by Myke Cole
Scylla sighed dramatically, spreading her arms. “Oh, let’s not fight. You just got here. I was chatting with my newfound traveling companions, and you’re welcome to join the conversation.”
She turned to the three snarling Gahe not busy with Downer’s elementals, who had begun to spread out, two approaching from one side of the cordon of zombies, while the one-armed one circled to the other.
“Although,” Scylla mused, “they don’t seem to like you very much.”
Her voice was syrup-smooth, her tone reasonable. Britton was almost tempted to negotiate with her. Then he remembered the crashed helicopter, the slick stains that had once been humans and goblins. And now she was linked up with Gahe.
He’d been lulled by that voice before. A lot of people were dead because he had allowed it to convince him. “Now,” Scylla began again, “what do you expect . . .”
“Therese!” Britton shouted. “Lock her magic down!” He dove to the side, sending the gate flashing toward her. She arced backward, face to the sky, back gracefully bent, the pointed tips of her bobbed black hair shorn off by the gate as it sliced a hairsbreadth above her nose. She straightened with near-boneless grace. “Now, that’s no way to make friends.” Her smile curdled.
“I see you’re still determined to be on the wrong side of history.”
She Drew and Bound. The ground around Britton blackened.
The grass wilted aside, the frost turning to sickened vapor. Britton vomited instantly. The sick agony he’d felt when Scylla had first put him in the grip of her Sorcery back in the SASS was nothing compared to this. The illness was an expanding fist in his gut. He felt the lining of his stomach contract, spasm painfully, as if it would rip itself from his body and hurl itself out of his throat to eject the decay fostering within him. He felt something leaking from the corners of his eyes, not tears. Muscles across his body cramped in response, every atom of his rebelling against the disease that spread throughout his system.
In the same instant, he felt Therese’s magic engulf him, the warm current of it repair his flesh as it came apart.
But it wasn’t enough.
Britton pitched forward, unable even to cry out. He felt his jaw sag open, then cramp in position. Black fluid leaked from it, flecked with blood. He heard the Gahe shrieking off, heard Downer scream, the angry buzzing of her elementals, but there was nothing he could do.
He struggled to reach for the tide of his magic, but all he could feel was the wrenching of his body. The sick stink of rot filled his nose until the soft hairs in his nostrils and throat turned slick, then liquid, trickling out of him. Even as he fought to hang on to life, he awaited the mercy death would bring.
He felt Therese’s hands fall to his shoulders, heard her grunt with effort behind him. Slowly, her magic began to get the upper hand. A spark of warmth flooded through him, stilling the muscles, knitting them. He could still feel the illness, but the agony of it was no longer so intense. He heard Therese’s pistol crack as she fired at Scylla, forcing the Witch to dive to the side, breaking the torrent that washed over him.
He rose to one knee. Downer was crawling on her side, three long claw marks gashed down her chest. Her elementals still harried one of the Gahe, tossing it to the side only to have it stutter back among them, the speed of its passage dragging their forms askew. Downer’s wound welled blood, was rimed with gray ice. She pulled herself along with one hand, shivering violently.
Her lips were already turning gray-blue.
One of the Gahe loomed over her for another strike. The other two were engaged with Truelove’s corpses, knocking them aside with sweeps of their long, clawed hands.
Britton found his magic and summoned a gate, sending it sliding horizontally toward the Gahe just as the creature brought its clawed hand down. It turned just as the gate cut through its wrist. Britton arced it upward, slicing up through the torso and neck. The Gahe’s scream went silent, its upper body enveloped in black smoke that cloaked the ground around it. Downer disappeared underneath, crying out. The grass froze instantly, wreathed in twinkling gray as the Gahe vanished. One of her elementals raced to her side, its spinning funnel racing as it tried to blow the heavy, freezing mist away from her, with little effect.
The other Gahe snarled and flung themselves toward Britton.
“Simon!” he managed before they were upon him, “Get Scylla!”
Then the first Gahe had stutter-flashed across the ground, horned head lowered. He threw himself to the side, missing the horn, but catching the side of the creature’s head. It threw him sprawling in the grass, burning cold rippling through his shoulder.
