Chapter 32
Singular and Terrible
It was far too soon for even a temporary halt.
But his pale, trembling lirai was silent, tear-tracks glistening on her cheeks, and his nape simply would not stop itching.
Nigel was certain their transport had been reported stolen by now, and the sorcerous blur on the license plates wouldn’t dissuade a sharp-eyed, curious human minion of the god’s.
Not when the rest of the vehicle was so bloody large—though big white church vans were common as a sneeze in this part of the country, second only to minivans meant for hauling a growing family to the nearest box store.
More than that, he sensed their luck was about to turn fully sour.
The near-constant presence of highway patrol cruisers at every hamlet along the freeway was expected, but what worried him more were the ones on isolated stretches, tucked in turnouts or culverts, behind billboards, waiting where rural roads joined the stream of pavement slipping between mountains.
This was the very fringe of the Mad God’s territory; like all borderlands, it was uneasy.
Not least because of opportunistic predators.
An ancient, barely renovated Phillips station hunched a stone’s throw from the freeway at the edge of a tiny town named Cranston, snuggled among pleated hills cradling an assiduously watered mini-valley.
A smudge hung at the northern horizon and a cloak of woodsmoke rode the uncertain breeze, giving an odd orange cast to daylight.
A persistent reek of burning had thickened consistently all morning, and Cass coughed when the windows were down.
For all that, she insisted on getting out of the van while he attended to the thankfully electric—and thus easily dealt with—petrol pump.
The station’s dust-filmed windows were painted with a faded, peeling approximation of July 4 fireworks and American flags, various signs announcing proudly NIGHTCRAWLERS FOR SALE, COLD BE R—the second ‘e’ was missing—and BAG ICE $.
50, which it probably hadn’t been for a decade and a half.
A few yellowed movie posters clung to the inside of the glass, and he spotted what was beyond doubt the vehicle belonging to an ill-paid clerk, parked to one side.
An ancient black Nissan coupe with balding tires, to be precise, backed in so its rear bumper snuggled to the side of a brick cubicle with what pretended to be a bear-proof gate, where a locked dumpster would be simmering on a drowsy, smoky summer afternoon.
“Nigel?” Cass’s lips were chapped, her lovely eyes red-rimmed. Perhaps she wanted to pretend the smoke was irritating tender tissues, because she brushed at her cheeks almost angrily. “Can I ask what it’s like? Where we’re going, I mean, your people.”
“The temple?” He kept an eye on the pump’s display, ready to override any electronic reticence.
Sometimes sorcery misfired on the damn things, if one pushed too hard or with any sort of rhythm.
“You’ll meet other lirai, they’ll teach you how to use your talents.
And you’ll have a liraim, most likely in a tower.
You can decorate it however you please. Anything you need or want will be brought. ”
The moment they arrived—even at a frontier temple, which was not the best option but certainly one he’d take if forced—she would be swarmed by Sons, and from that instant she would never again take an unguarded breath.
At an active with a Flame-well she would have three full flights each of close- and far-guard, naturally.
More if he could insist upon it or if she ever set foot outside the temple itself; along with the warmth of the Flame, the resident lirai would welcome another of their kind with relief and comforting only possible from those who understood the burden of their gifts.
A lucky breeze brushed her tangled chestnut hair, highlights glinting. “What about bogey-hunting?”
When you’re ready. “The other lirai will help.” He searched for something, anything she might find even remotely consolatory. “You could hold an entire city on your own, with enough Sons in attendance, but that won’t happen for some while.”
“What’s that like?” At least she was curious, not simply staring vacant-eyed. Holding up with far more grace than he ever imagined possible, shaming him with far more bravery than he could ever display.
“Generally a Dreamer is carried by a member of their close-guard, since it’s a little confusing, being blind to the outside world while you channel.” The thought of being given that particular honour was exceedingly attractive. “But don’t worry, it’s all instinctive.”
“What about scenarios?” Even rumpled, coughing, and dehydrated, she was absolutely stunning; Cass shifted uneasily, her battered trainers brushing cracked concrete. “You know, where I run a fight over and over while kind-of-dreaming, figuring out the best way to handle it?”
