by Rachel Caine
It closed over his face and cut off his screams of alarm, and in another moment his final thrashings were over.
I achieved the safe shadows beneath his tree and emerged from the earth just enough to allow myself to take a quick breath. The air tasted sweet, and I had to fight the urge to gulp it in uncontrollable spasms that might be heard. I stayed very still. My enemies were down to three, but each of them had a good vantage point, and would be hard to take down if I came out of cover.
But there was no real need, I realized, as I assessed their aetheric signatures more closely. There were no Wardens among them; these were merely human hunters—which would have been enough, if I hadn’t been warned and taken immediate action.
But once I was able to ready myself, they had no real chance at all. I proceeded to kill two of them, simply by reaching out and stilling their hearts. They had no concept of how to fight such an attack, and dropped without a sound. In a way, it was a pity, because I do enjoy a fair fight. But I love winning much, much more.
I saved the last one, who had no idea he’d gone from a position of strength to even odds in less than a minute. I sank back into the ground and swam again, avoiding the area where Rick’s blood was seeping into the soil. I came up where one of the other hunters had fallen, with his rifle still clutched unfired in his hand.
I rose out of the earth and grabbed the rifle in the same motion, sank to one knee, and sighted.
Rick’s killer saw the movement and started to turn, but I was quick, and although I wasn’t an expert with a rifle, I didn’t really need to be; his chest was a large enough target, and I hit him high on the right side, between heart and shoulder. Probably through a lung, possibly near or through a major artery. The rifle rocked in my hands, driving back against my shoulder, and I rode with it and kept it at ready position as my opponent staggered and tried again to raise his own weapon. He failed, and it slipped out to fall to the grass.
Another second, and his knees went out from under him to dump him to a kneeling position. He fumbled for the rifle, but even if he’d been able to grab it, he couldn’t have fired it with the wound I’d put in his chest. I stood and walked over, weapon still held in a position from which it would be easy to fire. I stood over him.
Like Rick Harley, he was of middle age, but that was where the resemblance ended. He was a smooth-skinned man, with skin that spoke of clean, indoor living, a fattening diet, and the gentle ministrations of facial cleansers and massage therapists. He looked well-off, in other words. His rifle was clean and expensive; his clothing was designer-made, and the boots he wore seemed almost new. He radiated a kind of bland superiority that made me want to put another bullet into him, in a more painful spot.
“Name,” I said, and put the barrel of the rifle against his throat. “Please.”
He swallowed, and I felt the vibration through the metal and wood. “Errol Williams,” he said. “You’re one of them. The demons.”
“You could say that,” I said, and smiled over the warm barrel of the weapon’s long, blued steel. “You could say I’m worse. Why are you here?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” he said. “You can’t touch my soul.”
“No? Are you very sure of that?” I cocked my head quizzically. Errol proved to be sensible. He stopped talking. “You were sent by the Church,” I said. “The Church of the New World. Who told you where we’d be?”
He said a name that meant nothing to me, but I hadn’t expected to have an easy solution. Ultimately, however the information had gotten to him, it was Rashid who had performed the simple, vital task of putting me in the same valley with them, at the right time.
And they’d known that I was leaving the school. Somehow, impossibly, they’d known.
That meant they also knew about the school, and Luis, and Ibby.
It meant they had someone inside, or on perimeter guard. Certainly, it had to be someone who was known to the Wardens, and trusted by them.
I didn’t kill my would-be assassin. I left him there, naked and alone, without weapons or any protection from the elements. I left him tied by his wrists to a tree, with a rope I’d found in his backpack. He’d had a neatly packed restraint-and-murder kit in it—coiled rope, wide tape, plastic strips of handcuffs, knives, and guns. Meant for me, I assumed.
Foolish.
I hefted the pack on my shoulder, considering him—naked, he had lost any sense of menace or competence he’d had clothed—and said, “You understand that I could have killed you, as I did your friends?”
