A profound silence followed. Elementals weren’t just rare, they were practically unicorns. Most people didn’t believe they even existed anymore, and the ones who did didn’t think they were human. The few that made the history books had been considered messengers of God. Angels. Devils. That sort of thing, and rightly so. They were living magic. What they all had in common was they were dangerous, volatile, and their potential to lose control made them targets. Kill them before they accidentally or purposefully killed you.
I’ll take it under advisement. His mental voice dripped liquid nitrogen. Now leave.
Reluctantly, I extracted myself from him, retreating through the maelstrom of his power and through the cold of the spirit realm. It took a lot more work than I expected. I felt flat and spent.
I wriggled back through the ragged hole in my trace. The brilliant of the silver and green had faded to been-wash-a-thousand-times gray. I was closer to death than life. I took a few seconds to close the hole I’d made. It sealed, but the spot seemed weak, and pain continued to leach from it. Hopefully it would heal up.
Back inside my own body, I kicked through the root of my trace. This time when the pleasure hit, I brushed it aside. I had no right to feel good when Price was fighting for his life—our lives.
I nudged myself out through my body. My flesh felt awkward and stiff. How long had I been gone? Two minutes? Less? More? I told myself to breathe. For a long second, nothing happened, then my lungs expanded with a jerk and I drew in a painful breath. Relief avalanched through me.
Price still held me upright. Sort of. I hung slumped in the iron circle of his arms, my head flopped against his chest. My legs were wet rope. A roar filled my ears. I was cold. Not just from having been technically dead. Icy air nipped at my exposed skin. Magic saturated the air and crackled through my lungs as I sucked in racking breaths.
Fun fact: rib-breaking coughs will help wake up a half-dead body.
Tingles prickled along my toes and up my legs, followed by a wave of heat. The same thing happened in my hands and arms, finishing at my head. I tried to stop coughing, but between the magic and not breathing for a while—not to mention the cold—I couldn’t get the spasms to stop.
I don’t know how long it took me to catch my breath and stop coughing. By then I was able to support myself on my own legs, though dizziness spun my brain in the opposite direction of Price’s tornado. Or at least that’s what it felt like.
The roof and walls of the room were gone. I was surprised we hadn’t crashed through to the bottom floor of the house. The whirling wall was full of dust and debris so dense I couldn’t see through it. I let my head fall back. Far above I could see a circle of crystal blue sky.
I finally looked at Price. His eyes were solid white. Creepy as that was, it seemed to be a sign of a powerful talent. Maya, the tinker who’d lately become my personal healer, had white eyes when she was deep in healing. On the other hand, mine didn’t get any fancy colors, and I was the strongest tracer around. Cass’s didn’t either—she’s a dreamer friend, and terrifically powerful. So either Price and Maya had more juju than either of us, or I don’t know what. Maybe Maya was some sort of elemental, too. Maybe Price wasn’t, but I was sure he was.
Price’s lips moved, but I couldn’t hear what he said over the roaring of the wind. I wasn’t sure he was talking to me. His eyes stared straight ahead, locked on some invisible point.
“Price!” I tried to yell, but I barely scraped out a sound. I started coughing yet again. Once I managed to get myself under control, I didn’t bother trying again.
I put my arms around him. He might as well have been a statue. I pressed myself tight to him, nestling into the crook of his neck. And then I started praying.
Chapter 5
Gregg
DEMBE LED GREGG to an expansive mudroom near the back of the house. Benches and lockers lined the walls, with cabinets hulking beside the doors. Dembe presented Gregg with a garbage sack containing his clothes, now clean, and his boots. His weapons, cell phone, money, and jewelry were gone.
“Mrs. Morrell wishes you to know that you’re a person of interest in the Marchont building’s destruction, since your brother was being held there. You may wish to avoid the law,” Dembe said as he opened the door. A couple of men waited. They both wore heavy clothing for the outdoors with balaclavas pulled down to expose their chins and goggles over their eyes. Both carried compact assault rifles.
