He curled up into a ball and felt sorry for himself all the way until sundown, his mind drifting in and out of consciousness. When his breathing finally quieted in his own ears, he noticed the ticking sound from under his shirt.
The clock’s ticking.
Calvin pulled his shirt open and pressed his chin to his chest, trying to read the figures on the dial in the fading light. It had three rings in it, each of them numbered. The outermost represented minutes; the next one was hours, and the smallest one in the center represented days.
Nine days, fourteen hours, thirty-seven minutes. Tick, tick, tick.
He let a minute go by until the outermost dial rotated to thirty-six. So it was a countdown. That was how much time Calvin had until . . . what? He didn’t know. If Hamilton had designed this thing, it could only mean pain or death, probably both. Calvin had to get it out. It would hurt, but he was no stranger to pain any more.
“Done with this.” He picked at the head of one nail until it was off his skin, then hooked his fingertips under the edge and gave it a gentle tug.
He regretted it.
“ACK!”
A shock of deep pain struck him in the heart, and he smelled smoke. The dial on the device ticked more rapidly, the minute-marker moving twice as fast.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick!
Cursing, Calvin tried to shove the nail back down. Another, more brutal shock to the heart knocked him out cold.
*
Night was in full swing when he awoke this time. His thumb rested over the head of the nail—had he pushed it back in? He couldn’t remember, but he must have; the ticking had resumed its old cadence. Maybe he could turn the dials back? No, Hamilton had pushed a button after setting the dials. It wouldn’t be beaten so easily, and he didn’t dare try to cheat it again. Stopping it was out of the question. The device was there to stay.
One thing was for sure: he wouldn’t waste his time in Trenton.
Let Tyler use the damned radio if she wanted to talk to them. Calvin wished to stay far away from the technomancers, but that presented a problem: who else could remove Hamilton’s device? He didn’t like the prospect of death at fifteen.
Yet if he was really facing the last nine days he would ever have, well, as sick as it made him feel, he knew how he wanted to use the time. A small part of him considered returning to Baltimore, but Mother and Father had at least gotten some closure, to say nothing of the gold. On the other hand, what did Amelia think of his departure? What lies had McCracken told her? Was she wondering what happened to him? Did she know that Hamilton thought she was his betrothed? Was it . . . was it wrong to tell her that he loved her?
He ached to see her again. On top of that, she was smart; maybe she could beat this thing.
There were so many reasons to go to her. He only cared about one. Even if she couldn’t save him, if she at least knew the truth, she could flee, and live her own life. She would be safe from Hamilton. That was something.
Broken, battered, exhausted beyond anything he’d endured before, Calvin took a minute to find some stars in the waning light and set his course. He walked, hoping the movement would warm
his chilled muscles.
Before long, he started to run.
*
Like never before, numbers spun through his head, even when
his thoughts wandered.
He remembered that he knew of a town called Trenton. It was north of Baltimore, in Jersey. Calvin and his father had spent one night there on that trip to Boston when he was a kid. The memory didn’t help him, as hadn’t a clue how far it was. However, he knew that Pittsburgh was about two hundred and fifty miles away from Baltimore, and that Baltimore was north-northeast of Mount Vernon by about fifty miles.
Three hundred miles to Mount Vernon from Pittsburgh.
Under nine days to get there.
Better make it eight, so he had time to sneak in and find her.
Eight days, three hundred miles . . . thirty-one miles a day. He couldn’t run it all straight, but he figured he could run at least five hours and hope he didn’t sleep too long the next day. He’d tread carefully when possible, to spare his bare feet any more injury. He’d need food and water. He had no weapons, no time to make any. That meant stealing. Better to steal food than weapons, and save the time hunting.
He calculated for miles, storing the numbers he needed, discarding the rest. His feet thumped the ground over and over, counting, dividing, adjusting when he slowed down and anticipating when he could speed up. Five thousand, two hundred and eighty feet in a mile. Three feet in a long stride. One thousand, seven hundred and sixty strides will make a mile. Two-oh- five, and six, and seven . . .
