by Mercedes Lackey; Cody Martin; Dennis Lee; Veronica Giguere
“How DARE you!” he shouted. “How DARE you take off my . . .”
“You took off my gloves too, and you had no reason to!” she squeaked. “I was down to zero, dehydrated, I needed to get a drink! I didn’t—there’s—” The words froze in her throat.
“Goddamn it, woman!” he screamed. “I’ve killed people for this!”
All she could do was stare at him. His grip on her arms was so excruciatingly painful, and she was so afraid, she couldn’t even manage a single word. She desperately wanted to apologize for the inadvertent violation, and couldn’t.
Red shuddered, fighting to control his anger. She was scared, and he was hurting her. He looked down incredulously at his hands, at the deep impressions they made on her arms, and he released her.
She collapsed to the ground and held herself, refusing to look at him. He backed away, shocked at—himself? At her? She couldn’t tell.
Slowly, she looked up at him, so desperate to try and say something, and so unable to, that two tears of frustration burned their way down her cheeks. And there, she felt her strength growing again, founded in anger.
“We’re both scarred,” she said finally, her tone bleak and forced. “Inside and out. So tell me, Djinni . . . how is it different?”
He knelt again, his hands reaching for the knots of his scarf.
“Don’t you get it?” he said, jerking the concealing fabric off. He brought his terrible face close to hers, his eyes crazed and his mouth drawn into a feral snarl. “I didn’t have a say in this! This was years of neverending pain and total loss of control. I suffered, and not once could I figure out a reason why!”
He gestured wildly towards her. “This! This was a result of your actions! Even now, you keep messing with this crap! You keep defending it! Why? Why?”
Why? Because it was as much a part of her as his skin was a part of him! Because it was all she had! Because it was the only thing left that made her anything other than a pitiful cripple hiding in the dark!
Because it was the only thing she had that she could fight with!
“What do you want from me?” she cried, hands balled into painful fists. “What possible thing can I do to satisfy you?”
“I want you to stop doing magic!” he shouted.
Vickie gasped. She felt the geas close in around her like the jaws of a trap.
The Djinni had made his wish.
* * *
Red stormed out, so full of rage that if he had not already left her in a state of stunned shock, she would have been so completely terrified of that anger that she would have run and hidden in the closet, then curled up into a fetal ball as she had the day of the Invasion.
But now . . . she had felt his demand settle into the spell, eviscerating her, and as with anyone mortally wounded, she was too numb to feel anything yet. That would change. But . . . she could finish this before the shock wore off.
She had to get them out of here. No way she could do what she intended to with them still here. “Nothing. Nothing important. Look, I’m beat, would you two go get the mail for me?” That was easy, believable; Grey and Herb did that all the time.
And the moment they were outside the door, she slammed it. She threw all the locks and drove her hand across a heavy set of books perched upon a floating bookshelf, letting them tumble to the floor, and exposing a small numeric key panel. She punched in the code and blinked as several panels in the ceiling popped open, releasing a dormant spell and activating her emergency mage-shields. It was old magic, caged magic—she had not broken the terms of the geas.
Grey and Herb wouldn’t be able to get to anyone in time. Bella and the rest were all the way across town. Grey could apport, but only through walls.
By the time he got anyone, it would be over.
She’d planned this a long time ago, against the day when it all became too much to bear. She made sure no one was aware how close to the edge she was, and was so careful how she got what she would need, hoarding the strongest pain pills, doing without antianxiety meds to stockpile her stash, that no one ever guessed. And once, deliberately catching influenza to get a scrip for antinausea drugs. She knew she would never get more than one chance, her parents would see to that. So there would be no throwing up the lethal dose.
Nothing would compound failure as much as a failed suicide.
The option of ending it all had, strangely enough, sometimes been all that had kept her going. Knowing she had the means, at hand, had kept despair just dulled enough that she would pull through another day. Then, of course, the Invasion had changed everything. But more than that, figuring out that she could put together Overwatch, that she could be effective, that she could contribute as much as any able-bodied member of a team—that had actually given her a reason to live.
Now that was gone.
She was a failure, and utterly useless now. Overwatch was as much magic as tech. Her hacking required magic. Any geek off the street could do what she could, and better.
Without magic, she was just a cripple, loaded down with phobias.
She knew what would happen next; Bella would waste time and effort trying to find something she could do, expending effort they should be putting elsewhere. She had been a military commander of sorts, even if it had only been of a tiny group, and she knew all about cutting losses. “No man left behind” was fine if you had infinite backing and infinite resources, but right now, Echo was on the verge of falling apart and in the hands of Verdigris, there were the Thulians, and things were only going to get worse.
She couldn’t even hack the Metis communication unit. Not without magic.
In a strange way, what settled about her now was relief. No more responsibility, no more fighting through pain, no more living in a near constant state of fear. The tunnel had an end, even if there was no light in it.
The mage-shields kept everything out, including Grey and Herb’s protests. She was utterly alone in the silence.
She put her “favorites” collection on the stereo on a random shuffle. She needed music, or she’d lose her nerve.
