The shadowy room was undisturbed. An old mattress lay on the floor nearby, and all of Sommer's things were stowed in a couple of drawers on an ancient dresser. It was a poor and barren place.
Bron could hear Sommer breathing unevenly, fighting for air, even though she was unconscious.
In the far room, a cell phone bleeped as numbers were punched in, then the leader of the assault team spoke softly and rapidly in her strange tongue. After a brief conversation, she gave some kind of order to Bron's guard, who simply huddled down as if for the long haul.
The wait began. The guard simply peered at Bron, gun at the ready, and passed the time patiently. He hardly seemed to breathe. He had taken off his night goggles, so that Bron could see his eyes—a deep blue, his face framed by dark curly hair. As with the woman, this man was handsome, flawless. He reminded Bron of a young Johnny Depp.
In the sweltering heat, even the guard began to sweat. A mosquito hawk buzzed around the lantern, dipping and stopping for a moment, only to leap away from the heat.
The night was deadly still.
The door to the other room was closed, and Bron could not see into it. He imagined that his mother was bound like him, taped and tased. The old man that she lived with would be dead on the floor, unless they had bothered to drag him out front and feed his carcass to the alligators.
This room had no windows, not even a grimy one to let in a little air or moonlight. There were no other exits.
Bron didn't dare try any harder to break free. He imagined that he could have toppled the chair, tried to twist his arms until he pulled loose from the tape, but he knew that it would be in vain. Duct tape holds people far more securely than rope does.
Even if he could break free, there was only one exit, and it had an armed guard, a man whose laser sight bored into Bron's chest.
That left him only one hope—that Olivia might escape, might have made it past the gators and the quicksand and into the night—and might come back to help.
But that was too much to hope.
Olivia was a singer and a music teacher, not some ninja assassin. If she was alive at all, her best bet would be to keep on running.
That left him no hope at all.
Fear took Bron then, a cold and sickly terror that twisted at his guts and made his breath come shallow. Sticky sweat trickled down his forehead, onto his shirt.
The guard studied him with a cocky smile. Bron could not speak, couldn't beg for a drink, or make small talk. It didn't matter. Nothing that he said would have earned him more than a slap to the face.
They're waiting for something, Bron thought. Perhaps they're waiting for one of their hunters to bring Olivia back. Maybe they're waiting for someone else.
Whoever funded these people had a lot of money, Bron figured. The military gear, the training involved. They didn't need to come in a boat. They'd take him out by chopper.
Another thought hit him. These things, these Draghouls, have been firing automatic weapons. Someone might have heard, and they might report it.
We're in the middle of nowhere, he told himself. Even if someone does report it, will the police come? If they do, so what? They'll find themselves outgunned, and far out-classed.
Olivia crouched in the woods. Here beneath the trees, there was no starlight, no moonlight, only the deepest of shadows. In the distance, she heard a wild boar squeal.
She felt the ground around her, searching for something—perhaps a sharp stick or a rock—that she might use as a weapon. All she found were creepers, and something stung her hand. In the darkness, she could not tell if it was a scorpion, or a spider, or centipede.
She reached up and sucked at the venom, and found that her hand tasted of swamp mud, putrid and dark.
Not far away, she heard a limb crack.
She peered hard, saw a darker shadow moving through the night.
She crouched low to the ground. The enemy had night goggles and laser sights, she knew. She wouldn't be able to see them in the darkness, but they would see her.
Her only hope was to avoid detection—to cling to the ground and hope that the plants and creepers here might provide enough cover. She bit her lip, and prayed.
Time plodded. The night grew long. For hours, Bron did not hear so much as a moan from Sommer, and he realized that their captors had knocked her out good. The room was so sweltering hot, it felt to Bron as if he were in a sauna. The guard swore, wiped his chin, and called out "Potrebuju sa napit'!"
A moment later, the door swung open a few inches. Bron felt a mocking hint of cooler air. A second Draghoul brought a can of beer and tossed it to Bron's guard.
The guard wiped some sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, pulled the tab from the beer, and gave a mocking wink as he downed it.
The guard said in a thick accent, "It is pity you cannot have drink."
He tossed the can to the floor, where it rolled about and settled with a hollow sound.
"You wonder what we do with you, no?" He dismissed Bron's worries with a shrug. "You are special. You have special talent. Our lord needs it. He has grown tired of living. Five thousand years is long time, no? So he needs you to give him the fire in the belly, the will to live.
"This means you are safe. Me, I would love to rip the memories from your head right now, hollow you out like a pumpkin. But we are told, 'no!' The Shadow Lord wants to sort through them first." He shrugged, as if he didn't care whether his master hollowed Bron out or not. "He wants to learn about your friends, find out where they live....
"But for you, is no worry. The master will keep you alive, maybe forever. Who knows? You will get to eat. He will give you long, long life. He will make you breed—every musth, a new woman." He smiled, as if Bron was going to be leading the good life, but then mentioned the downside. "Of course, you will not remember your own name. We will have to hollow you out every few days, just to make sure that you don't get any ideas. You will have lovers, but you will drool upon them as you grope them, and they will hate you for it."