Behind it, he could see Truelove’s small army of dead charging Scylla. They lurched a few feet, then collapsed into puddles of rancid slime. Scylla rolled her eyes. “Are you serious? I can do this all damned day!”
The Gahe swung at him, and Britton kicked upward, his boot knocking its forearm back. His toes registered the cold through his winter socks as he used the kick’s momentum to jump to his feet. He launched a gate toward the creature, but it flashed aside, its brother behind it moving in time so that the gate missed them both, cutting through the open ground until it split one of the trees at the edge of the copse, and Britton closed it, cursing.
Therese raced to Downer’s side as Truelove knelt, concentrating.
The corpses drew back from Scylla, running toward each other, the dead flesh fusing, running together. They began to ball into one another, even as Scylla rotted them away. From the midst of that ferment, a shape began to rise.
The Gahe circled Britton warily now, trying to bracket him, leery of his gates. Britton conjured one, darted it out toward one of them to gauge its reaction. It flinched, flashing backward. He spun to face the other, the one-armed creature he’d fought and wounded before, and opened his hand, causing it to dart back as well. Then he turned back to the original Gahe as it charged, too close to dodge, the gate catching it in the abdomen and slicing it in half. He felt the other Gahe collide with his back, tearing at his rucksack, filling him with cold.
The black mist from the Gahe’s bisected corpse washed over him. He burned with cold, but only for a moment, then all was numbness and he staggered forward, teeth chattering. He felt his rucksack tear away and the weight of the other Gahe break off.
Truelove’s army of corpses had melded into a huge creature, a giant golem of dead flesh. Its marbled flesh was a gray patchwork of shredded uniforms, dried blood, and jutting gristle and bone. It swung a dead fist at Scylla, who backpedaled, grinning fiercely, rotting it even as it came on. Britton could see it diminishing, withering beneath the tide of her decaying magic. It wouldn’t last long.
He pivoted on his knee, snapped open a gate on the rose moss bowl, leveled it at the Gahe, who circled him, cautious without its partner. Therese, Downer slack in her arms, raced toward him. “Oscar!” she shouted. “Oscar!” Beyond her, the other Gahe still tangled with Downer’s elementals, the stuttering spinning dance continuing with no clear victor.
Bone-deep cold wracked Britton with shivers that threatened to interrupt the tide of his magic. The Gahe seemed to sense this and flashed to one side. He barely managed to keep up with it, the edge of the gate leveled between them. His arms felt like lead weights. A tooth cracked as he bit down in the effort to keep his tide focused.
Downer was . . . well . . . down, Truelove’s undead golem eroding every second. Britton didn’t think he could hang on much longer, and he wasn’t leaving Therese to face Scylla and her new ally alone.
“Simon! Come on!” he shouted.
He upended the gate, turning it toward Therese. She raced through, Downer still in her arms. Truelove spun, and Britton sent the gate skidding toward him, nearly taking his head off.
But Truelove ducked and let himself fall sideways through.
Scylla cursed as Truelove used his last burst of magic to force the undead golem to leap onto her, knocking her to the ground and buying Britton a few precious moment
s.
The Gahe flew forward as Britton slid the gate back toward himself. Its good arm gripped his throat, sending him spiraling into chilly darkness. The other arm was still the pulsing tendril.
It pulled him forward, opening its huge slit of a mouth, bright teeth long as knives.
Then it shrieked as its other arm fell away, sliced off by the gate’s edge. Black smoke washed over Britton as he turned the gate and fell forward into it, shutting it behind him.
He lay, facedown in the frostbitten moss, shivering.
The cold wracked him every bit as much as Scylla’s magic had. His body spasmed, muscles clenching painfully, his skin alternately registering burning and numbness. Beneath it all, he felt a slow, spreading warmth, not the gentle touch of Therese’s healing magic. This was the succubus kiss of hypothermia, beckoning him down into the dark. He knew that, somewhere nearby, Downer must be enduring the same thing.