So much of it was guesswork, and yet it kept him sane as he pushed onward. Avoid cities and towns, avoid mages, avoid
TechMans, and keep going.
All his life, he had gone barefoot on the farm well into the cold season so as to preserve his shoes and socks longer. He was glad for that now, but his feet were starting to burn. Phantom bites warned of blisters to come, and deeper aches threatened his bones, but he didn’t stop.
His life. His terms.
Save Amelia. Shaft Hamilton. Make McCracken bleed.
Only Calvin could decide when he was done.
He kept running.
CHAPTER 11
Two days.
After two days, he wanted to kill himself. Just yank out the nails and pull on the device until it . . . well, whatever it did that would finish him off.
Maybe he was being weak. He just had to bite down and push harder, everything would be fine. It had only been two days!
Ugh. Two days. An eternity of running as hard as he could for as long as he could, prodding himself back to a trot when his legs begged for a brief stride. Nothing in life was worth this. Nothing was stronger than the constant, growing, never-ending pain.
Don’t forget about her.
It was his desire, his need to see Amelia that dragged him across
the terrain, broken and injured and on the brink of death, pulled by her invisible hand.
Thud. Thud. Thud. His heels punched the ground. His shins ached like they’d been struck with hammers. Yesterday he’d ripped off his shirt sleeves and tore them into strips, which he then used to bind the hot, swollen flesh above his ankles to keep it tight against the bone. Along the way he chewed on plants that he recognized from Shantewa Goodall’s botany lessons, for what little relief they offered. It was minor, but it was something.
His breath grated out through his dry throat, and his lips cracked. When he found a river that flowed east, he tried to swim in it. The necessary strokes required too much upper body movement, which tugged at the hooks in his chest. For good or evil, water didn’t seem to affect the device’s function, so he floated on his back, resting, letting the current do the work, until he dozed off and nearly drowned. Soon the current slowed and the temperature did him more harm than good, and when he climbed out to start running again he thought his cold legs might shatter.
The chill was a new pest to deal with, but at least his leg pains had eased.
He ran. He walked. He crawled when he could do nothing else. He slept only when his body shut down, when his will could no longer dominate his flesh.
Two days. For the first time in his life, he had an idea of what it was to be truly broken. He wasn’t there yet . . .
. . . but he was close.
On the third day, he woke before the autumn sun, shivering in the remains of his camp fatigues. Winter was close and he was beyond unprepared; people died in conditions less drastic than these. Some part of him thought that didn’t sound so bad.
No! Stop being weak.
A quarter-moon hung in an ocean of stars across the sky. His fatigued mind began working out constellations, trying to estimate his progress. Even his most generous estimate brought fresh tears to his eyes.
He was not as close as he needed to be.
The sun rose and beckoned him
to keep running. He passed a farm by a corn field and helped himself to some of the golden crop, wondering if the juicy kernels had always tasted this sweet, and for a moment he forgot that he was tired and still had so much ground to cover.
Noon came. Fifteen miles down, at least. Still not enough, and yet the best he could do. He pushed through a particularly thick wood, ignoring bites from the bugs that homed in on his stench, leeching off his anguish. With his legs on the verge of shattering, and a tremendous ache in his heart that was more than physical, Calvin fell to his knees, then to all fours, hanging his head in despair.
By the time he noticed he was bawling, he’d been at it for several minutes. A surge of primal desperation boiled up within him and he straightened into a kneeling position, threw his head back and screamed at the sky.
“SOMEBODY! HELP ME!”
He hadn’t expected an answer. All the same, he received one.
It was not a voice that used words, but rather a presence that touched his mind, igniting a lost sense of hope, need, and promise, such as he hadn’t felt in far too long. The sensation proved so powerful that it could only have come from somewhere else, not from within him. He knew he had nothing like this left inside.
What was going on?
