No Turning Back

by Sharon T. Rose

  Chapter 17

  Her feet tap lightly on the pavement as she runs. Breaths come evenly to her lungs. Dodge the debris, leap gently over obstacles. Focus on the prey, but do not forget that there are mobile obstacles, such as the angry man waving his fist as she flashes by. A terrified cat that dashes for cover. The carriage that cannot stop in time. These are distractions, but small ones. She stays the course.

  The woman she follows is cunning, flitting from side to side, behind objects, around pedestrians who cry out as she shoves them into milling about in confusion. A few even attempt to keep the Hunter from the hunted. No matter; these are unimportant distractions.

  Pleasant as this is, this hunt must be kept brief. There are too many other hunts to pursue, too many other prey to capture, to stay overlong on one. She speeds up to striking distance of the fleeing woman, the pads of her toe-less feet drumming the pavement, tail whipping behind her, discouraging interference. She pulls a ball from the bandoleer, reaches out, and taps the woman on the side of the head. The woman screams as energy forcibly drains from the human body, then turns swiftly and lashes out with a knife-edged hand. A dodge, a feint, and she catches the woman's stabbing hand in her free one. The other human hand meets the activated ball, bringing another scream and weaker struggles.

  Spectators gather, drawing a small amount of her attention. She swiftly puts them from her mind and focuses on the sobbing woman. She lowers the woman to the pavement to get a better grip on the prey. The prey is crafty but not old; its struggles are in vain. She is dimly aware of gasps as she lifts the flickering form of the prey out of the Drone's body and forces it into the ball.

  Explosions rock the street, literally shaking it beneath feet and wheels. Loud hums precede multiple blasts and resulting detonations. She crouches on the pavement, teeth bared in a snarl as shattered cobbles rain into the street. This new prey must be very old; its command of its Drone is nearly flawless. More worrisome is its command of the others: three more Drones follow its lead, working in concert to herd her into the densely populated part of the city.

  They want to fight where the most people could be injured. They want her to create casualties. It is not a new tactic.

  She has never fought four at once. She has never fought any who had acted together, which frustrates her. She cannot focus on any of them long enough to strike. This is also an obvious maneuver. In a way, she is flattered. They know she is a threat, that It is a threat, and they want Them dead. The way they keep after her, the prey might just get their wish. Not that she will make things easy for them.

  Leaping upward, she uses the nearest building as a springboard to shoot herself across the street. It is time to take initiative, to reclaim control of this battle. The Gontozenels seem prepared for her abrupt maneuver. Her tail twitches as she ducks another volley of blasts.

  The beast snarls deep in her mind, Its animal fury building. It wants to charge, to shrug off the attacks as It had done in the past and simply consume the energy. She knows better. She knows It could not take in as much energy as these combined blasts, so she requires It to lie still as she jumps from window ledge to wall. Perhaps they will chase her if she leads them? She has an idea, now.

  She ducks around a corner and reaches up to loosen her hair. When the Drones pound around the side of the building, they see only an empty alley-way. They do not curse, as humans might.

  "Stay close," the leader, a thickly-built man of middling years, orders. "It must still be near. Sweep the alley-way. You, watch behind."

  Two begin walking slowly down the alley-way, checking under and around the numerous heaps of trash, stacked crates, and rubbish bins. The leader looks forward, watching for movement. The fourth walks backwards, guarding the rear. They walk halfway down the alley-way when the rear guard screams and falls. The other three whip around to see him vanish in a swirl of green hair.

  "Stand!" The leader cries. The whimpering of their companion echoes down the brick-faced corridor, tapering off into nothing. Minutes pass, and only the sounds of the city can be heard.

  They are startled when the body of their former companion drops on their heads. They look down at the unconscious, cleansed man.

  "Leave it," the old one snaps, walking back toward the alley-way entrance. Another swoosh, another cry, and one of the remaining youngsters is gone. The last youth lets off a blast at the vanishing shadow but sees no result.

  "Come," the leader snaps without emotion, moving more quickly. He makes it to the end of the alley-way before his remaining follower also disappears. The Bastard moves with speed, so he must move with intelligence.

