Freya

by Matthew Laurence

  “She’s never even been to the rec level, sir,” Garen adds.

  His eyes widen. “Really. All that time for ‘exploring’ restricted wings and prison areas, and none for diversions?” He snaps the folder closed. “I think you may have been right all along, Specialist.”

  “Sure, take his side,” I say, dropping the act.

  He chuckles at that. “She has a sense of humor, I see.”

  “Oh, I’m well aware, sir,” Garen says drily. “What do you recommend?”

  “Impulse Station is primarily a staging facility,” Drass says, rubbing his mustache with a thumb. “She being such a unique case, I think our only option is to send her somewhere better equipped for deep analysis. Meridian One in New York, or Coriolis Labs in Austin, I’d say.” He turns his gaze to Garen. “Is there a need to expedite things?”

  Garen shakes his head. “No, she’s harmless. Quasideity status. We haven’t even started her belief regimen.”

  Drass rolls his shoulders and stretches. “All right. Put her in a holding cell for now. I’ll weigh my options and make a formal decision next—”

  There’s a little snap in the back of my mind, a mystic twinge that provides my only warning something’s about to happen. Then the floor heaves, sending the two men pinwheeling into the walls and our gurneys crashing to the tiles. The overhead fluorescents flicker briefly before cutting out in a burst of sparks as the building around us creaks and groans like a dying animal. Everything begins to shake, walls rattling and swaying like we’re on a massive fault line. A titanic surge wrenches its way through the structure, accompanied by an earsplitting deluge of scraping and blasting sounds. Ceiling tiles fall, equipment shatters on the floor, and the yells of the two men are lost in the din.

  “Harmless?!” I scream, laughter mixing with the sounds of bedlam.

  Far below us, my spell has activated, slicing through the mystic weaves and enchantments around it like a pavement saw through tissue paper. Magic can be an incredibly fragile thing, depending on the circumstances. Permanent spells like the ones I’ve just disrupted are almost always tenuous constructs, buoyed by belief and emotion and, as a result, highly vulnerable. Countering a direct spell in the heat of the moment, on the other hand, is nigh-impossible. It’s the difference between breaking an arrow while it lies on the ground and snatching it from the air midflight.

  The mayhem I’ve unleashed is due to the destruction of a single spell—my primary target all along. Sure, I may have clipped their alarm cantrips, wards against unauthorized teleportation, force barriers, and gods know what else, but those were all bonuses. My true goal was the one enchantment I realized they had to be using, a clever little dimensional warping spell that made the inside of Impulse Station a whole lot bigger than the outside.

  Basically, I’ve just forced a multistory, industrial-strength juggernaut of a building to assume its normal size in the middle of a dinky warehouse.

  It’s all headed straight to hell now, Impulse Station wracked by insane stresses on every level. I’ll never know exactly what it looked like on the outside, but in my mind’s eye I see the warehouse blasting outward as it gives birth to a gargantuan structure, pieces of debris sailing in all directions. I envision the parking lot shearing off in waves of asphalt and twirling cars as the subterranean levels suddenly burst into being, displacing tons of rock and earth. I can see those floors filling with sand, water, and twisted debris as the weight of the enormous building above them crushes downward. Support columns will buckle, entire wings will collapse, and utter pandemonium will be the order of the day. In spite of all this delightful anarchy, I’m not naive enough to expect Impulse Station to fall apart completely; I know they’ve built this place to last, hardened it against every conceivable form of divine and military assault, and though I’ve blown it back into reality, that alone won’t be the end of it. Even now, the tremors are dying down, the hail of falling objects is dwindling, and the awful sounds are receding to a dull roar.

  But that’s okay—it’s exactly how I planned it.

  Emergency lamps kick on, shining into the wrecked chamber from just above the doorframe. They illuminate a sea of fallen ceiling tiles, upended tables, and scattered equipment. Somewhere in the mess, I can hear the other men groaning.