Calvin closed his eyes and listened. His heart thumped erratically and the device still tick-tick-ticked along, but there was something more, a scratching sound through the trees to his right. Standing up with the aid of a nearby sapling, Calvin worked his way through the brush for a few yards until it opened up into a man-made clearing. There was a lean-to made of wood and canvas, a fire pit full of dull embers, and stocks of supplies piled neatly off to one side. Several animal furs hung from a wooden rack, carefully left to dry.
And right in the middle of the camp, bound with cords and tied to thick stakes in the ground, was the biggest damn bird he’d ever laid eyes on.
It had to be twenty feet long, with four wings tucked to its sides. The bird lay on its belly, its elegant plume of brilliant red feathers mussed and crumpled, and its beak was held shut by a leather thong. Calvin recalled a drawing from a schoolbook back in Baltimore, depicting this exact kind of creature, calling it a “megafowl.” Its commonly name was ‘thunderbird.’
He couldn’t believe it. An actual thunderbird, a beast of legend that had been hunted near to the brink of extinction, here, trussed
up and alone in the forest.
Calvin looked skyward again, wondering who—or what—had answered his cry for help.
*
Godfrey had had it with brooms. Sod the monitors, he was going to use the teleportal network. He meditated until he could detect the nearest opening—a few hours away on foot—and grumbled to himself the whole way there. Being wand-less and distant from the lodestone caused him to work up a sweat as he focused the necessary magic to open the gate, but at long last, it popped open, like a hole in the air.
He took a circuitous route to Belle Chasse—fixed teleportals drew less attention, after all—and once he was there, he commandeered a horse from a French duffer and rode the rest of the way. When he arrived at Kalfu LeVeau’s swamp shack, the old sangromancer was leaning back in a porch chair, smoking a pipe with a mile-wide smile on his face.
“You found him, then?” Kalfu blew smoke rings with no apparent effort.
“Oh, I found him all right. Slippery git got away, and caused me no shortage of trouble in the process!”
“Mmm. And you would not have returned here if you didn’t have to.”
Pursing his lips, Godfrey pointed at his injured neck, where the
metal cuffs had nearly choked him. “Most of this blood is mine, but I’d best some is his too. You interested?”
“Interested in how he choked you with handcuffs?”
“I never mentioned handcuffs.”
“I know.” Kalfu’s lips spread into a grin as he sucked his pipe.
“Are you sure you’re blind?”
“Eyes are not the only window to the world around you, mon fils.”
“I’m not your son!”
The sangromancer chuckled. “Not yet. Give us a look at that blood.” He set the pipe down, took up his staff, and descended the porch steps. Extending a hand to Godfrey’s neck, he closed his eyes and hummed to himself, as if he were musing over an interesting find. The man stank of smoke and too many days without a proper bath; Godfrey held his breath until the sangromancer finished, stepping back with a small reddish-brown pellet of dried blood that floated between his hands.
“That’s his, then?” Godfrey exhaled. “What do you see?”
“Tais-toi,” Kalfu barked. His lips kept moving as he worked on the blood. Godfrey gritted his teeth at the rebuke but held his tongue.
“He is no longer in the Ohio,” Kalfu whispered.
“You can track him with that?”
Kalfu seemed not to hear. “Moving slowly. Injured. Tired.” The sangromancer arched his eyebrows. “He is in quite a state. Mutilated, but not by magic. His body and spirit are close to breaking, and yet his heart is wild.” He licked his lips. “A weaker soul would be dead already. He will not go quietly.”
“I gathered that.” Godfrey rubbed sourly at his throat.
Kalfu squeezed his eyes tighter, as though he were reading something of great interest printed on the insides of his eyelids. “Can it be . . .” he whispered.
“Now what?”
“You must take me to meet him,” Kalfu suddenly said.
“What? No, he’s my quarry. I can’t go home without him.”
“I said I must meet him. You can have him when I am through.”
“Why?” Godfrey’s voice cracked a little.
