Avalanche: Book Five in the Secret World Chronicle

by Lackey, Mercedes

  She was still waiting for that moment with Red. There had been plenty of opportunities. She had considered the possibility that perhaps there was truly nothing more to the man than a simple mercenary with extraordinary talents, rather pedestrian if vigorous tendencies in bed, and a relatively quick wit for sarcastic retorts. Each time the thought bubbled up in her mind, she immediately squashed the notion with a determined scoff of impatience. He couldn’t be that simple. There was something more, there had to be. On the surface, he didn’t seem that complicated, and she had met more than her share of uncomplicated men. None of them interested her. This one was profoundly different, and she was willing to admit that the enigma of how was slowly, surely, driving her mad. Once again, she pondered the kiss. Each time he seemed eager and passionate but there was always a moment of hesitation, of apprehension, barely noticeable but there nevertheless. He had never yielded to her, not entirely. There was always something holding him back, maintaining that carefully constructed wall that refused to let anyone in. It loomed over her, impenetrable, and her desire to peer past it was growing to a fevered pitch.

  Which made it all the more shocking when, finally, she saw something new.

  It didn’t register at first. Red continued his dance, and had by now dispatched most of his class, leaving them strewn about the field in various states in injury. Had he actually needed to hurt them? Not from a learning standpoint—was there something festering in him that hurt him so much he needed to transfer that injury to someone else? His remaining student, a lithe, sandy-haired girl with pockmarked skin, backed away from him with small, timid steps. He decelerated into a mocking strut, stepping lightly around her with dramatic hops and feints. While the scarf obscured his features, Mel could still make out his broad smile, pushing his cheekbones tight against the fabric.

  “Just you and me now, Delia,” the Djinni said. “This won’t end well. It never does, does it? You still haven’t picked up even the rudimentary skills to defend yourself without powers. I think maybe I’ve been taking it too easy on you.”

  Red threw a clumsy punch near Delia’s head, and she screamed as she flinched back.

  “Damn, girl,” Red sighed. “You could have blocked that easily. Close up your stance! Maintain your footing! You’re the gun in this group! You need to be up and mobile and always vigilant, ready to call the shot!”

  Red sagged in defeat as Delia continued to cower.

  “Or, y’know…” the Djinni said, shaking his head. “Just fall down and die.”

  He swooped down, driving his legs around in an explosive sweep that knocked Delia on her back. She fell with a scream, her legs flung forward, landing on an elbow with a terrific crack. She gasped in pain and sobbed as she glared at the Djinni with what could best be described as a mix of terror and hate.

  “So much for the lesson,” the Djinni said, rising to his feet. He turned his back to her, to all of them, and began to stroll away. “I’m not seeing it, in any of you. Not a bit of improvement. What’s it going to take to see a little fire from this lot…?”

  Mel watched as Delia attempted to prop herself up on her good arm, and fell back down with a whimper. The kid was scared, in pain, and Mel could understand Red’s arrogance in simply walking away. It had only been a few weeks since he had taken up their training, but his frustration with this group was that of a long-suffering father, burdened with the perpetual mishaps of wayward children. Today’s exercise hadn’t been one of instruction. If his nightly tirades were any indication, he was nearing the end. He had all but given up on them, and with the growing certainty of his failure, he was growing irritable. Perhaps he thought them weak, too undisciplined for this line of work, but that wouldn’t have stopped him from trying to light the spark, to get them moving. He had taken it too far today, certainly, but it spoke more of his own shortcomings than theirs. That he would punish them for it said much of his current state of mind. The Djinni felt lost, lost enough to pummel his charges to near unconsciousness, enough to shamble off in defeat, and enough to forget that foes are never more dangerous than when you’ve beaten them into the ground.