Nigel nearly forgot about the pump for a moment, studying her intently. “Is that what you did for your friends?”
“Oh yeah. I’m better at recon, though. Will your people let me have a motorcycle for that?” Her bloodshot eyes gleamed, and it was heartbreaking to hear such wistful hope.
She was trying to cheer him up, Nigel realized, though it was extremely unlikely she considered their chance of reaching safety to be anything more than slim. “A lirai generally doesn’t do reconnaissance,” he managed, diplomatically enough. “It’s more a duty for—”
The words died in his throat. Cass’s head turned, her glowing hair fanning sharply, but the van was in the way.
Still, her eyes widened and Nigel felt it too, a streaking needle of malicious intent.
The wildfire’s smell intensified, choking-thick, but he was already moving, his arm around her waist and left hand cupping the back of her head, fingers threading through silken hair.
A vast warm burst of expanding air helped his leap; seamed, uneven pavement fell away and a flower of orange flame bloomed where they had been standing a mere heartbeat ago.
Very possibly stunned, his lirai didn’t cry out even when they landed a little harder than he liked, the force of deceleration bled away with a sharp crackle of combat sorcery, the shop’s roof groaning under its pressure-lash.
He was driven to one knee, cradling and bending protectively over her soft slightness.
She sagged in his grip, her face buried in his chest, and the cold clinical fury surging through him was disturbing in its intensity.
He never truly owned anything—weapons were to be used until they broke or were lost; clothes were simply armor or camouflage to be replaced when used to rags; he had no family name, no heirlooms, nothing but a Son’s mission to fight the Mad God without rest or mercy.
Even his conscience was fractured, wondering if he’d betrayed a Father’s purpose and function in letting Edward stay and fight because Nigel selfishly couldn’t let go of the woman who trembled, fragile and terribly vulnerable, in his arms.
His sin was singular and terrible. He’d become possessive of a lirai, and that failing would probably kill what he sought to hold. He didn’t even deserve to know she existed.
A column of greasy black smoke puffed from the burning pumps, lit by a fresh flame-belch as the tanks underneath leaked vapor.
Another explosion was more than likely, especially since the passing car which had been forced off the adjacent highway and into the white van was still revving in the inferno’s heart.
Whatever had impelled it would use the smoke as cover, since sunlight was a bar to most of the Mad God’s less-physical servants… but not all.
He could hope it was an opportunistic predator. That would be the limit to his good fortune in this particular battle.
“Stay down,” he barked, his arms loosening.
He set a blinking, visibly stunned Cass on her knees.
The slightly gritty roof-surface was uncomfortably hot, but the HVAC hood hunching nearby did not glitter quite so angrily as it could.
High-altitude smoke from the fires was robbing a fraction of daylight’s protective power.
A thin jangling bell-tone sounded, nearly lost under the fire’s roar. A stranger’s voice rose from below, thin and reedy. “Holy shit!”
A young man staggered into sight—presumably the station attendant, arms lifted and hands buried in his curly brown hair.
The kid wore a black T-shirt, faded red polyester vest, jeans, and broken-heeled cowboy boots; he stared at the column of fire with all the fascination of a bird watching a looming, swaying cobra.
A Father was too old, too experienced not to know what was about to happen.
“Man,” the kid drawled, and stood swaying somewhat uncertainly. If he wasn’t inebriated, Nigel thought, he was giving a good impression of it. “Oh, maaaaaan.”
Cass stiffened, and her hands found his harness. She peered in the direction of the fire, dazed, yet with an intensity he didn’t quite like.
“What…” Her poor chapped lips barely parted, she could do no more than whisper. “Nigel?”
Nature’s about to take its course. A cold, instant calculation, and he disliked it even as he knew the first and only priority was getting his Dreamer away from whatever this was.
And if he had to sacrifice an innocent bystander, he would. All he had to do was wait.
