Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle

by Mercedes Lackey

  It was her job to shatter something else. To make the machine kill itself.

  Stop the machine. Just a sharp, hard, immovable spike—there.

  The proverbial spanner in the works.

  The process jammed. The tension built for a nanosecond, but a nanosecond is an eternity in the Between. She watched the fractals go red, watched the process strain and strain and approach critical. But her spike jamming the whole thing up held firm. The part Vickie wanted to snap . . . snapped. The machine blew apart.

  And, as she had figured, utter chaos broke loose all around her. From being surrounded by a relatively orderly swirl of symbols and numbers, she was at the heart of an avalanche of nonrelated bits that obscured everything else. A blizzard of possibility, causality, and insanity. And all the flying bits were attacking her. Not deliberately, this was all pure accident. But she had to get out of there before it cut her to ribbons.

  Now would be good, Red. She groped for the lifeline.

  * * *

  Across the canvas, Red stood opposite from Vickie, oblivious to everything but the creeping darkness that began to envelope him as she wove her spell. He was trying his very best not to panic. He felt a deceptive sense of peace surround him, a paradoxical calm before the storm, because he knew what was coming. Sooner or later, there would come the jolt of sudden energy, a quick roar within the depths of his mind, and the very strength of his resolve would be tested. And every time, she had saved him.

  Amethist. Victoria. Vic.

  If there had ever been anything that he equated as home, it was her. The way their laughs fell in line, creating a smooth harmonic blend that quelled whatever damned thing they had just been arguing over. Her hair, how a slight change in lighting could make her seem like she was ablaze in soothing warmth. How she had felt in his arms, falling into him, they just seemed to fit together.

  Each and every time he had focused on her, on what she meant to him, and it had carried him through. With Victoria as his foundation, he had proved himself more than just an anchor, but stable enough to allow others to mind-ride with him, even taking complete control over his body in relative safety. It had been a rush, and giddy with the thrill of it, his crew had attempted some terrifying acts of magic, constantly pushing themselves to greater heights. By the end, they thought they were invincible. Though Red himself had no magical aptitude, the strength of his will fooled his cohorts into the belief they could manage anything. They began to overexert themselves, until that last attempt . . .

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  It was Justine, of course, who had lost her grip. Justine the Bold, Justine the Pyromancer, the Chosen, the Forever Ticklish in Bed or whatever the hell she was calling herself that week. She had been a timid young thing when they had found her, but even Tomb Stone had to admit that she had some pretty remarkable firepower, raw as it was. And as her power grew, so did her confidence, her daring, and unfortunately, her recklessness. They should have seen it coming. It wasn’t the extent of her power that was the issue, it was her control—control, from someone who notoriously did not have a lot of self-control. What they were attempting would have taxed even an experienced mage. A frame-up, making it look as if the Echo meta Pyroclastic had gone rogue. The first step had been simple. Red had done his job well, and he was the spitting image of the Echo operative. It wasn’t enough to create the illusion of fire though. Pyro’s ability to ignite his body and hurl blasts of plasma had to be authentic. Within the confines of their circle, Justine had channeled the flames to erupt from Red’s body, from miles away. That alone had taken quite a bit out of her, but when it came time to rein it in she had felt her grasp falter, then slip. And with that, the power, and the fire, turned on her. Red, safely tucked within the recesses of his own mind, watched in horror as Justine tried to sever the link. In a panic she tried to withdraw and let the flames roar, unleashed, to draw upon whatever source was handy. She cried out, her screams a constant echo reverberating through his mind, when he gave her a mental slap and tried to calm her down. Too late, the fires recoiled and raced back through the mystic tether to ravage her own body. They “watched,” stunned, as Justine’s body became her own funeral pyre.

  But that had not been the end. Oh no.