He nodded, watching me very closely. He couldn’t speak. I’d used some of the tape across his mouth. He would work it loose, but for the present, I would not have to listen to his lies and protestations.
“Soon,” I said, “you may well wish that I had.”
I slung the rifle across my body and walked away, passing the clearing with Harley’s bullet-ripped tent, past his gradually cooling corpse, and stopped to completely douse the embers of his fire before moving on.
I paused at the edge of the clearing to put out a call to the area’s predatory wildlife. Most of them were smaller things—foxes, a few lynxes—but deep in the trees lived some bears, and a pack of wolves.
They might come to investigate an easy meal. They might not. It was still a better chance than he’d given Harley. Or me.
I reached my motorcycle and considered the rifle. It was a fine weapon, but I suspected that traveling with it slung across my body wouldn’t win me any thanks from the highway patrols. With a certain regret, I stripped it of bullets and tossed it into the underbrush. A quick burst of power encouraged the bushes to grow up and around it. It wouldn’t be found for some time, if ever.
I kept the bullets, which might come in handy. I sealed them in an inner pocket of the backpack, which I settled comfortably on my shoulders before I reached into my leather jacket and took out my cell phone.
Luis was on speed dial. I called, but it rang five times and then his recorded voice—still warm and friendly in this virtual contact, at least—invited me to leave a message. “Watch your back,” I said. “Someone either inside or close to the school has a Djinn, and may be working for Pearl. I was trapped coming out.” I considered reassuring him that I was all right, but that seemed obvious, considering that I was summing up events for him. “Find the traitor. It’s the only way to protect the children. Look for someone with a bottle—” My phone exploded in a scream of static as the electronics inside it fried.
“That won’t do you any good,” said a voice from behind me. I dropped the useless corpse of the phone and rolled off the bike, then up to my feet facing the Djinn. Rashid was still as I’d last seen him—elegant and exotic, clothed in opaque, shifting shadows. But he no longer smiled. “Your warnings will do no good.”
“You lied,” I said. “On the Mother, you lied.”
“No, I didn’t. Every word I said to you was true. The Warden was guilty. And I wanted him dead.”
“But you sent me into a trap. You knew Pearl’s men would be there.”
“That was the plan, to draw them out,” he said. “And I trusted that you would escape without assistance.”
“Trusted?”
“Hoped perhaps is a better word. Yes, I hoped you would escape. As you have.” He studied me for a few silent seconds. “You’ve killed those who came against you. Without much regret.”
“I never feel much regret,” I said. “That’s the legacy of being a Djinn. I wouldn’t feel much regret in destroying you, either, under these circumstances.”
“I’m not your enemy. I was put in a position that made it impossible for me to refuse to send you to that place, or to help you once you were there. You understand?”
I did. Djinn were, after their own fashion, consistent and predictable; under a strict obligation, we would do exactly what we’d been told to do. He would have helped me if he’d been able to find a way to do so.
“I didn’t fulfill my part of the bargain,” I
said. “I didn’t kill Harley.”
“He’s still dead.” Rashid shrugged. “I consider that you achieved the objective as it was worded. And I’m prepared to fulfill my obligation to you. You still want the children saved, I assume.”
“I do,” I said. “But I’ll want something more, to right the balance between us.” He bowed a little in silent agreement. “I want the name of the person within the school compound who passed word of when I would be leaving. This couldn’t have been done without advance warning. Your part, certainly; you can go anywhere you wish. But Pearl’s men had to be put in my path, and that takes timing.”
“Clever Cassiel,” Rashid said, and sighed. “I can’t tell you that.”
“Can’t,” I repeated. “Not won’t?”
He didn’t affirm or deny, simply looked at me with those fiercely glowing eyes, as expressionless as an owl. A bad feeling grew within me.
“Does this person,” I said, “possess a bottle within which you’re bound?”
