Chapter 22
Dismal Job
“If this keeps up we’ll be going through Salt Lake after dark. You know what’s there.” Edward shifted in the backseat, most likely peering at Cass’s slumped form.
She was breathing in deep regular swells, apparently asleep. Perhaps it was a means of seeking psychological relief; while awake her tears were constant, absolutely silent, and each one scored a trail of acid inside Nigel’s chest.
It was a good thing his mask was firmly in place.
“I do.” Taking a spell behind the wheel was good for thinking, and Nigel had plenty of that to accomplish.
Wrestling with his conscience was a side benefit.
He literally could not bring himself to do what he knew he should, and was risking his Elder’s safety as well.
“We may very well pass unnoticed, if we are swift and canny. Once we’re through it might be easier to make contact. ”
“May and might,” Edward muttered. He shifted again, peering out the rear window at a few lonely headlights strung along a dusty pavement string, its flow rising and falling sedately, like a vast breathing animal.
“Too many cops and highway patrol today, plus those damn trucks. He’s looking, all right, but can’t lock on. ”
“It certainly appears that way.” They had made it through the Wallowa range, at least, and those relatively smaller peaks were behind them; the far greater wall of the Divide loomed ahead.
Having to pull off the freeway and thread through smaller towns more than once, losing time, waiting for the groping, flailing searches to slide past—it was maddening, but striking straight through would have been much, much worse.
There were no blockades or checkpoints yet, but Nigel thought it possible the god might manufacture a reason to choke off all physical roadways soon. “At least she’s resting.”
Silence thickened, pressing against every interior surface. The situation was a hairsbreadth from desperate; they hadn’t even crossed the Nevada border yet. And now Nigel had to wonder whether he had made the correct choice.
Too late, you’re committed. Simply settle, and do what you must. Wonderful advice for a nervous Younger or questioning Elder, but upon a Father lay the burden of command, and that involved doubt.
The road unreeled, rising and falling under ceaselessly spinning tires.
The night was young, the next town a faint orange smear on the horizon.
Was it better to drive or to halt, let his lirai rest in a bed?
Or was he simply contemplating the pleasure of carrying her from the vehicle to some temporary harbor?
The feel of her, soft and trembling as he ran, had not left his arms. Nigel suspected it would not fade for a very long while, if ever.
Their lirai stirred. A few quick, sleep-slurred words in her soft, lovely tones added to a subtle pressure, the brush of invisible wings resounding through the Chevy. A strange deep thrill slipped along his nerves, tightening his fingers almost to creaking on the wheel.
Edward shifted again, a shadow in the rearview Nigel shouldn’t be watching. “Sir, I think she’s in the Dreaming Lands, doing something.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Plenty of the Dreamer’s art was instinctive, and she was under a great deal of stress. “Not likely to alert him, though. Not unless she sens—”
A shadow skittered ahead, at the furthest edge of enhanced vision. Beyond the headlight glow; still, one of the two lonely vehicles before them swerved onto the shoulder, a plume of dust rising. The other wavered, and something dark was suddenly on its roof.
For a brief flickering moment, an inky paper cutout crouched atop the second car. Then it leapt, collecting physical mass, and slammed onto the roof of the first. Nigel jammed the accelerator to the floor, and inhaled softly. “Not unless she senses hunters.”
“Great.” Slight clicks, Edward was checking ammunition. Huntglow lit his pupils, gleaming dimly in the windshield’s reflection. “Want me outside?”
Not enough time. “I think it’s best you stay with—”
“Moon,” Cass said, very clearly, and concentric rings of lovely, dappled golden warmth spread through the car as she returned to waking consciousness. “They’re from the moon.”
Bright white glare swelled behind them—another car, approaching rapidly.
Too rapidly.
No use wondering how fleeing Sons had been found, or if it were simple bad luck. The engine thrummed, and its sudden gulp of fuel turned into motion pressed Nigel into the driver’s seat with an invisible hand. “Brace yourself.”