The guard leaned back, rolled his neck so that it popped. "Your mother now, and the woman you came with, they will not be so lucky as you."
Bron's heart hammered.
"I think," the guard said, "they will be given to us as toys. This will be their punishment."
Bron had no idea what he meant by "toys." The worry must have shown in Bron's eyes, for the guard elaborated.
"Ah, you have never had toy?" he smiled. "A toy is person you keep, to do whatever you want. Maybe, for example, I hollow her out, and teach her only simple things, the ways to please me. Or maybe I take all her memories and teach her a thousand ways to kill—and then we put both women together in the arena. Or maybe I lead her around with rope on her neck, like goat, and if any of my friends want to have fun with her... I let them."
A smile stretched across his lips, and for a moment the guard seemed lost in some macabre vision, as if words failed to express how much he would enjoy making Olivia his toy.
Bron struggled to break free.
Yet Bron noticed something. His guard looked haggard, worn, as if he'd spent many long hours on duty and could hardly move from weariness.
But Bron felt strong, ready to pounce. If anything, he felt more energized than ever. It was as if all of his weariness and thirst were draining away.
No, that's not right, he realized. I'm thirsty, but I won't give in to thirst. I won't let it beat me. I'm stronger than that.
His guard called out to the other room, almost begging. The woman called back. "Da!" Then she began calling frantically on her phone.
She came into the room again. The guard complained, wiped sweat from his brow. She cast furtive glances at Bron and made exaggerated gestures.
In that instant, he realized that behind his back, his sizraels had extended. Olivia had told him that he had killed before, used his powers to draw all of the hope from his foster father. He'd done it by instinct.
Now, he was draining his attackers, and
they had done nothing to stop him. Why?
Can't they make me forget how to use my powers, the way that Blair did?
They know I'm a dream assassin. Don't they know that I'm a leech, too? Or is that some big surprise to them?
There could only be one answer. They were under orders not to harm him. The woman was trying to get someone on the phone, explain their problem, and she was being stifled. Perhaps it was poor reception. Perhaps her commanding officer wasn't in.
I'm so valuable to them, Bron realized, that they don't dare touch me.
Their commander snarled something at the guard, then left the room.
Bron wanted nothing less than to kill his captors.
So he closed his eyes, opened his mind, and imagined that his will was like a hand, a huge greedy hand that stretched out with invisible fingers, and drew the will from his enemies.
Bron waited in the sweltering heat, measuring the minutes by the droplets of sweat that stole down his face. His mind tired, and he rested silently, eyes closed, then after a few minutes tried again, and again, until at last he heard a little mewling cry.
He opened his eyes.
His guard sat in his appointed place, trembling, rocking back and forth. The confidence had deserted his eyes, and now he had a pleading look, almost as if he would beg to leave.
Bron noticed that he wasn't sitting cross-legged anymore. He'd pulled his knees up in a fetal position, and had one arm draped around them, while the barrel of the gun now pointed at the ground.
He's like a fly, Bron thought, fighting the effects of bug poison. He's lying on his back, buzzing his wings, scooting around the floor in circles. He doesn't even know that he's dead yet.
Bron felt refreshed, relaxed, confident.
Almost, he would have described his state as serene, but there was too much of a thrill to it. His blood was racing.
Cocky, that's how I feel, he realized. They can't touch me. They wouldn't dare kill me. I'm the heir to their lord. I'm the devil's child.
He laughed inside.
He breathed evenly, in and out, in and out.
Maybe if they act now, they might rid the world of me. But already their own will to live is nearly gone....
He heard a thunk. The guard had dropped his weapon. The man lay trembling, and began to moan.
From the other room, he heard the woman cry out, a little mewling snivel. He heard something scraping on the floor, a body crawling toward him, and then there was a curse, and the woman staggered to her feet and hobbled into the room.
She stood in the doorway, and grasped onto the doorpost. Her face looked like death warmed over, as pale as a corpse, a pitiful frown.
She pulled a pistol from her holster, raised it slowly, and pointed it at Bron. She said, "Damned dream assassin!"
For a long moment she seemed to consider pulling the trigger. Bron planned to kill her. She knew it, and she could not stop him—but she could take him with her.
Bron suspected it was against her orders.
She staggered across the room, placing each foot carefully, and pulled the tape from his mouth.
"Give it back, damn you," she said in perfect English, "or I'll put a bullet through your head!"
He could feel the will seeping off her, like cold sheets of air from an iceberg. The air suddenly crackled between them, and purple sparkles erupted. A thrill coursed down his spine like an arctic wind.
"You're so pretty, I don't want to kill you," Bron said. "Serve me, and I'll let you live."
She shook her head a little, as if horrified by a thought. "Just like your father."
Bron could not stop draining her. She was too close now. He could feel her body heat, warm and comforting. Sweat rolled down her neck, between her breasts.
"I will serve you," she whimpered.
"Good," Bron said. "Tell me what you've planned...."
"I only followed orders. We were told to bring you in alive...."
"Did you look inside my head?"
"No, we were told not to touch you."
"Then how did you know I was a dream assassin?"