No response, which was in itself a response. Someone in the Warden compound had a bottle, and had found a way to bind a True Djinn into it. I hadn’t thought that was possible anymore, not since the death of Jonathan and the breaking of the vows that had made us vulnerable in the dim mists of time, but it seemed things had changed, again. The Djinn were vulnerable—which, curiously, might serve us in the struggle against Pearl. It might be harder to destroy Djinn who had masters to protect them; a Djinn inside a bottle was almost indestructible, unless his master ordered him to extreme measures. As compensation for slavery, it was weak tea, but I couldn’t deny that it had saved Djinn lives from time to time.
“Were you bound by your own consent?” I asked. It was an important question; some Djinn allowed themselves to be so bound, for their own reasons. I could not understand it, but I did respect the legality of it.
Rashid bared his teeth. “No,” he said. “Not by my own consent.” Tricked, then. Ambushed and overcome. There was a fire in the violet eyes now, eerie and full of impotent anger. “I can’t help you, Cassiel.”
“I know.” Djinn who were bound were impossibly constrained, if their masters knew how to properly set the boundaries—as this one did, apparently. “When you go back to the school, warn Luis if you can. I’ve left him a message, but I trust no one else there. Just tell him there’s a traitor. Can you do that?”
“I can.” He shrugged. “It still won’t do you any good.”
“Just do it. Thank you.”
“You’re not going back to them? Even knowing this?”
I shook my head. “The reasons I left are even more important now. Luis will find the traitor. I have to go on.”
“And if he can’t?” Rashid asked. “If I’m ordered to kill those children, I won’t have a choice. I don’t wish to do that.”
“I know,” I said. “But I know Luis. He won’t hesitate to protect Isabel, at any cost. If you can find any way to delay, to exploit any weakness in your master, take it. If you give Luis an opening, he will free you. I know he will.”
Rashid bowed his head. “As you say.” He didn’t seem convinced.
“Are you going to keep our agreement? Are you going to save the children who were abducted?”
He flashed me a sudden, blinding smile. “I will,” he said. “Be safe, Cassiel. Watch for others. Your friends may not be your friends.”
As he’d been the closest thing I still had to a living friend among the Djinn, I didn’t think the warning was necessary, but I nodded in turn. The shadows swirled around him, arabesque patterns of black against his skin like living tattoos, and then he was swallowed up.
Gone.
I had no doubt he would fulfill his promise to me. That meant children saved.
All in all, a morning on which I’d won.
It still felt like a hollow sort of victory, since Rashid, despite all his evidence of freedom, was held captive, and a potentially deadly weapon against those I loved.
But I couldn’t turn back. I couldn’t.
I drove through the day, and well into the night beyond the snow line, until I was too tired to continue. I slept curled on a bed of leaves and pine needles, warded against the cold by layers of more forest litter. It was not a comfortable rest, but it did the job. I woke with the earliest songbirds, did my toilet duties (a thing that had ceased, finally, to horrify me), and washed my face and hands in a cold stream that left me tingling and shivering. I drank as much as I could hold, then got back on the motorcycle for another long day’s ride.
At noon I spotted a roadblock on the freeway ahead, and slowed to assess the situation. It seemed simple enough—an overturned semi truck, with its contents spilled over half the lanes of traffic. Unfortunately, its cargo had been living—cattle, probably destined for an unpleasant end in the slaughterhouse. Some had seen an earlier demise than planned due to the violence of the crash; others wandered aimlessly, confused and frightened. Some were wounded, and limped or lay crying out in pain.
Simple enough for me to edge around the mess and keep going, but there was something in it that stopped me. Wounded men roused little in the way of pity from me, unless they were innocent bystanders in a conflict; humans had a violent, bloody past, and a violent, bloody present to match it. Cows, on the other hand, seemed destined from birth to a hard life and a bad end through no fault of their own.
I liked cows.