  He runs through the people that have gathered, shoving them aside. Rounding the corner of a busy street, he dives into the crowd and assumes its pace. Skirting the occasional glance over his shoulder, he sees no sign of the Hunter, no sign of the Bastard that houses It. The heavy pedestrian traffic begins to thin as people peel off to side streets, and he is left more exposed. He spies a horse-drawn street-car filled with people. Ducking under the nose of a large e-wagon, he ignores the cursing driver and dashes to the street-car.

  The street-car continues on its journey with no sign of pursuit. He looks around, beginning to feel nervous. Did It give up? Did It loose him in those few moments between taking the infants and his escape? Doubtful. He remembers how well It tracks.

  The street-car reaches the end of its line, just at the far side of the northern market. He must debark, so he spends the next hour mingling with the crowds. He must prevent the Bastard from catching him alone. The Bastards do not like angering the hosts, so he remains in the public places. He has far too much to do, far too many orders, to waste time healing from an attack or risk capture. If he survives; it is the Hunter after him, after all. Nearly three hours have passed; hopefully the Bastard has given up by now and returned home in defeat, accepting the infants as her prize.

  Losing those infants is a blow. They are needed, and they are valued warriors. Not as greatly as mature People, but needed. Were any other Bastard behind him, he would have felt safe within half an hour. But not from this one. Not only does she have the Hunter, she has some kind of invisibility that renders her undetectable even to his practiced senses. He must warn the others!

  As dusk falls, the crowds thin. Falling in with the largest group, he wanders into the residential district. Not too much farther, and he will be behind safe--

  A blow to his side, numbing pain in his head. Bands of muscle wrap around his waist, pinning his arms down. He shakes off the daze and reaches for his Power. The air crackles as it whips by; they are moving so fast! The arms tighten around him, squeezing breath from his borrowed lungs. Pitiful body, it cannot withstand the pressure of the embrace. He releases the Power, knowing it will stun the Bastard.

  A throaty chuckle, and his Power is gone. He cannot see; they are still moving too quickly. The arms wrap around him, tightening further. He hears bones snap. That startles him more than the host's reaction to the pain. The Bastard has deliberately injured a host. Fear begins to nibble as he realizes that the Hunter must have taken over the Bastard.

  Ignore the pain, ignore the Hunter. Reach deeply, reach fully. Gather it, shape it, form it, as taught. Take the time to direct it.

  Unleash the Power on them both.

  She drops him while moving fast enough that he crashes to the ground, bounces, and rolls a long time. His momentum halts in a large patch of vegetation. Ignore the pain, ignore the discomfort. He rises, then falls. Many bones are broken; the body is now useless.

  She appears in front of him, a wisp of movement he barely registers. Powers erupts from him; he does not need the broken arms to channel it as the infants do. She avoids it.

  Her hair is down, held by a band around her forehead; that must be how she does it, how she hides in plain sight. He must tell--

  Stinging pain, blinded eyes. The thin song of a whip through the air. Another blow to the side, more numbing pain in the head. The Bastard is distrac
ting him. She knows she must drain him carefully before she can take him. But he is no infant, to be so easily caught. He hears her movements now.

  A hum, an explosion. She flies backwards at an angle, crashing into a small copse of trees, which break and topple. A snarl, angry and pained. The counterattack comes more quickly than he expects, slamming him into the grass. The body is giving out; he must act quickly.

  He feels her near and looses another blast. This catches her fully, lifting her far into the air. He takes gasping breaths into failing lungs as he searches. There!

  The man shrieks as the shadowy form erupts from his back. As the corpse falls to the ground, the wraith speeds across the park toward the young man who had been watching the battle with fascination. He sees the approach and turns to flee.

  The shadow catches him in the back, sinks in, and wrests control away; the host hardly stumbles and continues running. He can now get away from the Bastard before she gets up. If she gets up. Such uses of Power are very effective.

  His feet pound the cobbles, his breaths coming deep and purposefully. This host is healthy, so it runs for a long while without tiring. When he must rest, he drops behind a rubbish bin deep in an alley-way. There are smells here that should foul his trail. Even the Hunter cannot track a newly acquired host.

  Pain explodes as the rubbish bin slams into him, shoved from the other side. The impact throws him several yards down the alley-way, rolling heels over head to slam into another metal bin. He cannot rise before she is on him again, the small prison aiming for his head. He quickly pushes Power through the host's mouth, directly into her face. She flies backward again, long green hair streaming, long tail trailing.