  There was a moment’s pause, just a moment, as they sized each other up. They had grown close in the weeks leading up to this job. Once shy and unsure, she had gladly followed Red’s lead. He was the man with experience, the one who strode with confidence from one job to another. She had known little outside of her own sad world where others, be they friends or family, simply took what they wanted of her and left her to rot. Red had been the first to care, and she willingly placed herself in his capable hands, learning whatever she could. She had finally found a mentor, a brother, someone to look out for her. He had taught her to take shit from nobody, to know what you wanted, and to go for it. The world was yours, you just had to take it.

  And at that moment, she knew what it was she wanted. This time nothing, and no one, was going to stand in her way. Not even him. There was too much at stake.

  “I’m sorry, Red.”

  “Justine, hold on, we can figure this out—”

  Red reeled back as she struck. His body staggered and collapsed, like a puppet with its string cut, as a battle raged within. A contest of wills. Two souls, where there could be only one.

  “Dammit, girl, we’re not doing this! You can’t just—”

  Red stopped as he felt her desperation. There was nothing there, nothing to reason with, nothing to talk down. What could he have said, anyway? With her own body destroyed, she was trapped inside him. All that kept her alive was her will, and when she tired she would slip away to nothing, unless she took this body from him.

  It was a matter of self-preservation for both of them, and friendship, trust . . . love? . . . nothing mattered except to live. Justine struck first, impulsive as always, using the mental version of her fires. She tried to cage him in flames, to incinerate him at best, drive him out at worst. He dodged back, her cage grasping at nothing, though he felt the scorch as if from a real blaze. He responded instinctively with cold, and oh, he could be cold if he had to be. He took the fuel, denied the energy. Justine countered by trying to smother him but he eeled out of her grasp, slippery ice. Without her fire, she had nothing except pure will. He kept retreating; she kept coming. He realized that this could go on . . . if not forever, for far too long. He lunged, enveloping her as she had tried to envelope him, and without her fire to protect her, he overwhelmed her, and with a great and desperate squeeze he felt something snap. She shuddered and stiffened in his grasp. Loosening his hold, he cradled her ebbing consciousness within his.

  “I didn’t . . . I couldn’t . . . oh Red . . . this isn’t really happening, is it?”

  She was fading too fast. Red clung to her, but there was nothing he could do. She slipped out of his grasp, and away, forever into the dark.

  “Good-bye . . .” he sobbed. “Oh God . . . good-bye . . .”

  * * *

  . . . when nothing, not even Amethist, could have prepared him for the price of reckless magic. It’s different this time, he reminded himself, again. Different, with someone who’s actually trained for this crap. Someone who knows and understands, and accepts the cost. Someone who’s careful. Just reach out, Red, reach out and bring her back.

  He fell into his routine, alarmed at how easy it was to bring up his cycle of memories. Each of Amethist, each one a powerful glimpse into the heart of someone he had actually cared for more than he cared about himself. Their first encounter, her flash of anger, his dismay as she chased him with jagged shards of ice, and through the fear he fought down a growing attraction to this enraged—and feisty—girl. Their first kiss, after a titanic battle when he had finally, finally, gotten the upper hand and she lay helpless before him. She was vulnerable, all it would have taken was a slash of his claws, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead he cradled her to him and carried her home, and
as he turned to leave she reached for him, and brought his head down to hers. It had all changed then. Their first battle, as partners, how they moved in sync, and the sweet taste of that victory. One by one, he ran through them all, his mind afire with memories of love and the promise of forever.

  And then, it all went wrong. Something new and unexpected, and in a jarring flash Red watched the memory he had been fleeing from for the past year.

  Amethist, leaping to save him, and vanishing in a burst of white light.

  And as the Djinni screamed his loss, the line anchoring him to Vickie fell away, lost in the void.

  * * *

  The lifeline . . . wasn’t there. Instinctively, she curled in on herself, to preserve as much as she could, for as long as she could. But this was like being in a sandstorm, with the whirling remains of Harmony’s trap etching her, scouring away at her protections. Without an outside source of power, she would last only as long as her will did. Or . . . or until Red could punch through again. If he could. If he would. If he had second thoughts, wanted to eliminate the uncomfortable magician from his life . . . now was the time.