  Mel watched, frozen and fascinated, as Delia propped herself up again with a snarl. One of the Djinni’s original recruits, she had failed almost every level of combat training ECHO offered. Physically frail with an awkward gait, Delia seemed perpetually hunched over with her hair covering most of her face. She refused to make eye contact and rarely spoke, and when she did, the sounds she made approximated the hoarse whispers of a lethargic housecat with laryngitis. The only reason she hadn’t been sent packing was her metahuman ability, one that ECHO still hoped to harness for fieldwork. Mel had never seen her use it, so she was completely taken aback as Delia “The Spitter” Schumer roared in anger and fired a colossal stream of projectile vomit at Red Djinni.

  It slammed into him, between his shoulders, and drove him skidding face first along the turf for a good ten yards. He came to a full stop, his face dug right into the soft earth, a disgusting gray-brown ooze coating his back. It was an impressively funny sight and Mel might have laughed, if not for the fact that the Djinni wasn’t moving. He lay there, his right arm bent at a horribly wrong angle, and for a moment Mel wondered if he was even breathing.

  Delia gasped and stared in horror at what she had done. With an effort she calmed herself with deep breaths and, still lying on her back, turned to look at Mel, her lips quivering.

  “Omigod, did I just kill him?” she whimpered, and shrieked as she heard Red stir from his bed of dirt and mangled sod.

  He lifted his head and steadied himself with his good arm, quietly rising on his knees and bringing himself to his feet. Mel watched as he slowly shifted the muscles in his back and swiveled his head, with loud cracks as bones and joints popped back into place. He stood in place, his head tilting slightly to and fro, as if mentally assessing the damage to himself. And throughout it all, Mel watched in fascination, realizing she was witnessing something new. He wasn’t groaning from the pain, which was odd. He wasn’t swearing profusely, which was odder still. The fact was, pain wasn’t anything new to him, and Mel wondered how much it actually affected him. Mel had watched on countless occasions as Red would take a punch, or a bullet, and dramatically bemoan his fate. But if you watched him carefully, the patterns would emerge. It became apparent to her early in their relationship just how little pain the Djinni allowed himself to feel. His apparent anger, his whimpering cries, they were all an act, of course they were. Why let your enemies, even your friends, know the truth? That wasn’t really his way now, was it? At the moment, his body nearly shattered by a force reportedly strong enough to punch holes in reinforced concrete, Mel knew the pain must have been overwhelming. And yet he didn’t make a sound as his body quickly began to knit itself back together. He should have been screaming. Instead, he just stood there, silent, as his enhanced healing went to work. Mel let out a slow, exhilarated breath as she observed for the first time his true reaction to pain.

  At the last he looked down and noticed his right arm, which dangled and twitched nervously from his shoulder. Casually, he grasped it with his left hand, lifted the arm up and away, and snapped the dislocated shoulder back into place. Only then did he turn to face the Spitter, and Mel gasped as his hands flashed out, claws tearing through the tips of his gloves. He took a step, then another, and as he marched towards his prey, Mel noticed how dead his eyes were. There was nothing there. None of his wit, none of his charm, just cold fury. As he closed the distance, Delia began scrambling to her feet, just now realizing she was in mortal danger.

  “Mel!” she screamed. “He’s coming to kill me! Mel! Mel!”

  Mel only stared at her, and at Red, in disbelief. This was a dream, it had to be. The Djinni would never hurt one of his pupils. Well, yes, he would, but this wasn’t instruction or simple frustration at play anymore. This was a stone-cold killer advancing on Delia. There were no taunts, no warnings, just the flash of razor-sharp claws and murderous i
ntent. This was really happening.

  “MEL!” Delia screamed again. She scrambled backwards, tripped, and landed hard on her side. Mel began to move, but she already knew she would be too late. Even at a dead run, she wouldn’t make it in time to intervene, and the Djinni wasn’t slowing down. In a panic, Delia reached for her sidearm and fumbled with the safety as Red Djinni accelerated to a sprint, his hands held far back, ready to drive them forwards and dive into her, claws first.

