The form held out a hand in greeting. Peace. I’m here to help.
She stared. The figure bore none of the malevolence of any of the dark creatures she had encountered. It seemed to wait patiently until she recovered her composure.
She squinted as she tried to see the man more clearly. He was much taller than she was, as tall as Michael. She received an impression of black military-short hair, hawkish features and the glitter of intelligent, dark eyes, but no matter how she tried, she could not bring him into the kind of sharp focus with which she had seen Astra in the Grotto or other creatures from the psychic realm. He was different in some fundamental way.
Who are you? she asked.
I am a compatriot of Michael’s, the man said. My name is Nicholas Crow. After I was killed, I stayed to watch at my post, but the Dark One is not there. He’s here.
This was Nicholas? Her astonishment at meeting the ghost was outmatched by an upsurge of panic.
The Dark One. Nicholas meant the Deceiver. Somehow he had found them. Despite their best efforts, someone had noticed something, or in their preoccupation with their own internal crises, they had let some small thing slip.
He was here.
Come, said Nicholas. He turned and appeared to run down the path.
The kestrel swooped in front of her, eyed her fiercely and flew after the ghost.
Clutching the gun in one hand, she shook her head and ran after both of them.
* * *
WITH A FEROCIOUS sense of relief, Michael watched as Mary disappeared down the path to the lake. Once he was alone he almost didn’t take the time to put on the vest, but then he hesitated. He had known how hard it was for her to leave him, but she had kept her word. He didn’t want her to find out later that he hadn’t kept his.
Moving fast, he stripped off the ammunition and the sword, shrugged on the vest and yanked the Velcro edges into place. The weight of the vest was so familiar to him that he barely noticed it.
He slung the sword in its scabbard onto his back and adjusted the ammunition belts across his chest again. Finally he reached into his weapons bag and pulled out his throwing stars, which were stored in protective leather wrist guards. He fastened those onto each thick muscled wrist.
He could have armed himself in his sleep. All his preparations were automatic. He focused most of his attention somewhere else.
He had set three guardians to watch while they had slept. One now traveled with Mary. It took only a moment to connect mentally with the kestrel and to confirm they were safely on the path and moving away from the area.
They traveled with someone else.
He narrowed his eyes. The kestrel was fast moving out of contact range, and he could not make sense of what it saw. The only things he could tell was that whoever was with them was not embodied and meant to help, not harm.
They were no longer in physical contact with each other, as they had been in the car, and unlike their encounter with the dragon at the gas station, they were both embodied, but they could still speak to each other.
He said, Mary.
He could sense her astonishment at yet another new concept, but she overcame it quickly. Yes?
I know someone has joined you, but I can’t tell who it is.
It’s Nicholas. He said he came to help.
Good, he said. That’s very good.
Despite their situation, he found room for a wry smile. Nicholas was far more generous than he. If their roles were reversed, Michael would not risk himself for the other man. Too much depended on him.
He turned his attention to the other two hawks circling overhead. Hawks did not count like humans. With some effort and a few educated questions, he was able to translate their responses into a rough head count.
They responded twenty times when he asked them to identify a new enemy. So he had twenty problems approaching on foot, along with a black vehicle that held an unknown number of occupants as it quietly purred down the gravel road toward the cabin.
Three problems were thirty yards away and closing fast.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. As he exhaled he put himself in his meditative state of mindfulness. He acknowledged all sensory input then let it pass through him, neither clinging to details nor ignoring them.
From that still quiet place, he expanded and heightened his awareness to include the cabin and the surrounding area. As his awareness expanded, his center remained calm and detached, a pool filled with infinite peace. It was the eye of a hurricane.
There—and there—and there were his three nearest problems.
Two problems crept close on either side of the cabin’s gravel driveway. The third moved through the woods to get behind the cabin. That one might discover the path to the lake.
As if he would let that happen.
He took another deep unhurried breath.
Then he became the hurricane.
Sprinting out the cabin door, he pivoted on one heel, leaped for the roof of the porch and landed in a half crouch on the balls of his feet. He scanned the nearby forest in the direction of the third problem. There was a tree twenty feet away that was large and sturdy enough to bear his weight. He raced across the cabin roof and leaped to the nearest heavy branch, ignoring the leaves and smaller branches that whipped across his face and arms.
The problem closest to the path lifted his head and his gun at the sudden, heavy rustling overhead. He searched with calm efficiency among the nearby trees. One of Michael’s throwing stars sliced the air and embedded in his forehead, and he died.
The other two heard nothing unusual, except perhaps for a sudden gust of wind rustling through the trees.
Agile as a cat, Michael leaped to the ground. All his physical movements were enhanced and strengthened beyond the capacity of a normal human, directed by the powerful spirit housed in his body. He took three running steps and vaulted high into the boughs of the large pine tree by the drive. In his mind’s eye, he tracked the energy signature of the man closest to him. He took aim and launched his second throwing star without ever physically laying eyes on the man.
