”

Tobimar’s blades whispered from their sheaths. “You monster. You mean…”

“Yes,” Tashriel whispered. “She’s got the Curse now. In a few days the change will begin. The madness will strike. And even before that…she will be no threat to Viedraverion.

“Because if she so much as tries to summon the holy power of Myrionar, it will burn her to ashes.”

 

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 02

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 02

“Hold your brother’s hand. Don’t let go, no matter what.”

Emmy takes Zach’s hand, as grim as a warrior. For once, he doesn’t complain.

“Ready?”

Emmy nods. Zach shoves his thumb in his mouth, something Gracie thought he’d stopped doing half a year ago. Leaving Neil has taken a toll on all of them.

Gracie pulls the restroom door open and ushers the kids out, keeping them close and squarely in front of her. She picks the weremystes out of the lunchtime crowd and they spot her at the same time. Two remain in the parking lot, visible through the glass doors, but less of a threat for now. Two more are in the restaurant, their features blurred, though she can still make out the predatory grins that curve their lips at the sight of Emmy and Zach. She has warded herself and the kids a dozen times already today, and yet she has to resist the urge to waste valuable seconds on still another protective spell.

Instead, she attacks. She doesn’t want to hurt the people around her, but she doesn’t have time enough to be careful. She lashes out, drawing on the electricity humming in the walls and ceiling of the restaurant. Bolts of magic, writhing and twisting like twin snakes, fly from the palms of her hands. The restaurant lights flicker and then burst. Glass and sparks rain down on them. People scream. And the two men before her are tossed backward like ragdolls. They land on tables, slide across them, and tumble into the laps of diners, eliciting more screams.

Zach lets out a low, “Whoa!”

She pushes the kids to the door, yanks it open and steps onto the sidewalk out front. Two more men face her there. One is young, his magic a soft blurring at the edges of his face. He is nothing.

But the other . . .

Gracie halts, her breath catching. Power like this shouldn’t be possible. Not for a mortal. She gets a vaguely familiar impression of sharp, handsome features, silver-white hair and a trim goatee and moustache. He wears dress pants and a button-down shirt. She senses age, wisdom, and all that power.

“Hello, Engracia.”

She knows better than to attack him head on. He can defeat any spell she might cast, and she won’t have time for a second attempt.

“What have you done with it?”

She tries the unexpected. Her casting lifts the younger man off his feet and slams him into the older gentlemen. Both mystes go down in a heap. For good measure she casts again, dropping a trash can on them. One of those big, rectangular faux stone ones that restaurants keep near their doors. It’s full, and it lands with a satisfying crash.

“Run!” she says.

The kids stare at her.

“Run!” She yells it this time. They sprint toward the van.

She pulls the fob from her pocket and thumbs the doors open. She checks again on the two men and casts one last spell — a second garbage can soars at the mystes from several yards away and drops onto them much as the first did. Her head is starting to hurt, and her vision swims. She’s going to be in no condition to drive.

She dashes to the van, pulls the door shut, and fumbles with the keys, trying to stick the right one in the ignition.

“Hurry, Mommy!”

Gracie glances back through the rear window. Already the older man is stirring. She shoves the key in place, starts the car, and backs out of the space with a squeal of rubber on pavement.

She hits the curb as she turns onto the street, has to swerve to avoid being hit by a pickup. The driver hollers an obscenity.

But Gracie is watching through her rearview mirror. The silver-haired man is on his feet by now. A young woman emerges from the restaurant and glares after her. The gentleman lays one hand on the woman’s shoulder and holds the other out toward the van.

“Mommy!” Emmy says, her voice rising.

“I see him.”

She casts a warding on the van. Her stomach heaves, and she fears she might be ill.

An instant later, his spell hits. The van swerves again, tips onto its right wheels. Emmy screams. Zach starts to cry. She fights it, trying to hold the steering wheel steady, and at the same time casting another warding, an answer to the silver-haired myste’s assault. And still she fears it will not be enough. She feels faint; her grip on the wheel slackens. But then the van rights itself, dropping back onto all four tires with an impact that jars her and the kids.

She chances one more peek at the mirror and sees the silver-haired myste release the woman. She crumples to the pavement.

Gracie runs a red light, barely missing an SUV. Horns blare at her, but she ignores them, steers the car down the ramp toward the interstate.

The myste will have seen her take the southbound ramp. That can’t be helped. But she’ll leave the interstate at the next opportunity and strike out into the desert. He won’t expect that, and by the time he figures out what she’s done, she and the kids will be far away, sheltered somewhere he doesn’t know, laying low until it’s safe again.

That’s the plan, anyway. But even as she hurtles down the freeway, headache building behind her eyes, she glances at her mirrors, expecting to see the dark ones coming for them.