  The blast pushes her through the wall of the building and deep inside it. Plaster showers into the air as desks shatter; wooden beams splinter and impale nearby objects, some of which scream. When she stops up against a metal desk of substantial build, she does not immediately rise. Her black eyes blink once, then blink again. Her lips slowly pull back into a snarl.

  She freezes as a hand appears in front of her. Her eyes follow the palm to the sleeve to the face. A familiar face.

  Jerell Graig stands over her, dust settling on his shoulders.

  "Up you get, Fulenthen Sonelion. It's still out there; you've got to catch up with it before it does anything else. Or gets away."

  She blinks again, then grabs his preferred hand. She does not need it to rise. The faith that comes with it, however, is bracing. She nods, then returns the way she came, easily leaping over or around people and rubble.

  The prey has moved, but not far. Will it jump again? Neither of Them can remember prey jumping like that before. The others need to know this. Therefore, They must survive. The suited body cannot feel pain, but it can be injured. Theirs is weakened, so They must proceed cautiously. They must not be caught so foolishly.

  As They clear the edge of the hole in the building, a ball goes flying ahead of Them. The prey bats it aside with contempt, but it misses the second one, which connects solidly. It remains only a second before the prey swipes it aside.

  As she descends from the hole in the building, she thinks. Now is the time to try a different tactic, a more dangerous one. She will not survive this battle if she does not gain the advantage.

  With no time to reconsider, she yields to the beast.

  A snarl turns into a scream as It falls on the prey, which releases another incredible blast that It swallows. The mouthful is large, but It devours it as It grabs the small body and smashes it into the ground, stunning both prey and host.

  Before the prey can recover, It drinks deeply of the essence, tearing it from the prey's control. The body feebly struggles; the prey lashes out. It absorbs the blow, somehow managing to continue Its messy indulgence. The body below is mangled, mortal blood now mixing with the energy, souring the taste.

  It pauses. The Masters. The Masters have other means of getting the prey out. Why is the Master holding It not using the means? Why is the Master not doing anything at all?

  It allows the prey's body to lower a few inches. The Master is still. The Master is not doing anything. It is even more still than it was before it was the Master. It is trying to communicate.

  The hand twitches. It looks down, sees the means. Why does the Master not use the means? It has the prey securely now, why does the Master not move? Frustration brings a small snarl. The hand twitches again. Why?

  The prey twitches, drawing Its attention back. It continues to eat, swallowing another large lump of essence flung out.

  There is much more essence in this prey; this is the largest prey that It has encountered in a long time. Since the old Masters had hunted with It. It realizes that it cannot continue to eat for much longer. And still the Master does nothing!

  The hand twitches yet again, and It angrily swipes the air. The hand falls on one of the means stored on the Master's body. The means activates at the touch. It stares for a second. Was the Master attempting to tell It that It could use the means? By Itself?

  The Master had yielded the body to It. The Master was not fighting It or screaming at It. The Master was waiting. Waiting for It to move.

  A grin splits Its face as It grips the activated means and slams it into the side of the prey's head. The host body is all but dead and cannot respond, though the prey attempts to fight. It is weak now, so it cannot flee, though it tries. There are many host bodies nearby, but It has the prey held too tightly for another jump to happen. Pulling the prey out of the host, however, is easier contemplated than completed. It needs help. It reaches for the Master.

  They reach Their hand deep into his chest, feeling for the node of the Gontozenel's presence. Grasping it, They pull.

  The shriek echoes through the alley-way, eliciting cries from spectators who clap their hands over their ears. The Gontozenel clings to the body, desperate to avoid the inevitable. Its form slowly emerges from the flesh of the young man: black, twisted, unrecognizable. They focus narrowly on detaching the tendrils of energy the Gontozenel has frantically dug into the man's bones.

  They pay no attention to the gasps, the hushed conversation, the sudden flashes of light in the darkness of the alley-way. Second by second, They draw Their quarry out into the open. Now the flashes of light become distracting, and They send an annoyed growl over Their shoulder.

  Finally, the prey clears the body. They do not wait but immediately force it into the ball. It barely fits. The Hunter reluctantly consumes a little more energy than It wants to so that the Gontozenel will fit. Once the ball confirms the prey's capture, It slides back and releases the body to the Master.

  Wearily, Fulenthen lowers the corpse of her captive to the ground before resting her head on her forearms.