  Delia shrieked as she fired off three quick rounds. Two went wide. The third caught Red squarely in his chest. He came to a skidding halt and fell to one knee in front of her, eyes wide in astonishment. He gasped for breath, a bloody froth erupting from his chest. His hands fell to his sides, a cry of rage dying in his throat as the bullet was slowly pushed back out by healing tissue. Red shuddered, and as he looked up, Mel found herself slowing down, coming to a halt. His eyes, no longer empty, betrayed his confusion. He looked at her, helpless, then at Delia and finally his own claws. Startled, he shed them immediately, and rose to his feet.

  Delia, still prone in an awkward position on her side, kept her gun trained on him with shaking hands.

  “Delia…” he started, but flinched and took an involuntary step back as the Spitter sprang to her feet.

  “You stay the fuck away from me!” Delia screamed, backing away, her hands still shaking. Only when she had reached her fellow trainees did she allow herself to look away and flee. They watched her go, and rose to follow her. None of them said a word, but they didn’t have to. Their shock and awe were evident as they carefully backed away. The Djinni didn’t say anything, either. Really, what could he say? Mel strolled up to him and found herself at a loss for words, too.

  “So…” she said finally. “I’m guessing there’s going to be an opening for a new trainer soon. Think I should update my CV?”

  Red didn’t answer her, and bowed his head in shame.

  “Hey, talk to me, dummy…” Mel reached out to lift his chin. He flinched away—again—refusing to look her in the eye. “You’re going to need to talk about this, y’know. What happened there? What happened to you?”

  He paused, looked like he was about to say something, but simply exhaled and shook his head.

  “Hey, it’s me,” she said, and gently took his hand in hers. “You know you can tell me anything. Once word gets out, they’ll come for you. This isn’t something that’s just going to go away. So talk to me. Let me help. You don’t have to do this alone.”

  “It’s…” he began, and paused again. “It’s not something that…it’s something that…” He sighed as he noticed figures approaching the field. “You weren’t kidding. They really don’t waste time here.”

  Mel followed his gaze and squinted, making out three ECHO uniforms closing the distance. She recognized one of them. It was Jensen, ranking asshat officer extraordinaire. He was flanked by two heavily armed guards.

  “They really don’t,” she agreed. “And he really doesn’t look happy.”

  “He never does,” Red muttered. “Though I think he’s about to arrest my ass. You’d think that would put a smile on his face.”

  “Play nice,” Mel said. “Let’s see if we can buy some time with pretty words.”

  “Djinni!” Jensen barked, marching right up to them. “You are ordered to stand down! Turn away and place your hands behind your back!” He motioned towards one of the guards. “Cuff him, full anti-meta measures.”

  “So much for that idea,” the Djinni said and grimaced as he felt the heavy shackles lock around his wrists and hum to life. “Going to read me my rights, Occifer?”

  “Normally, I would,” Jensen said. “But with war crimes, I have the distinct pleasure of simply arresting you. Too bad. I was sort of hoping you would resist. I know Reeves here has been aching for an excuse to beat your sorry ass into the ground.”

  Red turned and nodded at the large guard who had cuffed him. “Heya, Reeves, how’re the wife and my kids?”

  Reeves favored Red with a tight grin, then drove an elbow into the small of Red’s back. The Djinni grunted and chuckled.

  “Christ,” Red laughed. “You still think you’re intimidating with that weak-ass shit?”

  “That’s enough!” Jensen barked.

  “Yeah, it is!” Mel shouted. “What’s with the riot act? A training session that gets out of hand is hardly a war crime. This is brutality, and you and I both know that it’ll be enough to get Red out of your sorry excuse of a jail, at least for tonight.”

  “No, it won’t,” Jensen said, turning to Mel. He regarded her for a moment, then nodded. “Fine, we’ll do this by the book.” He turned to face Red, a small smile playing on his lips. “Red Djinni, you are charged with breaking and entering a highly classified and secure ECHO installation, theft of classified material, assault and murder of ECHO personnel as well as suspicion of murder of ECHO OpTwo callsign Amethist and her OpOne trainees. Do you understand the charges as I have stated them?”

  Red Djinni glared at him, shocked. After a moment, he cast his eyes down and nodded.