“Li . . . ligh . . . light a fire,” he managed through chattering teeth. He heard Therese unzipping her rucksack, still on her back throughout the fight. A body nestled in beside him, cold as a block of ice. Downer. Therese spread her sleeping bag over them and then he felt her weight as she lay across them both, adding her body heat to theirs as her healing magic shored up the cell walls of their flesh, pushing against the ice crystals threatening to form there. Therese was no Hydromancer. She couldn’t manipulate the water in their bodies. Nor was she an Aeromancer, who could heat the air around them. But she could make their blood pump faster, moving it to the areas worst affected by the cold, increasing their body heat, forcing their organs to push on where they would otherwise fail.
Britton caught a whiff of kerosene smoke as Truelove started a fire. He felt Downer’s magic Draw around him as she made an elemental and set it to building the blaze higher and hotter. Britton blacked out. When he came to, he had been pushed up close to the fire. Downer’s warming body was pressed against him, and Truelove and Therese now both lay across them. Their weight was smothering, the heat of the fire so close he felt his clothing smoldering, but he lacked the strength to protest.
He’d given all he had. Therese and Truelove had gotten them to this point. He would trust them to see them the rest of the way.
His chest felt heavy. His skin stopped reporting pain, and he took a final breath and surrendered to exhaustion, following the trail of warmth down into darkness.
He awoke leaning against a tree, Therese beside him. She’d removed his boots and laid her hands against his feet. The warmth of her magic raced up his legs, causing tingling at his knees. Below that point, he could feel nothing. The hard, waxy surface of his skin had sprouted purple-and-yellow blisters, beginning to retreat under her ministrations.
He watched her work, grateful beyond measure. “I’m lucky to know you.”
She shrugged. “It was touch-and–go with both of you. Moderate frostbite. I got to you before the flesh died. As the feeling comes back, it’s going to hurt like hell, but you’ll recover.”
“Thank you.” he said. Already, his hands and feet were throbbing painfully. They’d lost the tent with his rucksack, but the fire Truelove had built was blazing brightly now, fed by couple of big logs he’d dragged over. The flames lit up the gathering night. It might alert authorities, but Britton was too weak to deal with that now. Downer’s elemental was gone, and he couldn’t sense her magic at all.
“Sarah?” he asked, trying to sit up.
“She’s okay,” Truelove said. He pointed to what Britton had assumed was a log beside the fire. It was Downer, bundled into a sleeping bag, unconscious.
“The wound in her chest is . . . infected somehow,” Therese said. “I was able to get it closed, but it’s going to need further treatment. The Gahe have some kind of poison, I think. I’ve tried everything I know how to do. Boosted her white blood cell and lymphocyte activity, but it’s not helping enough. Back in the cash, we’d sometimes use Terramancers to root out serious infections. Bacteria are just tiny plants, right? They respond to Earth magic. But this feels . . . different. Nastier. Whatever the Gahe put in her, it’s sticking around.”
“Will she die?” Britton asked.
“Not anytime soon, but I need help here. She’s resting for now. Was frostbitten worse than you. She lost a couple of fingers. I’ve regrown them as best I could, but she won’t be playing guitar again.”
Truelove pressed a hot plastic canteen into Britton’s hand.
“It’s soup. Salty. It’ll warm you up.”
Britton shook his head and pressed the hot bottle into his armpit. “Didn’t they give you field medical?”
Truelove shrugged. “We escaped before graduation. They probably saved that crap for last.”
“After exposure to severe cold,” Britton said, “hot liquid is more likely to put you in cardiac arrest. Don’t give any to Sarah either. We need to wait a few hours until we’re sure our core temperatures have stabilized. You’re sure she’s okay?”
Therese shook her head. “She’s tough as nails, Oscar. I’m as sure as I can be. How do you feel?”
Britton’s body felt as if it were on fire, and began to itch horribly, but he knew better than to scratch. He’d done cold-weather training in the army and knew exactly where that road led. His head felt clear and his heartbeat steady. He leaned forward, and the world swam slightly, but his focus returned quickly.