I parked the bike and walked past two or three stopped trucks to reach the wreck. Some people were trying to help round up the strays. I wasn’t as concerned about them as I was the ones lying wounded in the road, struggling to breathe. I knelt next to one massive female with a broken right leg, and straightened and set it. That took a little more power than it would have on another animal; with so much stress on the bone, any flaw would cause the mended area to snap again, possibly in a worse configuration. The cow, sensing that the pain was gone, tried to get up, but I held her down until I was sure the repair would hold. Then she struggled up to her hooves, blinked at me with warm, simple eyes, and put her nose against my chest in a gesture that might have been affection. I patted her head with awkward good humor. “I didn’t save you,” I told her. “I only stopped the pain.” For a cow, there were no roads that didn’t end on someone’s dinner table; this one had been a dairy cow once, but her days of prime milk production were over, and a farmer had no doubt rid himself of the burden of buying her hay.
Her trusting mind held memories of a child feeding her treats, of the sun’s blaze on her skin, of the soft, sweet taste of grass and clean water, with the sharpness of dandelions cutting through. Of pain from calving, of pleasure from the rain falling down over her, of caring for her offspring and seeing them taken away either by time, or elements, or humans.
She’d had a good life, by cow standards.
I patted her head again. “Run,” I whispered to her. “Run now.”
She looked at me, as startled as it was possible for a cow to be, because I put an image in her mind of danger—of wolves circling for the hunt. She edged backward nervously, then wheeled with surprising grace and trotted away, moving faster and faster until she was headed for the truck driver, who waved his arms to scare her back into the makeshift corral.
She kept running. He threw himself out of the way, and she achieved the grassy edge of the road and plunged into the trees beyond.
I went on to the next injured cow.
Run.
It was the only freedom they could know. And maybe it substituted, a little, for the damage that I’d done in the world ... and gave a little release to my own feelings of being trapped by my own existence.
Run.
I wished, for a moment, that I could follow my own advice. I wanted to run. The question I hadn’t settled yet in my own mind was whether I would be running toward Pearl ... or back to Luis. I knew what the logical thing, the necessary thing, was, but that image of Rashid kept haunting me.
There was a Djinn at the school, under the contr
ol of another with unknown motives. And Rashid was right ... Anything could happen. A creature of Rashid’s might wouldn’t be easily countered, or controlled, even by Marion. If she wasn’t aware of the problem ...
No. It wasn’t my problem. I’d delivered the information to Luis’s cell phone, and Rashid had promised to tell him as well. I’d already done as much as I could do.
I was ready to leave the accident scene and continue when I heard a shriek of horror and anguish cut through—not animal grief or injury, but human. A woman’s cry.
She staggered out of one of the wrecked cars, holding a bloodied child in her arms.
Isabel.
I realized in the next instant that it wasn’t my Ibby—it couldn’t have been—but the impact of the horror was visceral. By the time reality sank in, I was already moving, running for the woman. She sank to her knees, still holding the limp form of the girl in her arms. Ibby’s age, or very close; like Ibby, the child had dark, sleek hair, and what skin that wasn’t covered in blood was a similar coppery brown. She was wearing a blue Princess shirt, with butterflies and rainbows. It looked like something Ibby would have liked.
“Give her to me!” I demanded. The woman—young and very shocked—wasn’t responding. She had a broken leg and, I thought, a concussion. “Let me have her!”
The child didn’t have time for any hesitation; she was bleeding out very quickly from a slash across her femoral artery—the only injury she’d sustained, but a deadly one that had already gone on much too long. I grabbed her and laid her down on the pavement, focusing all my will and strength on her thin, failing body.
Someone grabbed me and pulled me away—the arriving police, meaning well but not understanding what they were doing. I cried out, summoned up Earth power, and threw them off their feet with a roll of the pavement as I lunged back toward the girl. Paramedics were setting down cases and equipment around the motionless child, but they would be useless; it was too late for what they would try, far too late.