  “Mulefoot,” I whisper. The spell flares to life, instantly transforming my body into an ethereal shade. Everything fades as if I’ve been plunged underwater, my vision blurring and the sounds around me becoming hollow and distant. I push myself forward, more an act of will than muscle, phasing through my bonds. I manage to roll away from the gurney just as the spell runs dry, my corporeal flesh snapping into being once more. There’s a clatter as my suddenly weighted body crushes a few ceiling tiles. Just long enough. It’s a little sobering; I used to be able to spend days like that. I was hoping to save it for a locked door, too, but I didn’t see any other option.

  “Are we under attack?” Garen yells, shifting aside a piece of rubble. I notice his trident shining dimly in the glare of the emergency lights, its prongs sticking out from under a small heap of broken tiles.

  “Yes!” I exclaim, lunging forward to snatch it. He tries to scrabble free, to leap at me, but it’s too late. I tear the weapon out of the debris, spin it above my head with a flourish, and jab it straight down into his chest.

  There’s a wonderful moment of resistance as the prongs slice into his flesh and for a heartbeat, I dare to dream my revenge has come at last. Then the teleportation effect rips him away, denying me the kill. The rubble his body was supporting caves in as magic compresses his form and snatches him from danger. I grimace and hold the trident up in the dim light, watching Garen’s blood glisten dully on its tips. Well, it’s not a total loss—I actually have a spell I can use with this vital fluid. I wipe one of the tines on my sleeve, staining the fabric. Then Drass groans from somewhere in the rubble. I whip my head in his direction, a murderous grin stealing across my features. I wasn’t expecting him to be here, honestly, but this is too good to pass up.

  I stalk forward, weapon at the ready. Samantha’s warning plays in the back of my mind, but it’s overwhelmed by the drumbeat of adrenaline and vicious opportunity. There, in the gloom ahead: Drass is moving, shoving aside pieces of construction material. It looks like half the wall and a hunk of the ceiling have collapsed on him, but he’s brushing off large pieces of concrete and rebar as if they were cardboard. I move forward, raise the trident, and try to bring it down on his head, hoping to brain-damage him before that infuriating teleportation trick can whisk him to safety. I do it silently, refusing to give him the slightest warning despite the diverse array of quips on my tongue. It’s actually very hard to resist saying something—gods love to crow.

  The razor-sharp barbs flash through the air, right on course to give him an involuntary lobotomy. Then, in the blink of an eye, Drass snaps his head up, frowns, and thrusts out a hand to stop their descent. The trident jerks between my fingers, there’s a splash of blood, and I look down in astonishment to see the central tine has passed straight through the palm of Drass’s left hand. With incredible strength, he clasps his fingers around the spike and pushes me back while levering himself to a standing position. I yank at the trident, trying to free it from his grasp, but it feels like it’s been embedded in solid cement.

  “This is all your doing, then?” Drass says, disgusted. He takes a step forward, shoving me back as I try to maintain my hold on the weapon. “Your arrogance is astonishing.”

  “What are you?” I ask, struggling with the trident.

  “A simple man with a complicated life,” he says, moving toward me again. There’s not much space in this room, and I feel like I’m going to bump into the far wall any second now. He gives me an appraising look. “You are interesting, but no longer worth the trouble, I think.”

  He slams forward with his arm, and I lose my footing in the debris, tumbling onto my back as I fight to keep my grip on the trident. He kneels down, reaching forwar
d with his right hand, and I’m moments away from screaming and trying to escape when I glance up at that other limb of his, impaled on the gleaming spike of my weapon. His fingers close around my throat, and in that instant, I focus my will into the trident, pleading with it to give me its strength, to come to life and unleash the magic it was forged to contain. White light bursts into the room, a frenzied strobe of energy pooling around Drass’s injured palm.

  His grip around my throat loosens as he looks up in confusion, and just as he pulls back, I command the trident to fire.

  There’s a tremendous flare of lightning, and my vision goes stark white. I feel Drass’s weight ripped away as he’s caught by the blast, followed by the sound of him colliding with the far wall, roaring in pain as he does. I blink rapidly, trying to clear the brilliant spots from my eyes. The room swims into hazy focus, and my sight returns just in time to see Drass detach himself from the new pile of rubble he’s created and stagger toward me, cradling the cauterized nub of his left forearm to his chest. I’ve managed to blow off his hand.

