by Holly Lisle
The monster screamed—rage and pain intermingled—and turned on her in his full fury, leaving Pete and Molly to bleed together.
Off-kilter. Pete kept staring at her, until he realized that the thing clenched between her teeth was not a dagger or a grenade or some other weapon. The goddess had an unlit cigar hanging out of one corner of her mouth.
And he thought, June Bug?
Cat Creek
June Bug, burning with power and free of all pain, drove at the monster with the sword she'd made for herself. This—this was what life was supposed to feel like. She shaped her will and reshaped herself, growing more powerful, more fierce, with every second. Everything she had ever wanted to do and feel as a Sentinel, everything she had denied herself because she was obedient to the dictates of the Council, everything she had yearned to feel as a human being but that she had suppressed out of fear and shame, she released and let herself experience.
Youth and strength and passion and fire and magic and love and desire and hunger, edged with fear and anger and rage, mixed and flowed and bubbled in her veins, and she charged the third Baanraak, singing death and destruction in her heart. The pain had fallen away from her the second she stepped into the gate, and now, unfettered, she was light, she was strong, she was truly a god. Free. She was free, she had eternity before her, she had broken the shackles that bound her to grief and pain and shame, and she could soar. She could fly. She could fight and save her world and experience the love she had so craved. She could truly live. This was what Humankind was supposed to feel. This was what she had been born to be.
She had come to this fight ready to die to save the people she loved, but now, with the pure sweetness of godhood in her hands, and youth light and strong in her bones, dying seemed like such a bad idea.
She drove her sword into the monster's shoulder, and had the satisfaction of his scream. She slammed it deeper, twisting as she did, and he slashed at her with teeth and fangs, but she blocked him with the silver shield, and stepped inside of his attack, and found a vulnerable spot.
June Bug hacked at his other wing, and tore halfway through it and broke the bone, and seared the cuts with the blazing silver, and heard his anguished scream.
Her heart sang. Her blood sang.
And then he snarled, "Enough."
Enough, she agreed, and turned again, intending to finish him, to end this, to move on to the next Baanraak, and then the next.
But as she turned, he vanished.
June Bug could not see him anywhere, nor could she sense his presence. She stood, blazing silver sword poised, silver shield uplifted, ready to destroy the rrôn, but she could not find him anywhere.
"Coward," she muttered.
The blow that struck her came from behind—the slash of a blade as sharp and deadly as her own, driven by the strength of an ancient god. It clove her in two, and once again she felt pain, but the pain dulled as soon as she felt it. She had time to feel regret, time to think, Molly. And, Marian.
And then the River of the Dead shifted its banks and swept over her and its current caught at her and dragged her in, and she found that, god or no, she could not resist its pull.
The Green World
Lauren, with a backpack spun of magic on her back and Jake nestled in it, knelt in a world of lush greenery, a world in which no thinking creatures yet moved. She opened herself fully to the rich, virgin magic of the world, feeling for the very first time the power of life untainted by the poisons of the death-eaters. The power filled her, and she anchored her feet to the ground and spread her arms wide and before her spun a path through time and space and reality, reaching up and back through world after world after world, drilling deeper and deeper into the twisted, pain-ridden horror that the Night Watch and its lackeys and sympathizers had made of the upworlds.
She reached Earth at last, and burrowed into the core, as deep as she could go. She poured life into the heart of her world, then channeled a conduit of pure life straight up into Cat Creek, centering it beneath her own house, which Heyr had made impermeable to the Night Watch. She opened the conduit wide; no pinhole this time, no thumb-thin line. She fed her love, her hope for the future, her gratitude toward those willing to fight to save her, willing to bear impossible pain and the unthinkable weight of immortality bound to flesh and suffering, so that she could fight this fight. So that she could stand where she was and do what she was doing. So that she could give everything good that she had inside her and through that, push back the tide of death.
I love you, she told Brian, lost in flesh but not in her soul. I love you, she told her son, for whose sake she would never quit fighting. I love you, she told Heyr, for bringing us hope and direction and a chance to make this work. I love you, she told each of the Sentinels who had turned their backs on their traditions and beliefs and who faced censure and worse to stand beside her and fight.
I love you, she told Pete, who had turned his life upside down to fight with her—and who loved her in spite of everything. "I love you, Pete," she said, finding in this green place, in this rich world, the courage to say that for the first time, and to admit to herself that she meant it. "I love you."
Life poured through her, rushing upworld in a stream, a river, a torrent.
She stood for a moment, lost in the sheer ecstasy of that power, that life, that love. And then she bound the gate in the green world, spinning her will around it so that it would repel the dark gods and prevent them from touching the work she had done. She'd caught the shape of Heyr's magic—the warding he'd done on her house—and she used his art and his experience, shaping her will and her thoughts around this siphon in the same way that he had shaped his determination around her house, using the riches of this world's life to fuel her work, claiming sanctuary against the Night Watch through all of time and space.