“This way,” the gray-bearded one on the left said. He was the smaller of the two. He motioned with the barrel of the gun for Gregg to follow along the cleared brick path.
The cold sank its teeth into Gregg the moment the door opened. His sweat pants and tee shirt did little to keep it out. He paused to fish his socks and boots from the sack. When he’d pulled them on, he drew out his coat and slid it on. His escorts watched impatiently. Before he could bend to lace his boots, the taller of the two dug the muzzle of his gun into Gregg’s kidneys.
“Let’s go.”
The smaller one led the way, the other bringing up the rear. Savannah’s estate was up on the rim above the city, where only those with billions of dollars could afford to live. The main house had thirty or forty bedrooms, at least as many bathrooms, and expansive spaces for entertainment. A dozen or more guesthouses cozied beneath trees within carefully manicured glades. Wood smoke billowed from a few of the chimneys, scenting the evening air.
They walked to a long outbuilding screened by trees and magic. A golf cart waited for them in front. One guard slid into the driver’s seat. The second motioned for Gregg to sit shotgun, then got in the seat behind.
They pulled out onto the winding drive. After about five minutes, they arrived at a set of gates large enough to let a semi through, though Gregg knew from experience that it wasn’t the main entrance. The driver muttered something into his collar and a pedestrian gate glamoured to look like the wall appeared just right of the gates and slid open.
“Get out,” the back seat guard ordered.
Gregg didn’t need to be told twice. He jumped out and started walking. Savannah could very well be playing a game—letting him go so far and reeling him back in to prove her control. She definitely wanted the artifacts, but whether that desire outstripped her delight in toying with him, he didn’t know. She reminded him of a cat determined to toy with her food before devouring it.
He slipped through the gate and out onto a wide swathe of unmarked snow. The gate thumped closed behind him. Sixty feet or so in front of him was a cleared sidewalk and a wide avenue. Goldengrove, if he had to guess. Which put him on the east side of Savannah’s compound. He needed to go west.
As he scanned the area, he considered staying in the shadows of the wall, but his sweatpants would soak through in minutes. He’d end up hypothermic before he made a mile. At the moment speed mattered more than the shroud of shadow. He eyed the sweep of virginal snow before him. Getting to the road wasn’t going to be easy, and he’d end up just as wet. Though the ground looked innocently flat, a broad drainage culvert ran just this side of Goldengrove. He’d sink to his neck.
Gregg rubbed a gloved hand over his mouth, then decided. Better to move than stand in place like a rabbit ready for the stewpot.
Turning right, he started in a diagonal path toward the culvert. He should be able to stop himself before bogging down in it. He’d head for Sweetwater Avenue, the next cross street. He’d be able to cross the culvert on the sidewalk there.
Before he’d slogged forty feet through the thick, heavy snow, his legs ached from just above the bottom of his thighs to his toes. The cold chewed through his flesh to his bones. He shifted gears, breaking into a lunging jog. His sweats pushed up at the ankle. The cold soon numbed his legs.
By the time he reached the road, he was soaked to the skin and his socks held his feet in a clammy embrace. The light wind
cut through his wet pants like knives, and within moments of standing on the sidewalk, he began shivering. With a quick, sharp glance around himself, Gregg broke into a ground-eating jog, counting on the exercise to warm himself and the speed to move him out of immediate danger.
At the moment, Savannah was the least of his problems. She was always under surveillance by law enforcement and competing Tyets, including his own. Right now, the hostile eyes of his rivals watched him. The only question was whether his people or his enemies would pick him up first.
As he ran, Gregg scanned back and forth, digging into shadows, looking for hidden danger. He cast surreptitious glances behind him but saw no followers. Yet. He snarled. Fucking null. Fucking Savannah.
White street lights lit the avenue, turning the snow to diamonds. In the distance he could see the flash of emergency vehicles from the city below, accompanied by the subdued shrieks of sirens.