The star took the second problem in the throat, who died almost instantly.
Almost was not quite fast enough. The man’s grip convulsed. Gunfire sprayed the forest as he fell. That was unfortunate, Michael thought, but inevitable. Sooner or later the fight had to get noisy.
The third man spoke into his headset in an urgent rapid undertone.
Mary said in his head, Michael?
Yes? His reply was as calm as hers was shaken.
The third man twisted to dive for cover in thick underbrush. He spun around and shot the man in the temple before he’d taken two steps.
Mary said, I heard shots. Are you all right? I’m sorry. I know you must be busy. I shouldn’t be bothering you, but—
Her fear beat at him through the telepathic contact. He kept his mental voice unhurried and soothing. I’m quite fine. We can be overheard. Don’t say anything telepathic that should be confidential. Just keep doing what you’re doing.
Okay. I’m sorry. God. Her stress strained their connection.
Mary, he said. He scanned the area for signs of the other problems. I haven’t even broken into a sweat.
Yet.
Yes. I’ll go now.
She sounded so perfectly wretched he pitied her. He would be in as bad or worse shape if he were in her shoes, hearing gunfire in her vicinity and unable to do anything. But she was going to have to deal with it. He didn’t have any more time to spare for her, because something was amassing from the direction of the black vehicle.
It was an amalgamation of power, like the towering buildup of a funnel cloud.
He put one hand on the trunk of a nearby tree and leaned on it. Neither side had yet been surprised except, perhaps, for the three dead men and Mary. The black vehicle held his real problem. His real problem had thrown those first men at him as cannon fodder, just to tickle him to see if he was paying attention.
/> The form of a young, dark-haired woman shimmered into place beside him.
He turned his head and looked at Astra’s crystalline form. She looked both furious and terrified.
They stared at each other. He gave her a resigned shrug.
She snapped, I told you that you shouldn’t have stopped moving!
He could have said a lot of things in reply.
He could have said that he had been tired and the sexy blonde had flirted with him and had said pretty please.
Or he could also have said that even if they hadn’t stopped, their enemy still might have found them. Michael had found Mary so late in the game, while the Deceiver had been so close behind them.
Each statement contained a facet of the truth, and none of it mattered anymore.
And, really, there wasn’t any point in arguing with Astra or kicking himself since somebody else already wanted to do it so badly.
I’ll do what I can to help, Astra said grimly.
Of course you will, he said.
He knew exactly just how much stock to put into that. Astral projection from such a long distance was a massive drain on her reserves, and here, while she might join in the fight, as disembodied as she was, she could only wield a fraction of her strength.
Then, when the fight got too dangerous, she would vanish. She would have to. Just as Michael was too valuable to risk in helping Nicholas, Astra was too valuable to risk helping Michael or Mary.
The funnel cloud of power built and built until the land itself seemed to skew out of balance from the compressed force.
“‘By the pricking of my thumbs . . .’” Michael muttered. He sighed and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. Beside him, Astra visibly braced herself.
Something wicked this way comes.
It approached with a confident and unhurried pace.
The dark cloud was aimed at them, and released.
Chapter Twenty-five
MARY WAS GOING to remember that damn forest path for the rest of her life. Her lives. However long any of them might last.
Her body couldn’t keep up with her adrenaline-spiked mind. Every step she took felt leaden and slow, as though she ran through waist-deep mud. In contrast, the ghost of Nicholas floated effortlessly in front of her, while her kestrel flitted at an almost leisurely pace from branch to branch.
When she heard that first staccato percussion of gunfire, she stumbled to a halt.
Nicholas swung around to face her. Don’t stop.
She shook her head at him. Terror made her leg muscles go watery.
Terror not just for Michael, but for whatever abomination might be sent after her, like Sport Coat and Spring Jacket with their dark, smudged auras. The dinginess clung to them like pollution belched from a coal-burning plant, telling a tale of spirits that had become skewed or perhaps had died. Those bizarre smiles had never left their faces even as the hawks had torn them to shreds.
One ghost and a small, fierce bird would not be able to stop a creature like those two men.
She shuddered even as she called Michael, frantic to know if he was all right. He was. His calm reply soothed and chastised her.
So she started running again. The hand that clutched the gun hung at her side. The other pressed at a stitch that gnawed just under her ribs.
Follow the path. Skirt around the lake then go north again. It was afternoon, so she should keep the sun to her left. None of this was rocket science either. Even someone who was directionally challenged couldn’t screw that up, right?
Michael probably came with an internal GPS system already installed. He would find her. She just had to have faith and follow orders. She had to trust his expertise, because, surely to God, she didn’t have a clue what to do next.
He had trained his whole life for this conflict, whereas so far she had managed to avoid bleeding to death. Not that she wasn’t glad of the result. She was, but let’s face it. She had only achieved that much by asking for someone else’s help.