Finished at last, she backed away. And felt Jake's arms tighten around her, and heard him say, "I love you, too, Mama."
She had done what she could. She hoped it would be enough.
Cat Creek and Master's Gold
Baanraak, in pain unlike anything he had ever experienced, stood over the woman to make sure she was well and truly dead, and that she did not have some other trick he had never seen before that might bring her back to life and let her finish what she had so effectively started.
But the two halves of her lay still in the yard, and he stood, panting, over them, and at last was satisfied that when he turned his back she would not pull herself together and come after him one final time.
He stared at the sword and shield she'd carried. Purest silver, both of them. Once upon a time the heroes had known to come after the dark gods with silver, for the dark gods could not heal such wounds with anything but time. They'd left aside silver in favor of things that killed quicker—machine guns and grenades and bombs—and they had forgotten the power that they had once held in simple weapons.
The bitch who came after him had somehow resurrected that deadly bit of lore, whether through luck or research or native intelligence—and worse, she had added a new twist to old pain. The fire she had started with her blade still burned within him, spreading, spreading, and the agony of it would kill him before long even if the damage it was doing did not.
He was going to die, he realized. Soon.
He snarled, infuriated by the inconvenience of it. He needed to get to a place that would feed his resurrection rings and at the same time prevent anyone from coming across him or them as he came back, and he needed to do it quickly.
He had enough time to finish off Molly, who lay on the porch, lingering, and then he had to go.
But as he dragged himself toward the porch, something happened that he could not understand. Life erupted all around him. A flood of love and pure energy and magic so powerful he could not bear it engulfed him, pouring from the house and washing out like water burst from a dam. In all of time, he had never felt anything like this, and for the first time he truly understood what had arrived to st
and against the Night Watch, and he was afraid.
The torrent of life set the silver fire within him burning brighter and harder, and he realized that if he did not flee at that moment, he would die where he stood and leave his body and his resurrection rings in the hands of his enemies. With the last of his strength and will, he spun a gate to anywhere, and threw himself through it.
Cat Creek with Silver and Gold
Baanraak saw his double, wounded beyond repair, fall through a gate. He could hear damned Thor in the backyard battling the other Baanraak, the foolish novice. Pete, in pieces on the porch, lay helpless. Molly's sister and her child were, for the moment, gone.
He had just enough time.
He unwrapped the darkness that had concealed him and ran to Molly's side and crouched beside her.
She opened her eyes and stared at him. Then she narrowed her eyes. "You."
"Me," he agreed, and touched her, and willed the pure energy that now poured out of this place through his own body, breathing shallowly against the terrible pain, and channeled it into her, commanding her to live. He pressed one hand hard against her breast and with all of his will tore the Vodi necklace out of the grasp of the other Baanraak, and when it appeared in his free hand, pressed it against Molly's torn belly and told her flesh to take it back.
He did not waste time with healing her—that he could do from a place of safety. From his own place. Behind him, Pete whispered, "Leave her alone, you bastard," and Baanraak, in too much pain for clever rejoinders, muttered, "Sleep, dammit," and reached around to slam Pete on the head once, knocking him unconscious with a combination of magic and simple force.
Baanraak then sketched a thin circle of ice out of the air, making it far too big because he was used to doing this trick while he was in rrôn form, and his current tiny size kept taking him by surprise. He spun a gate through that, and gathered Molly into his arms and leapt into the ring of green fire.
Behind him, the circle of ice crashed to the porch and shattered.
Baanraak's Private Quarters, Barâd Island, Oria, Wearing Master's Gold
Baanraak tumbled through the gate he'd spun, bleeding, dying, wishing against everything that he had sent others upworld to fight the immortals and the old gods rather than going himself. He sprawled on the floor with the fire of the silver sword still eating away at him, and that shivering little toady Rekkathav came skittering up to him, legs all clicking and clattering across the marble floor.
He looked up at his inherited secretary and said, "Leave this room, lock the doors, and let no one pass until I come out again."
"You're dying," Rekkathav said.
Baanraak snarled at him. "A temporary inconvenience, but I'll make sure to make it worth your while for following my command."
Rekkathav studied him, twitching and making those agitated clicks that Baanraak had discovered meant he was fighting to keep his stomach from everting. He didn't leave, though, and Baanraak blew a weak stream of fire at him and hissed, "Go."
But still Rekkathav didn't flee. Instead, he scuttled around behind Baanraak and hovered over him, inching nearer.
"What are you doing, you little freak?" Baanraak demanded.
"I can see your resurrection ring," Rekkathav said. "I can see it lying just beneath the skin, right where your wing was torn off."
Baanraak tried to raise his head to snap at the hyatvit, but he was too weak. Too near death. Fear chilled his blood. He should have gone somewhere else, somewhere where he could have died unnoticed and resurrected unseen. It had been too easy to follow the easy path back through a gate already open and waiting for him, into chambers where he had felt safe. But he didn't feel safe anymore.