The inferno took a deep breath. Its smoke-plume flattened, sending a thick questing tendril downward, and Nigel couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or not, since now he knew what specific unclean he was dealing with.
Ulthrik were immune to mortal fire but peculiarly vulnerable to Flame-blessed steel; most were opportunists, prone to blinking into visibility on foggy nights, causing auto crashes later blamed on fatigue, and snacking on the meat left behind.
They possessed a certain amount of low cunning, but rarely any true tactical thought.
An untrained Dreamer was a tempting target, even if she appeared a weak psychic while masked by a Son. It hadn’t even truly ‘seen’ either of them, since Nigel was sealed—and if he had needed any confirmation of that fact, here it was, written in neon.
Readiness spilled through him, breath slowing and pulse dropping slightly. The distance over the side of the building to the young man’s car was more than he liked, but what was the alternative?
None. Get ready to move.
Cass tensed, struggling to rise. She was not at an angle conducive to seeing over the roof’s lip; yet she no doubt heard the young man shriek as the ulthrik sprang from the smoke-pillar.
A nasty crunch was nearly lost as the petrol fire took another deep tank-fueled breath, and the explosion sent a fresh wave of expanding air to lick the small building.
Glass shattered, the walls flexed, and the roof groaned sharply once more, trembling like a small fearful animal.
Nigel snatched his lirai up. The creature wanted better prey but would not turn down a meal offering itself so willingly.
A tiny, broken cry trailed behind them as they went over the side of the building. That was when he found out there was indeed a dumpster in the brick enclosure, and its lid could not be described as either bear-proof or sturdy.
* * *
They landed squarely in the tip, its metal sides giving a hollow boom as sorcery shunted the force of their landing away from a vulnerable Dreamer.
The stink was much less than that of shadowbeasts, but the explosion of rubbish and decaying matter was funneled upward along with shards of the heavy plastic top.
Nigel leapt again, only slightly hindered by yielding, slimy rot under his boots, and Cass retched as they landed—on pavement this time, sprawl-rolling in a breathless tumble that nevertheless involved him taking most of the impact.
Wonderful. Get up, you have to get her out of here.
The edge of the side parking lot frayed away into loose gravel; they were a fair distance from the clerk’s Nissan. The hiss-crackle of fire was briefly stitched through by a terrible gurgling scream, and Cass struggled to her feet, shoving Nigel’s hands away.
“We have to help!” she yelled, or perhaps thought she did, by the way her face contorted. What came out instead was a dry croak, her throat no doubt constricted with fear. Her filthy, sadly abused trainers left small rubbish-damp prints on dry concrete.
Nigel was wet to the knees and didn’t want to think about the cause. No time, he wanted to say, and in any case argument was not permitted. He should obey his lirai, yes—but their only viable transport was sitting, faintly splattered with rubbish-juice, a good thirty feet away.
The feasting ulthrik let out a high steam-whistle noise of satisfaction, thrilling into ultrasonic almost like a sarnaki hunting-horn. Nigel’s hands closed on Cass’s arm, and he yanked her toward the black coupe.
Manual door-locks were slightly more difficult than power ones, but still took only a moment.
He thrust his Dreamer inside, grateful she scrambled for the passenger seat without needing to be prodded, and had the Nissan started by the time another gout of black smoke rose, adding to the now-considerable pillar.
A deeper shadow clasped the corner of the building, patterns like ink in water running along the bricks, but the thing was moving a bit slow after hastily swallowing closer prey near-whole.
Blue exhaust sputtered from the coupe’s rear, a jolt of backfire adding to the din, and Nigel stamped on the accelerator almost before the parking brake had popped fully free. Good lad, backing in like this. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.
A screech, a gush of burnt rubber and they shot past the burning pumps, Cass flinching as the ulthrik screeched once more, a high cheated howl.
The car’s interior was a dry sauna and he suspected it had no air conditioning to speak of.
Nigel pointed its front bumper at the short lane joining up with the highway, ignored the fishtailing as the coupe burst out of the parking lot’s entrance in a wildly slewing bootlegger’s turn, and pressed the pedal to the floor.