Sekhmet straightens in the middle of the hall, standing in victory over the butchered remains of her foes. The corridor around her is covered in bright, sticky swaths of blood, her fur is matted, and her red dress is completely ruined. She shudders in bliss, bringing one blood-soaked hand to her lips and giving it a long, happy lick. Her claws vanish under her skin as she cleans herself. “Exhilarating,” she says as I approach. “It’s been so long.”
I grimace at the display, though I can’t deny that some part of me wishes I could have helped create it. “Impressive,” I reply, motioning at the door labeled Hybridization Control. Sekhmet nods and retrieves a new rifle from one of the fallen, moving to stand beside me. I reach out with my key card and try it in the reader. Once again, it beeps green and the door unlocks. Handy thing.
I move in beside Sekhmet, encountering the same glossy, high-tech architecture I remember from when I was here last. The building rumbles again as we walk down the hall, but it looks like this area has resisted most of the damage—there are only a few cracks in the walls, and it even feels cooler in here. We pad through the bright white corridor, now bathed in the harsh glare of emergency lighting, listening to the sounds of Impulse Station dying around us.
I take the right-hand turn, move through the changing room—coveralls litter the floor and one of the tables is overturned—and open the door to the Incubation laboratory. I’m about to head in when I feel Sekhmet’s hand on my shoulder.
“Stop,” she whispers. Her nostrils flare, and she shakes her head. “They are waiting.”
“How many?”
She bows her head, concentrating. “Dozens,” she says under her breath.
“What? Why? What are they doing here? How could they know I was…?” I trail off, confused. This isn’t a critical area, is it? I expected the place to be deserted. Who would want to stick around with a volcano underfoot? Then I gasp as the answer comes to me in a flash. “Garen,” I snarl. Of course. Why else would someone station those guards out in the corridor? He’s come here to save his mother, and I’ll bet he brought every hybrid warrior he could get his hands on to help.
Now what do I do? Should I really try to keep my word to kill this woman if it means plowing through her own son to do it? I believe a promise should mean something, but I’m not blind; I will not compromise myself in the name of the law when the situation has changed, and to be honest, this feels like it’s shifting from a mercy killing to an assassination attempt. I’m really not liking that idea. Besides, I still have someone else I must eliminate—my final task in Impulse Station. I sigh, letting go of this goal. “Bring her peace, Garen,” I whisper. “And another day, I will find you to collect the death I am owed.”
I turn to Sekhmet. “New plan,” I say. “I think you’ll like this one.”
She cocks her head to the side, an unspoken question.
“Revenge,” I say, grinning at her. Immediately, she breaks into a smile, revealing long incisors. I pull the door shut, close my eyes, and focus on the image of Gideon Drass as I last saw him. I think of his demeanor, the clothes he was wearing, the outline of his body, and the way he moves. Then I say a single word: “Berkshire.”
The spell blazes to life, and in my mind’s eye, I see Gideon standing in what looks like a hospital corridor, red with anger, gesturing with the stump of his left arm. This is one of my favorite kinds of magic. Divination has always been a specialty of mine, and the speed with which I’ve found my prey is a testament to that legacy. I concentrate on the image, pulling away and trying to place it in the world around me. “Where are you, Mr. Drass?” I say as I tease apart the vision. It wavers in my mind for a moment, skipping a beat like a piece of film straying from the projector before snapping back with a wider angle. He’s standing on a tiled floor, surrounded by scattered pieces of glass and concrete. Broken viewing windows line the hall on either side of him, and I can make out empty beds and toppled medical equipment through each one. There are probably a dozen mercenaries in the room, standing in a rough circle around Drass and … Garen?
What the hell?
Wait, I recognize this place: This is the patient wing where Nantosuelta was being kept. In fact, I think they’re right in front of her room, or near enough. The angle isn’t quite right for me to tell for certain, but Garen’s presence all but confirms it. There’s something else in there, too—a large black upright chamber on wheels that looks sort of like a high-tech iron maiden. One of the mercenaries is holding on to a pair of handles on its back, keeping an eye on a set of monitor readouts bolted to the side. A thick glass plate set into its front reveals an interior filled with churning shadows, a rippling sea of night. I peer closer, willing the view to contract, and make out a form in that murk. Then the tube’s occupant pushes forward, placing dainty white hands against the glass and leaning in for a better look at the two men yelling at each other in the corridor.