Diamond City had been built in the 1800s on the side of an ancient volcanic caldera that was riddled with diamonds, hence the clever name of the town. Three shelves composed the main parts of the city—Downtown, Midtown, and Uptown, all named with equal genius, imagination, and originality. Savannah’s estate had built her compound on the rim overlooking the caldera, where only those with more money than God could afford the real estate. Gregg had the money, but no interest in wealth masturbation. He preferred Midtown, though he had houses peppered throughout the city. He found moving frequently and randomly made it more difficult for enemies to plot an attack, and some locations were better suited to certain business operations.
Headlights appeared on the avenue behind him. He looked back. The car turned off. Behind it, a gray Lexus, its lights off, leaped forward as the driver gunned the motor. The wheels slipped and whined on a patch of black ice in the intersection. The rear of the car whipped around, stopping when it had spun three-quarters of the way around, and it now faced away from Gregg. His people didn’t drive Lexuses. Gregg turned and sprinted. Not far was a subway station, used almost entirely by Rim employees who could no more afford to live where they worked than they could fly to the moon.
He heard the Lexus right itself and rev its motor. It’s lights came on, the driver giving up on stealth. Gregg skidded on a patch of ice, caught his balance, and continued to run. He wasn’t going to make the subway. He eyed the walls to either side. Too high to climb. Where to make his stand? He needed cover. They’d surely have guns. His only chance to take them down was if he could get close enough to fight.
A roundabout in the next intersection contained a small copse of trees at its center. Snowplows had piled small mountains around it. A terrible place to hide, but with any luck, he could find a branch to use as a weapon and use the trunks to shield himself from gunfire.
Gregg hurled himself toward the roundabout. It was going to be close. The Lexus was coming on fast. Too fast. His lungs ached from the cold air, but his run had warmed his legs so that they felt like they might obey his commands. A bitter smile twisted his lips. Obeying was in their best interest. After all, if he died, they were screwed, too.
He reached the snow-piled wall just as the Lexus skidded to a stop behind him. Doors opened. Gregg scrambled up the berm. Yells bombarded him, but he wasn’t listening. Any moment he expected bullets to rip into him. But none did. It appeared they wanted him unharmed, no doubt in order to have a blank slate to work with. No one liked to torture an already mutilated victim. Where was the fun in that?
He reached the top and skidded down the other side on his butt, not looking behind to see how many followed. Enough. Too many. It didn’t matter.
The snow around the bases of the trees was deeper than he’d expected. A good three feet. Worse, the copse was well-manicured. The lowest limbs of the pines jutted a good four feet above his head. He couldn’t make a move without being seen.
Gregg launched into the obnoxiously well-spaced trees, weaving around the trunks. Under the snow, his feet caught in bushes and rocks. That was an idea. If he could find a good rock to use as a weapon. . . . Either way, it was going to be close combat. His lips tightened in grim anticipation. He could live with that.
He heard yells and then someone sliding down into the bowl of snow with him. Shots rang out. Gregg frowned. Who was shooting? Maybe his people had arrived. Maybe his enemies were fighting over him like jackals. Maybe not everybody cared if he lived. He pushed all of that to the edges of his perceptions. Right now he needed to focus on the immediate danger—the person with him in the tree bowl.
The hunter was not quiet. Snow and bushes crunched, and he swore before the words cut off abruptly. Gregg peered around the trunk he’d ducked behind. His foe was coated in a layer of snow. He wasn’t wearing a coat. He’d been in a nice warm car, after all. Good. Any punches Gregg landed would do real damage to the man’s torso rather than be cushioned by a cozy layer of down.
The man held his gun up in front of his eyes, turning it and his head so his gaze didn’t leave the sights. Well-trained. The fact that he kept to the outer edges of the trees indicated he knew what he was doing. He’d drawn the same conclusions Gregg had and wasn’t going to make it easy for Gregg to close on him and wrestle the gun away. Nor was he going to stupidly walk into an ambush so Gregg could clump him on the back of the head. This was not the movies, and villains didn’t commit idiocy just so the hero could triumph.
Gregg snorted inwardly. As if he were anything like a hero.