Kalfu blinked several times and shook his head, ending the magical trance. “I have my reasons. I will help you capture him, and you will give me a few minutes in his presence. This is the payment I demand.”
Godfrey thought it over. “Fine. When can we leave?”
“Do not be so hasty, Godfrey Norrington; all the King’s witches and all the King’s men could not make Calvin’s rebel knees bend. We shan’t underestimate him; we would do well to enlist another wizard to help us capture him.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me, Kalfu,” Godfrey accused.
Again, that smug grin, hiding so much. “Indeed. Yet I repeat myself: if you had another option, you wouldn’t come to me.”
Much as Godfrey hated it, Kalfu was right. Godfrey paced back and forth, thinking it over. “Fine, we’ll get a third. I hope you know someone, ‘cause I’ve nobody to reach out to.”
“Pas de problemme. I have someone in mind, and he’s no one to be trifled with. He fishes alligators for a living.”
*
Numbers spun, the device ticked, and everything inside Calvin howled at him to keep moving. Still, he didn’t move.
A thunderbird. Right there, wrapped up as pretty as a birthday gift.
It couldn’t be true. Nothing this good happened to him lately. He puzzled through it, scratching his head. What would it do if he untied it? Offer him a ride in exchange for the favor? An absurd notion—it was an animal. Majestic, no doubt, but also feral. Gratitude could only be a foreign concept for it.
The bird’s eye snapped open and locked on Calvin’s face with frightening intensity. Calvin grunted and nearly collapsed as a wave of nausea struck him. The forest spun, and for a moment his thoughts were not his own. His sight went foggy, then dark, then came back into focus in extremely sharp detail, in a spread of vibrant colors he could never describe. He saw . . .
Himself?
The bird blinked. Calvin’s sight blinked out too, then refocused. He raised a hand to his forehead and saw himself raising his hand. Sudden hope filled his heart and he tried to flap his wings, only they were pinned down under the ropes.
No, not his wings; the bird’s wings.
What in the blazes? Was he in the bird’s head? Calvin was feeling his own feelings, thinking his own thoughts,
yet he was definitely feeling and thinking what the bird felt and thought too. As he came to this realization, a sense of calm understanding settled in his brain, as if the bird were nodding its head.
“How?” Calvin asked.
It was just something the bird could do.
“Okay . . .”
The bird had a name: Karahkwa. And he needed help.
“Help with what?”
Karahkwa showed Calvin a day-old memory. The clearing they were in, the fire pit off to the side, the canvas tent . . . inside the tent. Yes, inside there was a chest of small drawers. Bottom drawer. Vials. Blood.
A thought tickled Calvin’s mind, some memory from a class at Mount Vernon: certain magic tricks centered on hurting or controlling people by getting samples of their blood. Distance was not a factor with this kind of magic; if someone had your blood, you could be on the moon and they could still hurt you.
Karahkwa had been caught and tied up. His captors had a blood sample. Even if Calvin were to cut him loose, his captors could force him to come back.
Burn it. Calvin could burn Karahkwa’s blood. Suddenly the thought of asking for a favor seemed reachable. He patted Karahkwa’s wing. Yes! He would do it.
Karahkwa relaxed; a relieved sigh.
“I’ll get it.” Calvin limped over to the tent, noting other things in the camp that he hadn’t at first: stacks of hollow bones, bundles
of exotically colored feathers, and about a dozen beaks.
Hunted almost to extinction. Karahkwa had been brought down by trophy hunters. They intended to harvest this creature for his parts, take what they could get, and discard the rest.
Kind of like what the technomancers had done to him.
“I know how you feel,” he muttered as he rummaged through the tent. He found the drawer of blood vials exactly where he’d seen it, and he studied their labels. Karahkwa didn’t see the one he was looking for until Calvin picked up a larger vial made of light green glass. The bird struggled vigorously against his ropes, blinking over and over again so hard that Calvin had to breathe deep to keep from getting dizzy.
Suicide Run (Engines of Liberty Book 2) Page 8