Quickly she wrote out a last letter, laying out everything; how much of a liability she was, and how she refused to let them waste what few resources they had on her. She left it on the coffee table for whoever found her. She had made it unemotional and logical, and had tried very hard to phrase things so all the blame fell on herself. She found herself second-guessing her own convictions even as she wrote it, until she began to wonder if, all this time, everything she had believed about herself and what defined her was completely wrong.
“Red Djinni may be right. Magic might be too uncertain, too dangerous to ever use. Gods know Saviour thinks so. If so . . . at least I stopped before I killed someone.”
She’d taken so many pills in her life that four bottles’ worth went down in minutes. She lay down on the couch, and closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her, and then the numbness of spirit wore off. She cried for all the mistakes, for the loss of everything that defined her, for the failure, cried and cried until she finally felt oblivion come on soft, dark wings.
* * *
Red didn’t call for transport, he needed some air. He slammed the roof access behind him, and braced himself against the rooftop ledge, breathing hard. The sheer gall of that bitch! How dared she try and compare the two of them! What did she know of his past? Of his pain? Spend a night in the Djinni’s body, and that gives her an excuse, the right to . . .
He dug his hand under the mask, and ran his fingers over the scarred flesh. All these years, adopting faces, tearing the skin away to grow new masks . . . and it was still the same. Left to its own devices, his own deformed and mutilated face always returned. A constant reminder.
All right then, so there were some similarities . . .
He collapsed on the concrete, resting his back against the ledge and his face in his hands. He felt his anger ebb away, as usual, to be replaced by remorse. Damn his temper.
But he had killed people for . . .
What was wrong with that woman? Why did she always have to goad him like that? What was it about her that always brought out the worst in him?
Magic. That was it, her and magic. You’d think she couldn’t live without it. Like some damned crutch. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have plenty of other—
What if she doesn’t?
The thought had not occurred to him before. For some, magic was as natural as breathing; he’d seen that with his own eyes. What if, for her, it was as neccessary as breathing? That damned cat of hers . . . it had more or less implied she’d been fooling around with magic since high school, or even earlier. Or . . . wait, not “fooling around” at all. Using it, seriously, to do . . . stuff for the FBI? Wasn’t that something she’d said? Not exactly fooling around. Not like—
Red muttered something and came to his feet. Enough. It’ll keep for another day. Just another day in paradise for Djinni and Overwatch. I’m sure there will be some heartfelt apologies later. You’re usually good at those. Just, not right now. I can still feel my hands on her, wanting to hurt her . . .
He glanced around him. The rooftops seemed close enough together. He started at a quick run, and began flying from building to building. As usual, the speed and danger began to calm him.
The first inkling that Red had that something was horribly wrong was when the damn cat leapt on him from behind and bit and clawed the crap out of his calf and thigh. Red swore, landing awkwardly on a fire escape. He struck hard, and batted Grey off. The cat landed smoothly and hissed, his back arched and body shaking.
Grey was incoherent with anger, fear, and grief blasting babbling thoughts into his head. But the images that came with those thoughts were clear. Vickie locking the cat and the rock elemental out. Vickie gulping down handfuls of pills.
And finally, a few coherent “words.”
“Killed her? Took her magic? With what, a shouting match? The hell are you . . . ?”
Grey couldn’t even form the “words,” he was so angry.
“Oh,” Djinni said, blankly. “Oh . . . shit. Then she’s . . .”
“And so she decided to . . .”
They stared at each other for a moment, and Red was off, racing back to Vickie’s apartment, and Grey was hot on his heels.
* * *
Noise. The comforting, enveloping fog lifted for a moment. Was it Death? Death wasn’t supposed to be noisy. It was supposed to come silently, creeping from the shadows, with sweet whispers of oblivion and eternal rest. But this was loud . . . thunderous . . . pounding . . .
Footsteps overhead on the flat roof of the apartment building . . .
Go away. Leave me alone.
With a terrible effort, she turned her head to look. Outside, the city seemed otherwise quiet. Trees rustled softly in a mild breeze, their leaves lit by a gorgeous full moon. She was touched by the serenity of it, a serenity broken as a masked figure landed unceremoniously on one of the branches outside her window. He cursed as he grappled with the branch, then hopped up and sprinted along the groaning limb towards . . .
Her window exploded inward as Djinni hurled himself through it, landing in a roll and colliding with her coffee table. He banged his forehead neatly on the edge, and he howled in pain.
“Oh hell . . . it’s you . . .” she murmured. “Why is it always you . . . ?” And dove back into nothingness, the ultimate dark place to hide. And this time, she would never have to come out.
Red scrambled to her, grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her up. “Victrix! Damn you, this is not cool!” He shook her, and she hung limp in his arms. He scanned the area, and watched as four empty pill bottles rolled off the coffee table onto the floor, and they were not small bottles. He let her go and examined them. Three Percodan, one Valium. There was a fifth bottle, much smaller, something he didn’t recognize. And she had gulped them down, all of them . . . he didn’t have much time. Her breathing was already shallower.