He barely had time to finish the words. Another white glare multiplied from the first, the slight rise behind them birthing two more cars. Cass cried out, a low hurt sound, and the power pouring from her intensified.
The first hit, however, came from the left, streaking across an empty lane. The car slewed wildly, Nigel steering into the skid and wondering what manner of shadowbeast had just sacrificed itself so flagrantly.
Not that it mattered. Their stolen transport held up admirably to the first few barrages, and the situation might have been recoverable if the right front tire hadn’t blown. The best strategy, known to both Sons and their enemies alike—first kill the car, then what it carries.
And the most vulnerable point, as ever, was the wheels.
The desert and its arching, star-strewn night sky changed places several times, friction and velocity playing games with a metal box full of fleshly creatures. Nigel didn’t even have time to hope Edward was bracing Cass; the Elder knew his duty.
Five cars used as battering rams, a mass of unclean driven from nearby cities into the wilderness, gaining physicality and throwing themselves at high-value prey—the Mad God was taking this lirai’s existence seriously and personally indeed.
Dry floury dust rose in choking veils, the Chevrolet wildly careening through the eternal barbed wire fence running alongside American roads, then piercing a bank of sagebrush clinging to a slight sheltering declivity.
Pebbles and slightly larger stones rattled, flung in every direction; the sharp stink of petrol ballooned.
It was easier than he expected to burst from a badly dented iron cocoon; his lirai was no doubt dazed by the dual shock of waking and accident. Sharp steel clove night air; Nigel had to buy enough time for the Elder to get her free.
Crunch. Invisible force surged through him, spread in rings.
His signet spat a single vicious spark as he clove the first nthlei neatly in twain; Flame-blessed steel ran with coruscating, rainbow-edged light deadly as the edge itself.
Shaken and exhausted, how long could Cass strengthen her protectors?
It didn’t matter. Nigel sidestepped, thin black ichor flung from the sword’s shining sweep as leng- and jana-spiders screamed, dying under a lash of pure energy.
The creatures were massing too quickly; he shifted to one-hand grip, his left diving for the .
45, already planning each bullet’s path.
Pale smears flitting along the roadside were concerning, but he had no time to worry about them just yet.
A babbling, smoking shadow squealed out of the throbbing dark; he shot the raving corpse once, bullet wedded to lethal force drawn from the well behind him.
As expected, the creatures now found an angry Father the problem to address above all others, a tough spiky shell protecting the tender glowing meal they salivated for.
A screech of tearing metal behind him, then Edward’s voice, raised in a short sharp cry of effort.
Good lad. Keep her safe.
He almost thought they would succeed until his Elder began firing, but not at the beasts before Nigel. Edward was using the overturned vehicle as cover, which meant they were almost surrounded.
This time, the Mad God did not intend to leave his errant Sons any chance of escape, no matter how minute.
The wave of force—and Cass’s hoarse, despairing cry—hit Nigel squarely in the back. He knew lirai were blind as they fought, only glimpsing battles through the eyes of nearby Sons, but this was the first time he had ever lost sight under a near-hurricane of a Dreamer’s energy.
By the Dreamers, she’s powerful. He found himself on one knee, shaking his head, sword-point buried in dry sandy earth, charred steaming hunks of shadowbeast scattered in every direction.
“Sonofa—” Edward didn’t finish, the reflex of proper behavior in a lirai’s presence asserting itself with a vengeance. “Sir? Nigel? You okay?”
His head rang, his tongue was clumsy-thick, and for a moment he was genuinely uncertain if his limbs would obey his will.
“Not sure,” he heard himself mumble, as if drunk.
Which could almost be amusing; he didn’t even know what inebriation felt like.
His current metabolism burned many substances almost before they managed to reach his liver, and he had come to the Sons an orphan, even younger than usual in his benighted historical age.
Nigel wondered blankly what year it was, and how old it would make him. He could remember neither, and settled for levering himself upright. It took two tries, and as he achieved verticality the thin ultrasonic needle-cries of hunting-horns lifted in the distance.