"We were warned before we were deployed. Somebody said something over the phone. Even I am not allowed to hear all of the details."
She holstered her gun, went behind him, and stood for a moment, panting, trying to work up the energy to loosen the tape. Instead, she pulled a knife from a hidden sheath at her hip, then sliced his bonds as easily as if she'd used a straight razor.
Did Monique tell my mother that I was a dream assassin? he wondered. It made sense. That kind of information would have made his mother more prone to seek him out.
As Bron pulled his hands free, his captor crumpled to the floor and just laid there. "Please...." she begged.
Near the door, Bron's guard went into convulsions, as if his heart were about to stop beating. He gasped for breath, but barely stirred, sucking air like a drowning man. He could not even crawl.
Bron felt invigorated. In fact, he'd never felt so much ... energy. He almost felt as if he should be shining, and some inner light ought to be illuminating the room.
If I stretch my arms wide enough, he thought, I might take flight.
Instead, he pulled the tape off of his legs and ankles, where he was bound to the chair, and then looked down at the dying woman. He picked up her revolver, took her dagger, and then taped her hands behind her back.
She opened her eyes as he did so, staring at him sullenly, full of hate and resignation. Her eyes had been bright and lustrous a few hours ago. Now they were dull, lifeless. She didn't have the energy to move, or to fight him. She struggled simply to draw her next breath, then exhale, and draw another.
Olivia crouched in the darkness. It had been hours since she'd last heard the noise of stealthy movement.
She shivered in her wet clothes.
She crawled, but got only a few feet before her hands sank into the mud, and realized that it was too soft to sustain her weight. She was on the edge of a patch of quicksand.
She backed up a pace or two, but heard a little splash at the edge of the water behind her. It could have been nothing, a catfish jumping, or a frog.
Her heart pounded at the sound. It seemed to have been caused by something quite large.
Behind her, an alligator gave a low growl. It climbed from the water not fifty feet away. With each step, its feet splashed, and she heard scraping as it lowered its belly into the mud.
It was massive.
Olivia could not see it, and she didn't dare move, for fear that she would attract its attention. She wasn't sure if it had come after her, or if it had merely come here to rest. For all she knew, it could have been a mother, protecting her nest.
Yet Olivia had to worry. Alligators have a keen sense of smell, from what she had heard, and their eyes, which were adapted to seeing in murky swamp water, were especially good at night.
She didn't dare move.
She found herself feeling sick, nauseous with fear. Her whole body shook from cold and terror.
She waited, heart hammering, for nearly half an hour.
Suddenly, not far ahead, she heard a branch crack.
"Put your hands on top of your head!" someone ordered dangerously. A bright red dot blossomed on the ground in front of her, moved up to her eye.
She saw a pinpoint of red at eye level, just a dozen yards away.
Olivia silently put her hands on top of her head, laced her fingers.
The Draghoul was focused on her entirely. He halted for an instant, and then marched forward, stepping into some shallow water.
Suddenly he yelped, and there was a larger splash as he plunged into quicksand.
She heard violent thrashing as he gasped and fought to escape. The red laser on his rifle swung about wildly.
Olivia heard the lowest of growls behind her, like distant thunder, and then the alligator lunged past in the darkness. It slammed into the back of her leg. Olivia twisted and fell.
But the Draghoul had th
e reptile's full attention as it went rushing in for the kill.
Olivia pulled herself to her feet and raced away. Behind her, the Draghoul assassin screamed in terror.
As Bron finished taping, he leaned close to the Draghoul huntress. She peered up at him, with eyes fall of rage. He whispered into her ear, "I'm not afraid of you anymore. There is nothing that you can do to me. You can't hurt me. You can't even touch me. So you'll live."
The woman was struggling for every breath, and now she surprised him by speaking. "If you knew me," she gasped, "you would be afraid."
Bron grinned. He went to the next guard, and wondered if he should cut the man's throat. It seemed like the wisest course. These people were killers after all, but Bron had never knowingly taken the life of anything larger than a mosquito.
Only days ago he'd spoken callously of letting Galadriel die, but now he found that wishing someone would die wasn't the same as executing them.
He didn't have the heart for it.
So he disarmed the dying man, taped his hands behind his back, and went into the other room.
He found three more Draghouls, lying in disarray on the floor, as if they were human debris. They were all decked out in S.W.A.T. gear. They had no lantern in here, and so wore their night-vision goggles.
Bron taped them all up, found his mother strapped to a chair. She too was fighting for air. He put his hands on her head, brushed back her hair, and shoved the will to live back into her. Electricity crackled, and purple flames seemed to fly from his fingertips, bathing her.
The effect was instantaneous. Her eyes widened, and she inhaled deeply, as if coming to life under his touch.
Sommer looked up at him weakly. Compared to the rest of the people in the room, she now seemed to be in excellent health. Bron pulled the duct tape from her mouth, quickly unbound her hands.
"They must have followed you!" she worried. "You led them right to me."
It didn't make any sense. "It's me that they were after, not you." Bron said. "And if they'd known where I was, they could have come for me anytime—yesterday, a year ago. No, I don't think that I led them to you. I think they were watching you all along."
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