  No, she wouldn’t think that of him. If he could, then he would. And if he couldn’t—

  Then at least I go out saving someone else. And until she knew that for certain there was no getting out of here, she would believe he could do it, he could reach her. Her will had kept her going for a long, long time now. She hardened it, and herself, and held on.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Bella knew immediately when something went wrong. She sensed the drain on Bulwark stop, and her heart leapt, but then she sensed Vickie . . . go missing. Her attention was ripped from Bull; Vickie was white as a piece of paper, rigid, eyes glassy, a statue caught in the glowing matrix of her own protections.

  If this had been anything other than magic, Bella would have lunged off the stool and grabbed Vickie with both hands—but Vickie had warned her, the protections would guard her from anything, including the best of intended help. There was no way to reach her—

  —except through Red.

  So Bella lunged for the Djinni instead, clamped both hands around his head, and shoved energy into him. Dammit, chowderhead! she “yelled” at him. FOCUS!

  But she couldn’t reach him. And he couldn’t reach Vickie. He was caught in some terrible memory of pain that she couldn’t break past.

  Screw that. YES I CAN.

  “Red!” she shrieked. “Snap out of it!” She backed up her physical shouts with psychic ones. Home, you rat bastard! Bring her home!

  But instead of anger, she surrounded him with something else entirely. The satisfaction and pride she felt when he finally started coming up to the mark. The odd affection when he started helping Vickie. The surety that, yes, he could do this.

  And . . . what do you call the opposite of loneliness? Whatever it was, she shoved that at him too. You’re not alone anymore. We’re in this together. I have your back; now you get hers . . .

  * * *

  It came back to him, those long days spent in that cramped Echo prisoner cell, the torture of sleep, the faces that came to the surface, taunting him with his failures. And her face, most of all, that serene beauty that could in an instant radiate girlish charm, infectious laughter, unwavering determination or a righteous wrath. Amethist knew he loved her, but she could never have guessed how much power she had over him. From her, a simple look of gratitude gave him a desire to accomplish five impossible things before breakfast. A mildly scornful expression would plague him with doubts and self-loathing for days. But the worst, by far, were her fierce stares of blame, and he would simply want to shrivel up and die, right there.

  For weeks now, that had been the expression that haunted him most. Even though that was not what he had seen in that last moment. His fault, his fault, and surely, surely she must have felt that in the nanosecond of her death. He couldn’t bear it, the accusation, the—hate—

  It spilled over to everything else. She surely hated him in that moment, and so he hated himself, and so everyone else, by extension, had to hate him, and the fact that no one alive knew of his guilt but him was irrelevant. There were plenty of other things he’d done. How many had paid for his greed and ambition over the years? How many had he knowingly manipulated for some paltry sum? How many had died, whether by his hand or indirectly from his actions, simply because they had gotten in his way? And just this past year, god . . .

  He’d almost killed Vix. He’d opened the door for Jack . . . so he was responsible for Tesla, and for Bull . . .

  Here he was again, looking for redemption, fooling himself into thinking it was even possible. It was a tired lesson he could never seem to learn. There was no redemption, not for the things he had done. Any time he tried, it only seemed to make things worse. Amethist’s look, that look . . . that wasn’t just blame. It was every failure he had ever endured, masked by the illusion of past victories, shielded by false pretenses of atonement. The truth was, he doubted he could ever outrun his past.

  He was utterly alone because he deserved to be. There was no one, no one . . .

  Dammit, chowderhead! Her voice rang inside his head. FOCUS!

  Red cringed in annoyance. For all her beauty, Bella had the most piercing voice of anyone he had ever met. It was typical of her too. Here he was, trying to enjoy some much deserved self-loathing, and she had to intrude with—

  “Red!” she shrieked. “Snap out of it!” She backed up her physical shouts with psychic ones. Home, you rat bastard! Bring her home!

  He felt her then, her presence, and through the darkness she appeared. Her look was encouraging, her posture inviting, and she smiled at him.