  My elation is short-lived, however, as Drass snarls and lunges forward with his good hand outstretched. He grabs at my chest, gathering up a fistful of blue fabric, picks me off the floor, spins me around, and hurls me at the same wall he just hit. I have only enough time to throw up an arm to shield my face as I collide with the shattered concrete. There’s a moment of intense pain, and then I’m sailing through the air again in a cloud of gray dust and debris. I hit the tiled floor of the next room with a cry, dazed.

  He’s just tossed me through a wall. I recognize with no shortage of discomfort that this is becoming a semiregular occurrence in my life. I roll onto my knees, groan, and pick myself off the floor. Still woozy, I lean over and peer into the room I’ve left just in time to catch a glimpse of Drass pounding out of its doorway. I’m confused at the notion of him actually retreating, but then I realize I’ve been pushed aside. He simply doesn’t want to deal with me anymore. Clearly, he has more important things to worry about. I want to feel insulted by the idea that he’s abandoning our fight, but I’d be a fool if I thought I could stand toe-to-toe with him. Besides, I have plenty of other things I need to be doing, too. My work here is just beginning, though it’s off to a fairly good start.

  “Who has the upper hand now?” I rasp, smirking at my own joke and giving my left arm a mocking wave.

  “Sara? That you?” Nathan’s shaky voice comes to me from the other room.

  “Nate?” I say, picking my way back through the hole I made on my recent flight. “Where are you?”

  “Under the pile of junk that looks like a Web designer!” His muffled voice comes from a large mound of ceiling tiles.

  I run toward him and begin to dig, tossing away fistfuls of wreckage until I reveal my friend. He’s still strapped to the gurney, lying on his side and coated in dust. “What did you do?” he says, coughing.

  “Tore Impulse Station out of its extradimensional foundations,” I say, pulling at his straps.

  “What does that mean, and since when can you do it?” he asks, a little cloud of dust billowing in front of his face as he shouts the last words. It sends him into another coughing fit, and I wave the particles away.

  “It’s all in the wrist,” I reply.

  He waits a beat, then says, “You’ve secretly been all-powerful the entire time, haven’t you?”

  I shrug, freeing the bands around his arms before moving on to his midsection. “Pretty much. Just lazy.”

  He brings his hands down to help with the remaining restraints. “A goddess after my own heart, then,” he says as he works.

  “Or the other way around,” I say, starting on his legs.

  “What?”

  “Worshipping a god can tweak you a bit,” I say. I pull the last band free and roll him out from under the toppled gurney, then take his hand and drag him to his feet. “Belief changes everything, Nate. Even the believer.”

  “Huh,” he says, dusting himself off. “Well, no complaints here. And thanks.” He reaches over and gives me a hug. “I didn’t like the way things were looking.”

  I hug him back. “Well, they’re looking up now.”

  “I’ll say,” he murmurs. “So how do we get out of here? Do you have a spell to—”

  He stops as he sees the too-wide, nervous smile spread across my face. Well, this is awkward.

  Somewhere deep down, the tactician in me is stunned, mouth agape, eyes darting over the various blueprints of obliteration she’s drafted since I joined Finemdi. You see, Nathan’s just made me realize that after weeks of scheming, there remains a rather large hole in my plot to eradicate Impulse Station: how the hell we’re supposed to leave it.

  “You … don’t have a spell prepared?” he asks slowly, trying to figure out what’s wrong.

  “Worse,” I murmur through gritted teeth, still smiling as my thoughts race. I’m furiously trying to formulate a decent, spur-of-the-moment exit from this place.

  He pauses for a moment, considering me, before his eyes widen and I see comprehension take hold behind those bright blue irises. “We don’t have a way out?” he asks bleakly.

  “Er, no,” I say. “Not … at all.” Okay, so I may have left an escape route out of my finely tuned war plans. In my defense, gods can be a bit single-minded. I’ve been focused on fatalities since I got here. How I was going to leave once I was done with them just didn’t come up.

