by King, R. L.
Stone rounded another corner and risked a quick stop to rest, straining his ears for any sound of his pursuers approaching. All of this speculation was well and good, but other than the fact that the “monster” was an illusion, and therefore at least one of the threats must have magical talent, everything else was conjecture. And worse, it was useless conjecture unless he could somehow find his way back to the Forgotten and tell them what had happened.
“I think he went this way!” a voice called.
Bugger! Too close! How were they following him?
He ran again, forcing himself to ignore the increasingly painful stitch in his side. Up ahead, all he saw was a pile of trash nearly half his height, more graffiti, and a long stretch of corridor. If only he could hide behind something—
—but even if he hid, if the mage could see auras, his would light up like a beacon. It would give him away even if he was behind something, unless he covered himself completely.
The lantern flickered again. It was definitely dimmer. He wondered how long it—
It gave one last flicker and went out.
Stone froze, his hand on the rough wall, his panting breath like a freight train in the darkness. The voices were louder. He couldn’t see, but they’d be able to see him, unless he could somehow hide his aura. But without magic, he couldn’t—
“This way!”
They were closer. They were coming toward him.
He darted forward as a plan suggested itself. It was a bad plan. It was a plan that, under normal conditions, he would never have considered.
But these weren’t normal conditions.
He darted forward, trailing one hand along the wall to keep himself oriented, until his foot hit the pile of trash pushed off to the side of the corridor. Moving with desperate efficiency, he felt around it to determine its composition. If it was metal or wood, he was dead. But it wasn’t: his searching hands touched paper, large plastic bags stuffed with rubbish, fast-food cups…and worse things. Slimy things. Things that made his gorge rise when he disturbed them.
You have to get back and tell the Forgotten what happened. You owe them that.
Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes, he shoved some of the trash aside and burrowed into the pile, pulling the plastic bags and other larger items down on top of him. Was he covered completely? He had no way to know in the darkness. If he’d left any part of himself exposed, the mage would spot his aura instantly. He shifted again, trying to dig in deeper.
And then he waited.
For a while, he heard nothing. He kept his eyes closed, breathing through his clenched teeth, forcing himself not to move. Bits of trash poked his neck, his hand, his leg. Something liquid shifted and dribbled down his neck. The smell was incredible: wherever this pile had come from, it had been here a while.
He felt things skittering around, rustling the trash. Rats? Bugs? Something bigger? He didn’t know and couldn’t find out, despite already wanting desperately to leap up and brush every bit of trash away.
Were they gone yet? Could he afford to check?
More time passed, and still he heard nothing. They must have moved on by now.
Right?
He waited a few more minutes to be safe. By now, the intensity of the pile’s stench had toned down somewhat as he grew acclimated to it. He’d read once that humans could learn to live next door to a landfill without noticing the smell, if they stayed there long enough. Adaptable creatures, humans. That still didn’t mean he wasn’t going to take about nine showers in a row after he got out of here.
If he got out of here.
He didn’t try to move quietly as he emerged from the rubbish heap. If they were here, if they’d staked the place out and were waiting for him to appear, no amount of effort would make the process silent. Instead, he shoved the bags and wrappers and food remnants aside and climbed free of the mess.
He’d almost forgotten his lantern had died.
It was pitch dark in the tunnel. He supposed it was a mercy, in a way —if he couldn’t see what he’d just buried himself in, he could convince himself that it had been nothing but trash bags and hamburger wrappers and landscape clippings, reek notwithstanding. If his pursuers were still looking for him, it wouldn’t matter whether they could see auras: they could track him by smell.
Across half of Las Vegas.
Taking a moment to consider his options, Stone quickly concluded that he didn’t have many. He couldn’t stay here—even if he’d managed to misdirect the mage, they clearly knew about this part of the Underground. If they failed to find him elsewhere, they might come back to search this tunnel.
That meant he had to move.
He picked the direction he thought would take him further down the tunnel rather than back the way he’d come, then carefully sidestepped until he reached the rounded edge. He put his hand lightly against it as he’d done before, and began walking, picking his way along to avoid tripping over any unseen obstacles. He had no idea what time it was: he couldn’t see his watch in the darkness, and in any case, he hadn’t noticed how long he’d slept after he’d passed out last night. It could have been as early as noon, or as late as evening. In that respect, the Underground was a lot like the casinos: it was difficult to tell the time of day when you were inside either of them.
He had no idea how long he walked. He fell into a numb rhythm: one step, then another, then another, his fingertips lightly brushing the concrete walls, his feet slogging through clumps of slimy refuse. Rarely, he’d pass an overhead light source: a small grating or other opening at the top of the tunnel, but they were far too small for him to escape through, even if he’d been able to climb to them.