  “That satisfy you?” Jensen asked Mel with a smirk.

  Mel stared at him dumbly.

  “Okay, we’re done here,” Jensen said. “Let’s take him to holding.”

  “Wait!” Mel said, and before they could stop her, she rushed to embrace the Djinni. The guards looked at Jensen, who sighed and nodded, motioning them to stand down.

  “Don’t say anything,” Mel whispered into Red’s ear. “Don’t you say a word until we get you a lawyer. We’ll get through this, we’ll be all right, we’ll…you didn’t do any of that…you didn’t…”

  Red stood motionless as she pulled away. She put her hands to his face, bringing his head down to hers.

  “You didn’t,” she insisted. “You couldn’t have…”

  He met her desperate look with one of sad assurance.

  “Oh god…Red…”

  She kissed him and once again, even now, she felt him hesitate and pull back. Even now, dammit. After this got out, he wouldn’t have anyone left, and still he was pulling away from her, from the one person who would still have his back. She was persistent though, and after a moment she felt him kiss her back.

  “That’s enough, let’s go,” Jensen said, and Mel felt a sudden emptiness as Red was yanked away from her.

  “I love you,” the Djinni said, and Mel watched as they roughly turned him about and marched him back to the compound. She stood in place as they wove through a growing crowd of curious onlookers. Red Djinni held his head high, and never looked back at her.

  She continued to watch until they disappeared into the tree line.

  “Sure you do,” Mel muttered. “You goddamn bastard.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  * * *

  Pop Goes the Weasel

  Mercedes Lackey and Dennis Lee

  Perhaps some people had forgotten Verdigris. But I had not. After all, I could not forget. And he had most certainly not forgotten about us. A good thing that Khanjar was our ally, then, and that I was always, always watching. And I can watch everything, everywhere, and I do not need to sleep.

  “Distraction?” Khanjar said as she followed her employer—or target, depending upon the conversation—across the room. Dominic Verdigris was in the throes of a fit of genius that had lasted for more than three days. The fact that he had deigned her worthy to hear bits and pieces about this new project made her suspicious. She expected a full explanation, complete with holographic diagrams and at least one prototype. Instead, Khanjar got a few words and the request for a sandwich. “What distraction?”

  Verd wagged an admonishing finger at her, careful not to drop the crystalline board and its associated components. “Ah, there’s no fun in spoilers. It’s like good art; you’ll know it when you see it.”

  “Art.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Dom, you’ve collected nearly a billion dollars’ worth of contemporary artwork in the past decade. I’m not s
eeing the logic there.”

  “No? Ah, well. I suppose you’ll just have to wait for it to happen.” He scooped up a glowing tablet and walked through an opening in the wall. A new laboratory gleamed from beyond the entrance, one that Khanjar was certain she hadn’t seen before. She started to follow him, but a thin red sheen and the tang of ozone warned her that the contents of the room were for his eyes only.

  More secrets. She tried one more time. “What’s the distraction?” she pressed. “What’s the big surprise?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, his grin widening at her annoyance. “I wouldn’t want to ruin it for you, dear. But trust me. You’ll know it when it happens.”

  * * *

  “You’ll know it when it happens.”

  “That’s what he said.” Khanjar stirred her drink with the tip of her index finger and scowled. Getting away from the prying eyes of ECHO and avoiding any possible tag-alongs from various mercenaries had been difficult, but not impossible. “It’s not unlike him to hold his cards that close to his chest, especially when he thinks that he’s on the verge of something spectacular. This time, though…”

  In the shadows, she caught a faint nod from her companion, and a low rumble of annoyance. “It’s different.”

  She curled her lip. “It’s suspicious. He prides himself on never duplicating the same method or following the same procedures, so being different shouldn’t raise an alarm. The fact that he doesn’t want to crow about every brilliant creation he’s managed in the past few days, that concerns me. Humility is not his hallmark.”

  “It’s not humility.” The words emerged, sounding flat and unequivocal from the shadows. “I think we’re finally seeing something we’ve been waiting for.”