She had life-altering realizations to ponder, and a powerful deadly danger to avoid, and Michael to fret about. But in her panic, she had managed to yank on her old socks, the ones she had washed in the bathroom sink and dried on the water heater. They felt stiff and rough, and blisters were forming on her heels. Soon the raw pain consumed her attention until each step felt like a jolt from an electric socket that shot up her calves.
She hated this path. She hated these woods. She hated this gun.
As soon as she could, she was going to shoot her socks.
She was so consumed with her own internal misery, the rest of the world slipped out of focus for a heartbeat.
Nicholas rushed at her. Her attention snapped to him. Even though he was not corporeal, instinctively she jerked out of his way.
Get down! he hissed at her.
Far be it from her to question him. She dropped like a stone, cheek to the ground and gun hand protectively covering the back of her head.
He rushed away. A few moments later, she felt a nearby snarl of violent energy. Still a step behind events, she switched her focus from her physical surroundings to the psychic and tried to glean details of what was happening just a few feet away.
Nicholas had tangled with a transparent darkness that seemed to have no form at all, yet it wrapped around the ghost’s brighter form and flexed, as if squeezing him like a boa constrictor. His presence blazed with a savage fury and dislodged the dark form. He took hold of it and ripped it apart.
Then he came and knelt beside her. Cautiously she lifted her head and stared at him. What the hell was that?
One of his spies, he said. A greedy little bastard. If I’d been weaker, it could have drained me completely. Watch out for creatures like that. They could drain you too, if you become injured badly enough.
Thank you, she said.
He tried to put a hand on her shoulder then seemed frustrated. Keep your senses sharp for any more of those. We can’t let any of them take word of our position back to the Dark One. Come on.
She pushed to her feet. There seemed to be a lesson every minute these days. If she could be affected by creatures in the psychic realm, like the dragon or this formless, dark creature, then she could affect them too. Maybe she could tear them apart like Nicholas did. She had to remember that, in case it ever became necessary.
Then she sensed something in the distance behind her, something so strange and wrong she stumbled over a tree root and would have shot a sock while it was still on her foot if she hadn’t kept the gun on safety.
She stopped, turned and scented the air like a bloodhound. Her kestrel flew around her, dive-bombing her head as it tried to shepherd her into moving in the right direction. She ignored it.
A massive black mass teemed and buzzed in the distance. She fumbled with her rediscovered abilities. She had none of Michael’s prowess. She swiped at her sweating forehead as if it would help her to see, but the mass wasn’t a physical one. It existed in the psychic realm, like the dragon or the dark creature, and it seemed to be coming from the direction of the gravel road.
What could it be?
She longed to be with Michael, or to at least feel able to contact him telepathically. But she didn’t dare to interrupt him a second time.
What IS that? she whispered to Nicholas.
That is a lot of creatures like the one I just killed, he said. He sounded grim. Thousands of them. Come on. We’ve got to go.
At a loss for anything else she could sensibly do, she turned to start running again after the ghost.
Behind her, the black cloud reached critical mass. It shot toward the cabin.
She jerked to a halt, made a noise and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth. If that many creatures attacked Michael, could they do any damage? He was whole and strong, and he shone like a tower in the backdrop of the psychic realm.
But according to Nicholas, if he were injured, those creatures could feed on him. That would weaken him further and expose him t
o greater injury, which would then in turn make him more vulnerable to their attack. Sometimes battles were not won in any dramatic, decisive move, but through the force of sheer numbers grinding the opposition into dust.
“Do as you’re told,” she whispered. Her voice was a ragged mess, but she was so scared and lonesome she said it out loud just to hear the sound of someone’s voice. “Don’t do something stupid. Don’t be a TV heroine and go in the basement where you know the vampires are.”
Nicholas seemed to look back at her, but he didn’t say anything.
She turned the statement into a marching rhythm and trudged, not ran, away.
Do as you’re told.
Do as you’re fucking told.
Would she know if he died? Were they attuned enough to each other so she would sense his passing? If she did, how would she bear it? They had just found each other. She’d barely had one day of feeling whole and sensual. One day of feeling the most astonishing and necessary passion.
One day of feeling real, not like a shadow of a person.
Give us a chance, he had said. But what if their chance was taken from them?
She remembered the final images from her last life. After an immeasurable endurance of pain, she had opened her eyes to find him bending over her. He had looked different, of course, but all she’d had to do was look into his gaze, and she had known him. They had only had time to exchange those few precious sentences, their only contact in almost a thousand years. Her chest felt constricted with something hot and hurting.
Just in case there was a God, and he had some time to spare, she whispered, “Why did you do this to us? How are we supposed to bear it? Or did we do it to ourselves? Is all of this our fault? It’s not my fault and it’s never been Michael’s. We’ve only tried to help.”
A sickening, vertiginous lurch clutched at her. She felt as if she were falling, followed by a sharp shock of impact. Gasping, she went down on one knee and struggled with disorientation.
Nicholas knelt in front of her. What happened?
Rising Darkness (A GAME OF SHADOWS NOVEL) Page 24