Chapter 6 Control, Persuade, Force
Control, Persuade, Force
God’s wounds, but he hadn’t felt this sensation for a long, long time.
Warm, numinous force spread from the slight figure in a bulky motorcycle jacket, leggings, heavy boots, and gloves. The helmet had cracked, clinging to its head, and the muffled cry as she heaved the sleek gleaming black motorcycle upright said female.
She probably didn’t even realize she was screaming, and the way she moved was strange. Either she was impelled by hysterical, adrenaline-fueled strength or someone had drilled her like a soldier.
Quite possibly both. The flood of golden, rainbow-edged energy was so strong it had almost knocked Nigel off his feet, and his sword had suddenly carved through the jana-spider chasing her with uncharacteristic ease.
Now the blade rang with dappled light, the Flame-blessing taking fresh strength, and his signet popped a single bright spark.
Edward was on one knee, shaking his head, one gun still trained slightly past the nthlei he’d taken out, at the smoking heaps of charred sludge that were its packmates.
No sarnaki or lunn’yie yet, but that was a mercy of short duration.
Droves of unclean were converging, and no wonder.
A lirai. An actual, breathing lirai—not just a potential but a full-fledged Dreamer.
The warmth and flood of coruscating power was her channeling through a pair of Sons, bringing them back to full strength and effectiveness in moments, and it didn’t stop there.
She was still broadcasting wildly, which meant she was either terrified beyond measure or virtually untrained, quite possibly both.
But how? And the way she scrambled for the motorcycle—
The ringing in his head wouldn’t stop. It wasn’t the Mad God’s slithering chuckle or persistent pressure, and the relief was so blissful it threatened to do what armies of shadowbeasts couldn’t, driving him completely out of his wits.
What was she doing here? Where were her guards? A Dreamer this powerful should have at least three trios just for everyday protection; she could push that wonderful, rainbow-edged force through half a city’s worth of patrollers without feeling the strain, cleansing the night.
Electric lamps were alive again instead of cloaked by hunting darkness, marching up and down a street rendered far narrower by lines of parked vehicles to either side.
Multiple shadowbeasts had been tracking her, and she’d given them a good run.
More were massing, and she was emitting such wild distress she would either pass out from the strain of channeling or attract an overwhelming number of the Mad God’s minions in record time.
The hunting-horns were now south and west, drawing closer by the moment.
“Wait!” Edward yelled. He had finally shaken off some of the shock, staggering upright and turning away from unclean corpses bubbling with thin stinking ichor. Daylight would cleanse the remaining foul slurry, though traces of evil smell would linger for a short while past dawn. “Wait, don’t!”
A wave of shudders passed through Nigel’s entire body.
The cessation of hopeless effort—so many years spent striving against the god’s attempts to control, persuade, force, mislead—was more stunning than an outright attack.
An engine gunned into life, and he realized blankly his sword was at parade guard as if he were in the salle his very first year as a Sons trainee, wielding a shortened, weighted wooden blade and hoping against hope to be found worthy of the mark.
He hadn’t thought about that in a very long time.
Nigel also realized he was watching as a full-blown lirai, completely unguarded and manifestly untrained, finished rousing the motorcycle.
Edward had regained both breath and wits, it appeared, since he’d almost reached her by the time the sleek blue rocket decided it, too, had endured enough and gave an escalating mechanical howl.
Starting and operating a machine under these circumstances was quite the achievement. Where on earth had she come from?
It didn’t matter. Nigel was already moving as well, knowing neither of them would reach her in time. He and his Elder had found a veritable miracle, and they were about to let it get away.
Oh, no you don’t. Please, please don’t.
A useless pair of thoughts, since the ’cycle clearly possessed significant aftermarket modifications.
The blue machine shook itself and shot into growling motion, bearing its fragile, glowing prize; to sorcerous senses she was a still-pulsing volcano, and physically she leaned into the machine’s momentum with sweet natural grace.
“Follow!” Nigel barked, and his Elder needed no urging.
At least she was tied to the ground, while the Sons could scale buildings, cut across rooftops, use every erg of inhuman speed and physical power they had regained thanks to her utter impossibility.
They were at full strength, all weariness and injury burned away. All they had to do was keep in range.
And hope the shadowbeasts didn’t reach her before the Sons could.
* * *
They almost lost her several times. The lirai naturally sensed snares of ill intent and concentrations of unclean, routing around them with instinctive grace.
She had to be much closer to clock any Sons, though, and each time they brushed against the far edges of her sensing range Nigel had to suppress a flare of bleak black near-nausea he recognized, after the first few times, as fear.
A Father’s detachment should overpower such things. Despite his age and experience, he had never been in this particular situation before. And she was going so bloody fast—the risk of a physical accident was unacceptably high.
Lirai were to be protected, padded, pampered, cherished; but she was riding some kind of death-rocket through the streets of an infested city, and broadcasting wildly to boot.
Who was she? Where did she come from? Had she escaped a liraim and fled? He could barely spare enough energy to dismiss the idea as she finally found a freeway onramp and opened up, the cycle’s distinctive engine-noise taking on a note of deep, no doubt illegally modified pleasure.
No matter how often and frantically potentials or newly awakened Dreamers sought to regain their previous, familiar lives, the Sons would go to the ends of the earth to find and guard them.
Those possessing the sensitivity and other qualities required to summon the Flame had reasonable, human psychological reactions when faced with evidence that the world was not as they had been raised to believe.
The shattering of those basic assumptions—not to mention the reality of ongoing war against the Mad God’s minions—was a brutal blow, and could be fatal.
But if she wasn’t an escapee, where on earth had she come from? Potentials, let alone full lirai, didn’t survive in territory crawling with unclean. It simply wasn’t possible; not only the Mad God’s servants but other predators of the non- or not-quite-physical were too numerous.
And far, far too hungry.
It took every sliver of strength and speed to stay just at the edge of sensing-range, moving on her trail.
Stray snippets of that wonderful warmth teased and fluttered while the main flow lingered tantalizingly out of reach.
No time for thought, for anything other than running and reaction; Edward anticipating his Father’s movements with the ease of long familiarity, Nigel returning the favor while keeping track of the hunting-horns.
Which, amazingly, receded into the distance. The motorcycle was agile as it was swift, and had an excellent rider.
She was headed out of the city, which meant fewer buildings to use but also, thankfully, fewer shadowbeasts.
Two Sons could use traffic going her way, conserving some effort—especially when her speed dropped to a comfortable margin over the posted limit, matching the vehicles around her, using them as cover.
Someone had to have trained her to do so.
Crouching atop a rather large freight lorry barreling in her wake, Nigel tented his fingers on the vibrating metal roof underneath him, his eyes mere slits, almost enjoying the harsh constant slap of freeway wind.
It was a reminder he was not hallucinating. The lirai existed, she was right in front of him, and at some point she would halt for fuel, for rest, something.
Edward was at the other end of the truck, no doubt scanning for pursuit and probably missing the tempting, taunting slivers at the very edge of her aura. Their chances of survival just became astronomically higher.
Yet Nigel was more uneasy with every passing mile. Where, by the Dreamers themselves, had she been hiding?
How on earth was she still alive?