More shots. Gregg edged backward around the trunk of the tree, keeping it between him and his adversary as the other man rounded the copse. His feet and legs had gone numb again. At least the wall of snow surrounding them blocked the wind.
He shoved his hands into his armpits to try to keep them warm and contemplated his next move. He could let the guy capture him, and then work at a chance to disable him. Then he’d be armed, which could only help with escaping the rest of his pursuers. And if he waited much longer, his hands would be worse than useless.
Gregg stepped out from behind the tree.
“Hands up and stay still!” the other man shouted.
“Which do you want? I can’t do both,” Gregg called back, deciding that irritating the other man could only work in his favor. Angry people forgot to think; they made mistakes.
“Fuck you. Stand still. Hands up.”
Gregg kept walking. “Come on, pal. Give me a break. I’m so cold my nuts crawled up my ass.” He kept his voice conversational.
His captor gave a little sneer of a smile, but didn’t lower his weapon. Gregg kept slowly stepping forward, eating the distance between them.
“That’s far enough,” the other man said when Gregg was eight feet away.
This time he stopped. They stood a moment, listening to the sounds beyond the wall of snow. Unintelligible voices. Thuds and movement. Gregg’s captor never took his eyes off Gregg, nor did his weapon waver in the slightest.
After a long minute or two, Gregg let out a gusty breath, a white cloud blooming in front of him. “Look, I don’t mean to tell you your business, but I think you’re supposed to capture me. Which means”—he jerked his head—“getting out of here. Hopefully into a nice warm car?”
“Shut up.”
A quick staccato of gunshots. They continued for several seconds. Gregg’s captor’s gaze flicked upward toward the rim of the snow wall. It was the best distraction he was going to get.
Gregg launched himself, hunching low. He drove his shoulder into the other man’s stomach and plowed him to the ground. An explosion of breath. A muffled curse, the sharp bursts of gunfire. Squirming and punching. Gregg gripped the other man’s wrist, digging his fingers hard into the tendons while pulling himself up to straddle his thrashing opponent. He smashed his fist into the man’s temple and jaw. He struck fast and hard, his fist a jackhammer.
Blood poured from the other man’s no
se and mouth. His lips and skin pulped beneath Gregg’s blows, and his left eye socket caved in. A moment later the beleaguered man slumped unconscious, his hand going slack on the gun. Gregg snatched up the Glock 17 and vaulted to his feet. He popped the magazine. Nearly full. He slammed it back and checked the chamber. Loaded.
Tucking it into his coat pocket, he lunged up the side of the snow wall. More than once he slid back down. His lungs pumped, the cold air searing. He dug his hands deep into the snow and pulled himself upward. At the top, he braced himself and elbowed up so he could peer over the crest.
He faced the opposite side of the roundabout. Several cars and trucks had parked haphazardly, doors flung open. A Ford F-250 with studded snow tires growled loudly, engine running. Adrenaline spiked. Gregg scanned the tableaux below. He counted eight living and six bodies. No telling how many were out of sight or how many were foes.
His gaze narrowed on the truck. That was his ticket to freedom. All he had to do was get there in one piece. Hell, he’d take getting there in a few pieces. He dismissed the idea of using the Glock he’d confiscated to pick off people from above. Shooting accurately downward wasn’t easy, and once his targets became aware of him, he’d be a sitting duck in a carnival game.
Getting down unnoticed was going to be equally impossible. On the other hand, he didn’t have much choice. If he kept himself flat and moved slowly, maybe he’d go undetected.
He grimaced. Unlikely. Still, he couldn’t see any other likely option.
Wriggling and pulling himself up on his elbows, he crawled up on top of the berm. He sat on his butt and swiveled his legs around. He reached into his pocket to grip the gun. Iron bent easier than his fingers. Gregg drew the weapon. With a bullet chambered, the Glock was already half-cocked. Pulling the trigger would finish it and send the bullet on its way. He didn’t dare put his finger into the guard. He could barely feel anything. He’d probably shoot himself.
Shades of Memory Page 4