  Nathan squeezes his eyes shut. “Right. That’s, um, not so great, then.” He sighs. “Well, I guess we’re just going to deal with that later. So what’s next?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In your plan. What do we do next?”

  “Oh,” I say, realizing I hadn’t really worked Nathan into my strategy yet, either. Man, I’m bad at this. No point in letting him know that, though. “We head for the prison wing. There’s a friend there I’m going to recruit.”

  “Cool,” he says, apparently intrigued by the idea of meeting one of my allies. “Lead the way.”

  I nod and decide to focus on our departure issues later. Stick to the plan, Sara. Before we head out, though, I’d like to get my weapon back. I scan the room for the trident and smile as I notice its shaft gleaming from under some debris. I pull it free with one hand, but my happiness spirals away as I get a good look at it—its tips are mangled beyond repair, the central one melted down to a gnarled stump. “So much for that,” I mutter, tossing it aside.

  Nathan shoots a curious look at me, but I just shake my head. I settle for reclaiming my bag, picking it from the floor next to the fallen table and looping its strap over my head so I can wear it across my body. Then I move for the exit, pausing in the doorway to peer out into the corridor. Yells sound in the distance, echoing beside the panicked noises of Finemdi’s staff racing for the exits. More emergency lights reveal a delightful spread of ruin and rubble, but no immediate threats. I cross the threshold, intending to head for the nearest stairwell, when the building shakes again.

  It’s not as heavy as the first round of tremors, but it’s enough to make me grab the wall to maintain my footing. Nathan steadies himself on the doorframe and looks at me. “What was that?” he asks.

  A long, low hissing noise, like steam escaping from a giant cauldron, answers him from somewhere far below. Then there’s a distant explosion, and the building shudders again. The hissing continues—in fact, it seems to be getting even louder. I turn to Nathan, face paling as I realize precisely what it is. “We’re going to need to hurry,” I whisper.

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Well, do you remember when I told you I made friends with a few Hawaiian goddesses?” I say, pulling him into the hallway.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Three of them, right?”

  “Right. There’s Nāmaka, Hi‘iaka, and … Pele.”

  “Okay, so what does that have to…” He pauses, frowning. “You didn’t,” he says after a moment, and I can tell he’s just realized their most
famous sibling’s specialty.

  “I did,” I say.

  “Okay, we need to move,” he says, breaking into a run.

  Together, we race for the stairs, that distant hiss building with every step. Time is suddenly very short. When I planned things with the sisters, I asked Pele to do something as soon as the wards were clipped, something to ensure nothing remained of Impulse Station. You have to understand, I wasn’t thinking about escape at the time. I was just looking at the building’s hardiness as a particularly difficult problem.

  And to Pele’s great satisfaction, I realized she was the solution. She was right, what she said back when we first met: Her gift isn’t something you’ll need very often. Once in a great while, though, it’s the perfect answer. Right now, those ominous sounds echoing from below tell me she’s begun to do her part. Far beneath Impulse Station, the Hawaiian goddess of fire has unleashed her strength.

  There’s a volcano brewing under our feet.

  16

  HOTFOOT

  Our destination’s not far—the tiled cells are only three levels down from the top—but Nathan is turning red and dripping with sweat by the time we reach the twelfth floor. I’m dry as a bone, of course, though I can still sympathize. With the power knocked out, the building’s central air-conditioning has been shut down, and Florida is not kind to those without electricity. To make matters worse, there’s a heat rising from below that’s deadlier than any tropical summer. Every few minutes, the building shifts as more of the lower floors melt into the lava pool Pele’s created. Panting Finemdi workers stumble past us as we race upstairs, paying absolutely no attention to anything more complicated than putting one foot in front of the other on their way out.

  I race for the detention block, Nathan wheezing at my side as the squeals and groans of stressed metal echo throughout the complex. I’m forced to find my way around two impassable corridors. One is filled with caved-in ceiling debris and what I think are pieces of a satellite dish, while the other’s not even there anymore—just a long drop down four levels into a pit of jagged wreckage. When I finally turn the corner onto the hall leading to Corrections, I’m immensely proud of myself.