He spotted Bella’s med kit by the door.
He leapt over the couch and grabbed it, spilling its contents on the floor. He sifted through the gauze, bandages, syringes and a couple dozen vials of liquid. What he needed would be in a preloaded shot, because it wasn’t always the trained DCO that had to use these kits. There! Epinephrine, with a long needle. He grabbed the syringe.
“C’mon, c’mon, stay with me, Vickie . . .”
He pulled off her glove, ignoring the sight of her gnarled flesh, and rolled up her sleeve. His heart sank as he examined her arm. The skin was too damaged to find a vein. Helplessly, he tore off both sleeves, but both arms were an equal mess. Not a vein in sight.
She wasn’t breathing now—she was gasping, in between long, long intervals. He checked for a pulse under her chin.
Shit. It’s weak . . . and falling . . .
His jaw clenched, his mind swimming in indecision. Veins in her feet? Jam an artery? Red, old boy, you’re losing her . . .
The needle was just long and heavy enough. He drew a deep breath, and stabbed the needle into her chest between the ribs, right above the heart, ramming the plunger down.
The reaction was instantaneous. Her eyes flew open, she convulsed, and took a huge, gulping breath. And another. Her heart started hammering as he pulled out the needle.
“That’s right!” Red shouted, scooping her up in his arms. “Keep breathing, Vickie! Keep awake! Keep . . .”
She shuddered, and cried out in protest.
“N-n-n-n-NO!” she sobbed. “G-g-go aw-w-way, you b-b-b-b—”
“Keep hating me!” Red said in encouragement, as he carried her to the bathroom. He held her to him with one arm as he opened her medicine cabinet. His hand flew over the shelves, knocking over bottles until he found the ipecac. He unscrewed the top with his thumb, leaned her back, and dumped the contents of the bottle down her throat. She struggled as he clamped his hand over her mouth and nose, forcing her to swallow the stuff.
Then he held her over the toilet while she emptied out everything she had swallowed down.
“Y-y-y-y-you . . . sonova . . .” But her tone wasn’t angry. It was a desperate wail. She started to hyperventilate, and her head wobbled. He ignored her, turning the shower on full cold, and dragged her under the freezing stream of water. She collapsed against him.
“Hey!” he shouted, letting her head fall back under the falling water. He slapped her cheek, and was rewarded with a flutter of her eyelids. “Stay with me, damn it! Vickie! I’m sorry, all right? I’m sorry I made you . . . that I said . . . FUCK! Wake UP!”
He held her close and felt for a pulse. It was there, she was alive, but so limp, so lifeless. He brought her face under the water again, slapped her again, harder, and screamed her name over and over. At last, she opened her eyes, but what he saw . . .
There was nothing there but despair. Past all hope. The last time he’d seen eyes that looked like that—it’d been Howitzer’s, and the boy had been begging for death to take away his pain.
I fricking told you! Grey had said. She bound herself to your will! Open-ended, no time limit, no term limit, and you said—
“I TAKE IT BACK!” Red screamed in panic. “YOU HEAR ME! I TAKE IT BACK! TAKE YOUR MAGIC BACK! BUT TAKE YOUR LIFE BACK TOO, DAMN IT! I JUST . . .”
He shuddered and held her close to him.
“I just want to help you come back . . .” He wept.
Every door in the apartment slammed open. A wave of—something—swept into the place, through Red, and into Vickie. Her eyes opened
again, but now they were alive. She looked at him, she looked through him, for just a moment.
Then she laid her head on his shoulder and began to sob.
* * *
He let her cry herself out; then he bundled her up in a towel much too big for her, and tucked her under a couple of blankets. She fell asleep immediately, a healthy sleep of exhaustion.
He staggered out into the living room. The wind coming in through the broken window blew some papers against his leg. He picked them up and caught sight of his own name.
Red Djinni may be right. Magic might be too uncertain, too dangerous to ever use . . .
The letter was written in Vickie’s flowing script. He sat down to read it. A few times. Finally, he tore up the letter and let his head fall into his hands. He had torn into her tonight. He had even been warned, and still he had done it. Uncertain and dangerous, he couldn’t disagree, but it was a part of her. It was something she couldn’t simply deny.
He would have to live with that, if he was going to help her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
__________
Heroes and Thieves
CODY MARTIN AND MERCEDES LACKEY
In a sane world, we’d have spent at least a week recovering from . . . all that.
We didn’t have a week. We didn’t have days. We had hours.
I had minutes. Unlocking the desk and getting contact with Metis could not wait.
Red Saviour didn’t like magic, but the malenkaya vedma had proved her usefulness and reliability enough by this point that she was disposed to allow Victoria to do whatever she wished to. Even within the confines of CCCP headquarters.
The woman had been spending most waking hours here ever since Belladonna had brought the communications unit from Tesla’s desk here for safekeeping. Obviously, the last place the thing should be was anywhere near the dwelling places of any of the Echo Ops that had stolen it in the first place. It was safest here; Natalya could make certain no one got anywhere near it with very little effort.