He wished he could find a manhole—he remembered last time they’d been here, Jason had cautioned against using them as a means of escape since poking one’s head up in the middle of a topside street was a good way to get it taken off by an oncoming vehicle—but if he found one right now, he’d be tempted to take the chance. The only one he found, though, was high above his head, the ladder leading up to it was broken, and the tiny shaft of murky light shining down through the cover’s finger hole wasn’t bright enough for him to track down anything big enough to stand on.
To make things even worse, one of his stops under the light showed him that his watch had stopped at twelve thirty-five p.m. Since he had no idea how long ago that had been, all he could discern was that it had to be later than that. This time of year, the sun stayed up longer. He’d lost all track of how long had passed since he’d left the Forgotten’s underground meeting area.
It was always with reluctance that he left his little oases of light and moved on, back into the darkness. The temptation to remain in the light was strong—to sit there and wait for someone to find him. Perhaps the Forgotten would grow concerned that he and Luke hadn’t come back, and send out a search party. Maybe some of the other Forgotten were good at tracking, too.
Or maybe the mage with the illusion would find him. Or one of the other less friendly denizens of the Underground.
He couldn’t risk it. He had to keep going, and hope the direction he’d chosen would lead him closer to the Forgotten’s area of influence. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to continue without a rest, which concerned him. Passing out from too much liquor wasn’t the same thing as a good night’s sleep, and he’d been doing a lot of walking in unfavorable conditions. His involuntary rest stop in the rubbish heap had taken care of the stitch in his side, but now his left leg was beginning to ache.
He was back in the dark, and cursing the fact that he had nothing to light a fire with so he could make a torch. He depended entirely too much on magic, he decided. If he got out of here, he would have to remedy that.
Even if you get your magic back?
Shut up.
Still, now that the thought had risen up in his mind, the temptation to test
it overwhelmed him. He paused a moment, concentrated, and tried to summon the magic.
Nothing.
As usual.
See? It’s gone. You might as well get used to living as a mundane.
At least for six months.
The little voice didn’t have an answer for that—or rather, it didn’t get a chance to have one, because suddenly Stone’s ears were full of the sound of flapping, and a series of small forms were hurtling around him, wheeling and bouncing off the walls. One hit the side of his head and caromed off, and he yelled, startled, flinging his hands up to ward the things off, to keep them out of his face. What the hell were they? He couldn’t see them at all. Bats? Pigeons? Enormous insects? Some kind of supernatural thing that never saw the light of day? Tired and stressed, his overtaxed imagination hit him with scenario after increasingly improbable scenario. He stumbled forward, keeping his hands in front of his face, hoping if he’d disturbed their lair, he’d get past it fast so they would settle down and leave him alone.
The flapping began to quiet. Had he gotten away from them? He took another step forward.
By the time he realized his foot had landed on nothing but air, it was too late to recover his balance. With a startled cry and a flailing of arms, he pitched over the edge of something and he was falling.
Chapter Seventeen
When Stone regained consciousness, it was still dark. He lay on a hard, uneven surface, his body twisted. When he tried to move, pain lit up every inch of him, and he bit back a scream.
The memory came back readily: he’d fallen over the edge of something. He remembered putting his arms out in front of him, flailing, having only a moment to be terrified that he’d pitched himself into some kind of abyss and would fall forever before he hit the bottom and everything went even blacker.
Carefully, trying to move as little as possible, he took inventory. He lay on his side, one leg drawn up, one stretched out. His right arm was cradled against his side, his left poking out as if trying to reach for something. Under his head, he felt hard, rough concrete.
So he was still in the Underground, at least. He hadn’t fallen into some pit to Hell or the lair of some unspeakable creature. Far off, he could still hear the place’s various drips and clanks, but no voices, human or otherwise.
How long had he been here? He had no idea. It was far too dark to see his watch, if he hadn’t broken it during the fall.
All right, this was going to be the fun part. Still moving with as much deliberate care as possible, he rolled over on his back. He immediately bit back another scream as the pain flared again, but this time he forced himself to concentrate on where it felt the worst. He had to know how badly the fall had injured him before he could risk trying to get up.
Surprisingly, his head was mostly unscathed. It throbbed a little, and without moving his arms he thought he felt a localized ache in his forehead, but he was fairly sure he’d managed to avoid smacking it into the concrete with the full force of the fall. That was something, at least.
His whole body ached too, but in a general sense. He’d probably aggravated the pulled muscles from getting tossed around back at the bar, and falling into a concrete pit wasn’t going to be kind in any case. But still, probably nothing to worry about too much. So far, so good.
Then he tried to move his right arm.
The world went white. His sharp intake of breath was his desperate attempt to avoid screaming. He lay back down, closing his eyes and waiting for the slicing pain to settle back to a dull roar.
Okay, his arm was messed up. Broken? Cracked? Sprained? He wasn’t sure, and didn’t want to do too much investigation. He decided to table further examination on that front and move on to the rest of his body.