"Get away from me."
"No," Rekkathav said. "No. Not going anywhere." His voice rose with excitement, and he chittered a high-pitched laugh, and rested two pairs of digging legs on Baanraak's side.
They were sharp; Baanraak had never noticed how sharp they were before. They were made for cutting, for digging, for ripping and tearing. They were weapons. He had seen the cowering, weak hyatvit, and had missed the weapons. Now his fear sharpened his pain—he was helpless, and the cringing weakling was no longer cringing.
Rekkathav, mimicking Baanraak's voice with surprising accuracy, said, "You did badly, Snacklet. I think perhaps I will eat you today."
Those digging claws ripped through Baanraak's skin and bones in two sharp, hard moves, and tore the resurrection ring from his still-living body. The devouring pain of his wounds, burning with silver fire, spread faster as the resurrection ring's magic left him. He discovered in that instant that the many rings he'd thought he carried within his flesh were all gone; Molly's explosion that had created the false Baanraaks had also robbed him of all his backups. He was in one blow made mortal. He was finished, Baanraak realized. This death would be his last one, and nothing would follow.
Rekkathav moved in front of Baanraak's face, clicking and chirring, and crouched so that he filled the narrowing sphere of Baanraak's fading vision.
"They won't even miss you," Rekkathav said. "I'll pass your orders on, the way I did for poor dead Aril, and I'll give the dark gods messages in your voice when I need to, and if anyone questions your whereabouts, I'll just point to one of the surviving Baanraaks and say there you are, and if they have any complaints about the way you're doing things they can take it up with you personally." He chuckled.
Baanraak felt himself fading from the edges inward. He was cold. He sighed. "They'll kill you in an hour."
Rekkathav held up the resurrection ring, its piercing bar open for the first time in millennia, signaling that it could be donned by anyone, that its owner was gone. "I could wear this, you know. I could have all of your knowledge, all of your power, all of your secrets. I could have your form if I wanted it, could make myself into you." He hissed, and rose and turned, and Baanraak could not see him, but he could hear a sudden high-pitched whine: the grinding of gold, the destruction of the ring. And he could feel the sudden crawling darkness of the magic the ring's destruction released. "I could, but I won't. You know why? The immortals are tougher than the dark gods. And I think I'd rather live forever than die over and over and over and keep coming back." He shoved his face close to Baanraak's, so close that if Baanraak could have mustered the slightest strength he could have crushed the hyatvit's head between his jaws. Rekkathav grasped his own resurrection ring and ripped it from his hide. "Punishment from you, I'll tell them. I have to earn it back."
His laugh grew softer, or perhaps Baanraak's hearing was fading along with everything else.
"I'm already a god on this world. And now I know Thor's secret of immortality. So…let's see," he whispered in Baanraak's ear, "what an immortal can do to the Night Watch. Let's see how I can twist them, and how I can break them, and how I can use them, while making them believe it's all you. The name of Baanraak will one day be a thing of shame to all the dark gods." He rose and moved out of the tiny pinhole of Baanraak's dying vision, but not quite out of hearing. "Not that you'll be around to see it."
Cat Creek
Lauren, with Jake still in his backpack, stepped through the mirror and back into the bathroom. Outside, thunder tore through the trees and lightning crashed and the ground shook, so Heyr-Thor had found one enemy and was fighting. But she could not tell what else was going on.
She shut down the bathroom mirror gate, mindful of the slender possibility of enemies' tracking her from the green world and breaching Heyr's security. With the gate dismantled, she got a hand mirror and lay her fingertips on it and called the green fire one more time. She waited until she could see outside; Heyr-Thor fought one massive rrôn alone, but though Heyr was bleeding, the rrôn was nearly dead. Good. Lauren sent the image in the mirror scurrying, casting around for Molly, or for Pete.
What she saw next was a woman, astonishingly outsized, certainly once lovely, sliced in half, with one half of her all across Lauren's front yard and the other half toppled across the cr
ushed remainder of what had once been Lauren's van.
Lauren couldn't recognize the woman, couldn't figure out how she fit into anything, but dread shivered down her spine nonetheless. She looked farther, and noticed something on her front porch, and brought her focus to bear there.
Her heart felt like it stopped beating. Pete lay there, torn to pieces. Not thinking about consequences, Lauren screamed "No!" and flung the chair away from the bathroom door and slammed open the door and raced down the hall and down the stairs and out the front door and onto the porch.
"Oh, God," she said, and dropped to her knees beside him. She had only barely realized what he might be to her, had only barely come to accept that she could love again, and she had discovered it too late.
But. His chest rose and fell, barely.
He was still breathing? She couldn't believe it—couldn't comprehend that he could be so torn, so horribly ripped apart, and that he still might live.