  You’re not alone anymore. We’re in this together. I have your back; now you get hers . . .

  He felt her pushing through the guilt, through the absolute cloak of solitude to where he was. He felt her bombard his mind with pride and friendship. He shrank away from it. He didn’t deserve feelings like that. He was who he was, a cynical bastard, and as much as part of him longed for such acceptance, the rest of him knew better.

  She persisted, stubborn wench, refusing his rejection, drawing ever closer, until he could almost feel her breath upon him. She was radiant. He had desired her since the moment she had first marched up to him and coldcocked him across the jaw. Here, in the dark weft of Vickie’s spell, it was so cold. And Bella was so close, and so warm . . .

  He reached out, drew her close, and kissed her. Hard.

  She fought for a moment, a sense of shock, surprise, indignation blanketing everything else. Then, unexpectedly, she melted into the kiss, for just a moment.

  Home, Red. This is home now.

  Home, he thought, and gasped as the tether blazed back into existence.

  * * *

  She felt it, the lifeline, and grabbed onto it with everything she had, with the desperate will to live that had kept her going for this long.

  Then, she was out, taking in a huge, gasping breath, as her protections blazed up around her, then winked out. She staggered backwards and came up against the wall.

  That wasn’t just Red . . .

  She shook her head to clear it, and saw them. Together. Bella and Red. Which . . . explained why the tether hadn’t been “just” Red.

  Of course . . .

  Bella had her arms around him. While it looked like it was for support, and Red seemed very shaken, in her estimation there was a ninety-percent probability that a moment before she saw them it hadn’t “just been for support.” Hell, she wrote romances. The guy the girl hates and fights with was always the one she ended up with. Right?

  And now she felt the bitter bile of . . . not jealousy, no, how could someone like her be jealous of someone like Bella? But. Envy. The way Red was looking at Bella. No one, not even someone as damaged as Red, would ever, ever look at her that way. No matter what she’d . . . hoped? Subconsciously, anyway . . .

  Yeah, right. And pigs would fly in attack formation over Beirut
before that happened. Be grateful for what crumbs you get.

  She fought down tears, swallowed down the sharp-edged lump in her throat. Be happy for your friends being happy. Try, anyway. Because that’s the closest you’ll ever get.

  Still, they had just saved her life. You would think they would turn to look at her or something.

  The terrible armor of her scars closed in around her, a tangible barricade that would, forever, stand as a barrier to anything beyond friendship. Forget it, move on. Concentrate on something besides yourself. You aren’t the star of this story, and it isn’t all about you. It’s about the team. Don’t forget why you were here in the first place. She clamped down on her heart, hard. You get half an hour to feel sorry for yourself and cry when you get home. That’s it, that’s all the self-indulgence you get. Then you concentrate on something productive.

  While they were still staring into each others’ eyes, she dashed her glove across her own to clear the burning tears away, and turned her attention to Bulwark. And frowned.

  There were some things even she could tell, from the machines, and from him, thanks to Sovie’s briefing. He was breathing on his own at last. And that dreadful draining was shut down for good. But he wasn’t coming out of the coma, and she wasn’t medic enough to guess why.

  “Bell,” she said, without turning to look at the other two. “What the hell is going on with Bulwark?”

  Bella and Red came apart with a start, as if awakening from a dream, and looked at Vickie blankly. Bella snapped fully into work mode first, and wobbled a little as she raced to Bull’s side. Okay, breathing on his own. She disconnected the respirator; there was nothing good that came of keeping a meta on one of those if he or she didn’t need it. She checked the EKG; looked like a coma, but not a vegetative one—there was something going on in his head, something very active. But he wasn’t coming out of it. She glanced at Vickie, who shrugged.

  “Metas,” Vickie said, and shrugged again. “I mean, I’m no doctor, but Sovie says you can’t always tell how they’re going to recover. For some of them, at least from the conversations I’ve had with her, it’s like they’re doing a systems check constantly, and they stay out cold until everything’s repaired, then they come to all at once.”