Chapter 26 Worse Than Weather
Worse Than Weather
There were advantages to being small and nimble, not to mention doing the unexpected.
After a certain point the god’s grasp upon human institutions became unwieldy; dodging both marked and unmarked law enforcement vehicles wasn’t quite child’s play, but it was close.
The effort of blurring traffic cameras intensified in urban areas, but stopping at every opportunity to feed and care for his lirai meant the wonderful, nearly narcotic warmth of her grace returned swiftly, erasing fatigue, granting an edge he intended upon using to the fullest.
Cass’s visible dejection was worrisome and her shy offer of a Son’s greatest honour extremely distracting; he attempted to soothe the former and did not dare think upon the latter. It took a distinct effort, especially as she had ceased even watching for chances of escape.
Instead, his lirai was docile and often glaze-eyed. She moved rather slowly, ate mechanically, did precisely what he asked of her upon all points, and even replied to his awkward attempts at conversation. Had the situation been less dire, his position could perhaps have been pleasant.
As it was, the only word which applied was excruciating.
The orbiting detritus of a major city swallowed them in midafternoon—strip malls, suburbs, billboards, freeway lanes multiplying, signs proliferating with abandon.
Salt Lake City brooded under a flood of bleached sunshine, the slowly evaporating inland sea it was named for throwing back great angry diamond glitters.
A thinly gilded angel gleamed atop a massive white American excuse for a cathedral, and though Nigel was blocking the increasing psychic pressure as a matter of course his lirai still fidgeted uneasily as the Wasatch Range loomed higher and higher.
She shifted again, her arms crossed protectively. At least she’d taken her feet down from the dash; it wasn’t his place to remonstrate, but that posture simply wasn’t safe.
“They won’t expect us here.” Nigel sought to sound reassuring. “In the morning we’ll try to call in again; it should be easier. But you must rest tonight.”
She peered out her window. “Why does it feel like it’s going to rain?”
“Summer thunderstorm. Look at the mountains, there. No precipitation, but perhaps a light show.” He had never spoken this much with anyone, let alone a Dreamer. “Are you hungry? It’s about time to try to—”
“Ugh, I can’t do more drive-thru. Please.” Cass hugged herself more tightly, sinking into the seat. At least the Jeep’s air-conditioning was entirely up to snuff. “It feels worse than weather. This isn’t good, we shouldn’t stay overnight.”
Of course her instincts were exquisitely sensitive.
“The pressure is partly from the population density—I don’t know how you survived being in cities after meeting the Flame.
But that interference also hides you; it’s cover, almost like static.
This is the very last thing the Mad God or his hunters will expect. ”
“Okay.” Either she was too tired to disagree or considered any argument a waste of time; she sagged in her seat. “You’re the expert.”
She had very little reason to trust him or his competence, and yet there was no hint of sarcasm. It was… compelling, to be accorded such faith. If all Dreamers were like this specimen, perhaps the Sons who turned against the god had not been entirely motivated by mercenary self-serving.
Nigel weighed their options for shelter yet again, and came to the same answer. Risky, yes, but she needed—and deserved—some comfort. “We’ll use a nice hotel, right downtown.”
Instead of relief at the prospect, she evinced yet more uneasiness, brow wrinkling further. “Is that a good idea?”
“Lots of cover, lots of escape routes. Better food, and a real bed.” And tomorrow, another attempt to make contact with the Sons. It had to work.
If it didn’t and the worst occurred, he had one last desperate plan. Which might even meet with her approval, since it inevitably involved his own sacrificial demise.
A small price to pay, Nigel had already decided. It was strange to have something to live for; if he had to die for the pleasure, it would be only what he deserved.
* * *
After some thought, Nigel reluctantly set aside the idea of canvassing nearby for prime and alternate transport targets.
The soothing warmth of her presence would indeed stretch to the parking garage, but he couldn’t risk breaking the edge of that safety or leaving her unguarded for a single moment.
No matter, he could find something at a moment’s notice, even if it meant dragging a normal from their vehicle at gunpoint. What was the current term, carjacking? Quite evocative. After that they could hopscotch cars—Michael’s term, and surprisingly apt.