“I think I’m okay,” he said. “I’m a little worried about that fire. Nobody’s supposed to camp out here, and nobody in their right mind would at night in the cold season. Anybody sees light, they’re going to assume it’s a forest fire and come running.”
Therese nodded. “Just a few more minutes, Oscar. For Sarah if not for you. We have to risk it.”
Britton sat up. Therese and Truelove moved to support him, but he shook them off. “Thanks, but I’m okay.”
“So,” Truelove ventured, “that didn’t work out so well.”
“No,” Britton replied. “It didn’t. They say no plan survives contact with the enemy, but that was beyond the pale. I thought she was fighting the Gahe when I saw her, but she was either putting on a show, or I just caught the tail end of it.” He watched their eyes, looking for blame, but for now at least, he found none.
“They definitely recognized us from the Mescalero op,” Truelove said. “Might be they just hated us more than her.”
“I think it’s fair to say we got our asses handed to us,” Britton said. “I couldn’t Suppress her at all. She’s far too strong. I don’t want to go up against her and the Gahe together again. Not without a better plan, anyway. We barely made it out of there.”
“Scylla was . . .” Therese trailed off. “We can’t go after her, Oscar.”
Britton pursed his lips, then grimaced as the movement sent needles of pain through his mouth. “No, we can’t. Not right now. I promise we’ll try again, Therese. I’m not just dropping this, but we can’t—”
“I know, Oscar,” Therese cut him off.
Britton stood. He’d unleashed Scylla on the world, and now he’d failed to make good on his promise to bring her down. The guilt gnawed at him. He swallowed and tried to focus on what could be done. “What we need is a safe place. Somewhere we can get warm and fed. We’ve also got to figure out what’s going on with Downer.
“We’ve got to find Swift. Maybe he can help.”
Therese nodded.
“Once you’re sure that Sarah is warm, put extra clothing on her and get that fire out.” Britton said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He handed the hot canteen back to Truelove. “Give this to her once she’s up and coherent, not before. Do it too soon, and she could have a heart attack.”
“Not while I’m here,” Therese said.
Britton nodded. “Therese, can you . . . uh . . . mix up my face a little? Don’t ruin my good looks forever, but could you make me a little harder to recognize?”
“I think so. It’s going to hurt, though.”
“Can’t be worse th
an what I’ve got going already,” Britton answered, wincing at his burning hands and feet. “Let’s get it done.”
Therese placed her hands on his face and he bit down to keep from screaming. The warmth of her magic flooded him, but where the tendrils of her current touched, they wrenched his flesh. He felt his nose bending, his cheeks rising, his lips spreading horizontally. One ear bent back until he swore it would be torn away.
At last it was done, and he fell back, sweating. “How do I look?” he asked. The words came out slurred, his lips feeling tight against his face.
“Like someone beat your ass and set you on fire,” Truelove said, wrinkling his nose.
“Can you tell it’s me?”
Therese shook her head. “I better be able to fix that.”
“Where are you going?” Truelove asked.
“To check my email,” Britton answered. “Sit tight. Shouldn’t take too long.”
Britton gate-hopped back to the Source, then to the town of Brattleboro, Vermont, where’d he’d once visited with his father during a brief flirtation with the possibility of boarding school.
After making sure his destination was clear, he stepped through the gate beside the trash-strewn Dumpsters behind the coffee shop where he’d stopped with his father to grab lunch. Britton thrust his hands in his pockets and hugged his coat tightly to him, before walking around the front of the building. Brattleboro was hours away from his hometown of Shelburne, and he doubted anyone would recognize him here. With Therese’s mangling of his face, he felt doubly secure in his anonymity.
He pushed through the glass front door. Posters extolling the virtues of good books and good coffee lined the walls, circling wooden tables covered with newspapers, food, and laptop computers.
A few people were scattered around, chatting, reading, or typing. The shop was warm and inviting, the smell of sandwiches and coffee filling the air. Britton had to fight the urge to pull up a chair and sit down for a while. Nobody noticed his entry, and he picked out a young man, probably a student, with thick black-framed glasses and a bulky gray sweater, hunched over his laptop.