His left arm was undamaged. Both shoulders were still functional. With his left hand, he probed his chest and abdomen, but no pain beyond the ambient arose. That was good. Apparently he’d taken the brunt of the fall with his right arm, which meant he probably hadn’t fallen that far. That, too, was good. Best of all, he didn’t think he was bleeding anywhere, except maybe his scraped hands. After his game of hide-and-seek in the rubbish pile, he didn’t want to think about the sort of infections and diseases he might be facing if he had any real wounds.
Stone lay there for a while, resting, gathering strength for what he had to do next. He couldn’t stay here, wherever here was, tempting as it was to just lie on his back and let himself drift off into the fog of insensibility again. He had to find the Forgotten, which meant he had to figure out where he was and how to get out of it.
Slowly, keeping his injured right arm tucked against his body as much as he could, he struggled to a sitting position and tried to gather his legs under him so he could get up. He reached out with his left arm in search of a wall to brace against, but none was within his grasp. Have to do this the hard way, I guess.
He pushed himself up.
And immediately fell back down in a heap when knives lanced into his left ankle and it refused to bear his weight. This time, he didn’t entirely succeed in not screaming.
No, no, no! He cradled his right arm (which at least he’d been able to avoid landing on when he fell), closed his eyes, and felt his arm, his head, and his ankle all throb in agonizing unison, sending bright pulses of pain up and down his body.
This had just moved from bad to very bad indeed. If his arm was nonfunctional, he could still move. He couldn’t fight very well, but then, he couldn’t fight very well with two functional arms. But if he couldn’t walk, that meant he was stuck here, a sitting duck for whatever nasties might come seeking him.
Think, man. You’re supposed to be a bloody genius—act like it.
I’m not this kind of genius, he protested. Apparently, in exchange for losing his magic, he’d developed a second inner voice with an attitude problem. Not a very good trade, all in all.
Better learn, the little voice said. Or you could just sit here and die. That’s what you want, isn’t it?
Not like this.
And he realized it was true: he didn’t want to die like this, forgotten in some pit in some hellhole under Las Vegas, where odds were high his body wouldn’t be found for weeks, if ever. And besides, he still had to get back to Malcolm and the others and tell them what happened to Luke. Maybe he didn’t matter to them—and why should he?—but Luke was important.
He gathered his will and dragged himself up to a seated position. He didn’t ignore the pain—that much pain was impossible to ignore—but he compartmentalized it by focusing on Malcolm and the rest of the Forgotten, and how he needed to get himself together and find them. Slowly, teeth gritted tight, he dragged himself backward using his good arm and his good leg for propulsion. After only a few seconds of this, his back touched a solid wall.
Good. He let himself rest against it, his head slumping forward until his chin rested on his chest, for a few moments.
He needed something for a sling, and something to wrap his ankle in. Maybe if he could wrap it up, it would hold well enough for him to at least shuffle along. Some progress was better than none.
The sling was easy: he slid his belt free of his jeans, buckled it (hard to do by feel with essentially one hand, but he managed) and looped it over his head. The hardest part was arranging his arm—he thought he might pass out twice, but eventually he got it cradled in the belt so it seemed secure and only hurt a lot, rather than excruciatingly.
Next, the ankle brace. That would be harder. He had his T-shirt, but didn’t think he’d be able to get his overcoat off over his injured arm. Instead, he felt around until his hand fell on a sharp rock, and used it to rip a hole in the bottom of the shirt. The hardest part was bracing one side with his left hand while he ripped it free with his right.
The work was exhausting and once again almost made him black out, but eventually he had a wide strip that might be long enough to do the job. He b
ent and started to untie his boot so he could slip it off, but then hesitated. The ankle was already swollen—if he took the boot off, he might not be able to get it back on again. And he’d be damned if he’d slog through this nightmarish darkness in his stocking feet. Instead, he untied the boot and spread the laces so the top was open. His whole lower leg throbbed.
Using his other foot this time to hold one end of the T-shirt strip in place, he wrapped it tightly a few loops around his ankle and, lacking a way to tie it off with only one working hand, tucked it in as securely as he could manage. It wasn’t a great job, but having it wrapped up like that did make it feel a bit better. He couldn’t retie the laces, so he just tucked them into the side.
Now came the fun part: getting up, or trying to. He twisted his body around so his left side was up against the wall, and used his good hand to steady himself. Then, leaning his weight against the wall, he pulled himself up.
His head spun for a second, and new vistas of pain made themselves known as he moved injured parts of himself more than they approved of, but he didn’t fall back over. True, he was still leaning completely against the wall and putting all his weight on his good leg, but it was a small victory. He’d had damned few of those lately, so he was taking this one. If anyone had any complaints about that, they could bloody well come over here, drag him out of this hellhole, and take them up with him elsewhere.
“All right,” he muttered, “let’s see where we are, and how to get out.” His voice sounded harsh and strange to his ears.