The desert was starred in every direction with lumps of smoking, quick-rotting shadowbeast and raving corpse, the vehicles used to run down and box in prey mostly crumpled or listing upon blown tires.
None were likely drivable, and the risk of contamination was too high for their fragile lirai.
Still, he glanced over the possibilities and felt the weary urge to chuckle before turning; his heart threatened to halt when he glimpsed Cass on her way down, her eyelids fluttering and entire body unstrung in the way that said unconscious, or soon will be.
Edward, half flung against the wreck of their vehicle, shook his head and was too late to catch her.
Long years of training wouldn’t let Nigel drop his sword, but he never afterward remembered holstering the gun or his knees scraping furrows in the dirt as he slid, barely managing to break the force of her fall.
She was deadweight, no flicker of consciousness remaining to twitch at the impact, and she folded over his shoulder, her cheek hitting his back with a solid impact he very nearly winced at.
“She’s out.” Edward pushed himself away from the wreck with both palms, then bent swiftly to scoop up one of his guns, with a flickering sideways glance as if he suspected Nigel would take him to task for losing grip or almost allowing a Dreamer to hit dirt. “Damn it.”
Nigel decided not to mention either event.
There were much larger problems at the moment; the flood of warmth had vanished.
All that remained was slightly prickling numbness; her presence still warded away the Mad God’s whispers, but nothing more.
Unconsciousness was a mercy, since she had to be close to burnout.
And that would be terrible. Dismal job of protecting her you’re doing, old squire. “Ammo?” That was the first task. All else would follow.
“I can get it.” Edward suited action to work, clambering onto the wrecked Chevrolet. Too big, like most American cars—but it had shielded what mattered.
“Careful, the tank’s cracked.” The stink of petrol was almost overwhelmed by the reek of rotting shadowbeast. Another round of ugly, glass-sharp hunting cries lifted to the north and west. “Should we go parallel to the road, or strike overland?”
“What, no hitchhiking?” Edward braced himself, tearing one of the back doors free and bending to wriggle inside. “If this happened in a city we’d already have fresh transport.”
If wishes were fishes, even beggars could feast. “There’s something nearby.” Nigel tested his balance, settling her weight more carefully. She was still breathing, but he didn’t like the absence of that deep forgiving warmth. “Our lirai might actually be burnt out.”
“Not surprised. Knocked me right into…” The Elder stilled. So did the Father, tilting his head, sword held carefully down and away.
Another hunting-horn, crying in the wild. This one was much closer, a thin brass-chased stiletto piercing eardrums and temples. Nigel’s lips skinned back from his teeth—with Cass so deeply unconscious, he didn’t have to worry about the expression frightening her.
No doubt it was better that way. Soft slithering lingered under the horn-call, and the few confused blades of rapidly failing glow from cracked headlights guttered as the wrecked cars cowered under an uncaring sky.
No moon as of yet, and even the highway’s sparse lamps lost their health, turning thin and pale.
Edward untangled himself from the wreck, landing catlike, sand falling from his jacket in thin hissing streams. Two backpacks, both bulging with ammo and other useful items, dangled from one hand. He froze, staring toward the road, and Nigel exhaled, softly.
The shadows were ink-thick, alive with movement. Noisome pale gleams coalesced, paired blue eye-glitters winking into existence. Long thin sharp shapes bloomed in the creatures’ slim white hands.
Sarnaki, and their toothpick-pointed ivory spears. No hounds yet—the noseless, grinning masters had outpaced both their lunn’yie servants and the hunting canines.
Even so, there were far, far too many of them.
“You’re faster,” Edward said, conversationally. “Get going.”
A wrecked car nearby burst into flame with an oddly quiet wump, but the bleached, shivering flames would grant no warmth. Not against what was approaching. Nigel’s stomach dropped, and the knowledge upon him was chill as death itself.
We will all die here.
One sarnaki hissed. The others answered with a tide of chilling little giggles, high and childlike save for their complete lack of innocence.
“Go!” his Elder roared, and began firing.