Edward, my boy. Be safe. He couldn’t help hoping, though Nigel knew it was in vain. There had simply been too many sarnaki, a lirai so near to burnout…
The door to the loo opened with a burst of steam, and Cass peered out.
They were both clean as sorcery could make them, but she’d brightened wistfully at the mention of a proper shower.
Her hair was wrapped in a bright white towel, her cheeks pink from the heat, and the soap-scent, vaguely floral, suited her a great deal.
She blinked, holding another towel tight to her chest; her bare shoulders and collarbone were heartbreakingly stark, though dewed with tiny jewels of leftover water.
“Dinner’s on the way.” He was at the window, straight and severe as a Father should be, hands clasped behind his back. And he tried very hard not to look at the fascinating slice of bare leg below the second towel’s hem.
She bit her lip very fetchingly, studying him across the blue-carpeted room. “I still don’t get how you pay for this.”
“Electronics are easy. Ones and zeroes, simply apply a little pressure and it’s done.
Once we’ve reached safety…” Nigel could barely think upon the prospect of success, since failure loomed so close.
But if he managed the impossible, she would be whisked directly into a liraim, finally cushioned against every possible shock or danger.
If she were called upon to travel afterward it would be with a full security detail, and accommodations would be nothing less than five-star.
“Anyway, this is the last thing any pursuer would expect. There are water mains and other infrastructure junctions underneath as well, and those provide interference. Covers us both nicely.”
She nodded, though the watchful anxiety did not leave those beautiful, forest-shade eyes. “Okay.”
His lirai retreated. The door swung shut once more, and his knuckles creaked. His pulse was not obeying the dictates of calm readiness, and neither was the rest of him.
You could tell her you’ve reconsidered. That it’s necessary. It could keep her safer. He couldn’t blame the god for the persistent whispering; no, it was entirely his own cowardice.
And greed. He could not even take pride in the room’s comfort or the food delivered, though she brightened at the sight of a room service cart and its covered trays.
“I must be getting old.” Finger-combing damp hair and smiling shyly, she treated the salads—Greek and Italian, both some kind of local special—like manna. “What did you get?”
He had no idea. It turned out to be some manner of sandwich and reasonably palatable chips; she shook her head ruefully.
“You must really like potatoes.”
No more than the next fellow. “It was on the menu,” he mumbled. He wished a Younger were here to make conversation, or even an Elder. Anyone who could comfort her, or remember what it felt like to be human.
Amazingly, she laughed, hand cupped over her mouth to catch the sound.
“Grik was like that when he joined up. He said a soldier will eat anything, and Apoc…” The merriment fled; she picked at a cherry tomato with her fork.
A small round red jewel, nestled among olives, artichoke, chunks of fresh mozzarella, and flecks of what had to be basil—at least it was respectable, if nothing compared to the fare in a Sons temple.
“You know, your organization should do some outreach. There’s bogey-hunters all up and down the West Coast who could use the backup. ”
“I’m not sure if upper echelons know of that.” Higher-level strategy was not his job. He went where he was told, he did as he should. “We’ve only just started pushing westward again.”
“So there weren’t any Dreamers here before, or…?”
“There were indigenous lirai, naturally, and Sons caring for them. Then colonization and smallpox arrived, and the Mad God saw an opportunity. There are more dangers than shadowbeasts in the world.” It was not a fit subject for dinner conversation, but he had no choice.
She took pity on him, perhaps, or was simply hungry for something other than fried starch.
Each bite was a victory; yet dark circles still glared under her eyes and halfway through the meal she commenced yawning.
The window—sixth floor, not the most expensive quarters which would mean more scrutiny, but not the cheapest either—was full of ruddy sunset reflecting off the mountains, sparks of electric light already burning in concrete wilderness at their feet.
Afterward she retreated to the loo again, and he was glad to have the task of cleanup. By the time she emerged he had drawn the curtains and turned down the bed, hoping he’d managed that task tolerably.
It might not have mattered. She set her trainers neatly by the bedside, dropped to the queen-sized mattress, rolled onto her side, and almost instantly passed out.