I frown, unable to put a name to the face. I thought it might be Nantosuelta in there, but this woman is different. I don’t think she’s a god, honestly—she’s pretty, but it’s not the flawless sort of beauty you see worshippers creating. Then she smiles, laughing silently at the argument before her, and her eyes widen in amusement. Whatever humanity she had vanishes in that moment. Those are dead eyes, reptilian and cold. She pulls down a loop of flat brown hair, smirking, and twirls it around her finger as she watches.
And I recognize her.
Those large front teeth, her too-long features … I look between her and Drass, putting the pieces together. “We have to go in there, Sekhmet,” I say, banishing the vision with a shake of my head.
“But I thought—”
“No. Everything I seek is beyond that door. Are you prepared?”
“Such a question!” she says, throwing back her head and laughing. “Always!”
“Then I’d be honored to join you in battle, my friend,” I say, setting Nathan down and readying myself.
“Words I can never tire of hearing,” Sekhmet says, checking her weapons.
I reach out for the handle, look at her, and nod sharply before flinging the door open. I do not know what Drass and Garen were arguing about, or the purpose of that strange machine, but I do know what it holds. There is something vile in there, and worse still, it wears the flesh of a human like a suit of armor. I have to face it, to understand what’s happened, because I recognize that shell. Seeing that creature and Gideon Drass together was all it took for me to make the connection.
Samantha may have her father’s eyes, but she’s the spitting image of her mother.
17
TWISTED ROOTS
I’m not sure how I feel about this.
Only a handful of minutes have passed, and we’re both soaked in blood. The laboratory is in an even greater shambles than it was when we entered, filled with bullet holes, vivid splashes of crimson, and dozens of bodies. Sekhmet did most of the heavy lifting, and while I was certainly no slouch, I’m mildly troubled by what I’ve just done. Maybe she’s right about me going soft, because slaughtering a roomful of men—half-god, brainwashed abominations, no less—felt … awkward. My portfolio includes war, doesn’t it? Why did this seem so strange to me?
I hold up a hand to Sekhmet, motioning her to wait while I reorient myself. Large-caliber exit wounds in my back and sides are still closing, and part of my right arm hasn’t regenerated yet, so she won’t suspect I’m also having a miniature crisis of conscience. I certainly wasn’t expecting one. Maybe it’s because these are the first people I’ve actually killed in decades? You might be surprised at my, well, surprise here, but you have to look at this from a god’s perspective: Once you see centuries pass and generations live, die, and live again, you start to get a bit detached from the value of a single life. It’s even harder when a significant part of who you are is pure battle, worshipped for ages in all its deadly splendor.
Then again, do I really want to be comfortable with murder? It’s not exactly like riding a bike, nor sh
ould it be. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m feeling a little conflicted right now. Hmm. You know, at some point, I need to take a moment and figure out how thoroughly I want to be Freya, and how much simpler things got after stepping into Sara’s shoes. For now, though …
I shake my head and mentally shove those misgivings back down. This is not the time to feel out of place. Focus, Sara. Focus on why you’re here: Revenge. Destruction. Glory.
You know—what used to get you out of bed in the morning.
Regrets are for after the battle ends, I think, crushing the last of those strange worries.
I straighten up and start moving again once the wounds finish healing. All those weeks at the parks have dramatically improved my ability to regenerate, but more important, the guards weren’t prepared for gods. I saw to that when I sent Nāmaka and Hi‘iaka to ransack their armory; all our foes had were their mundane weapons.
Ineffective or not, there’s one thing those assault rifles can still do: make a lot of noise. There’s no way Drass and his team missed hearing the gunfire, to say nothing of the screams. “So much for stealth,” I mutter, wiping my bloodied combat knife on the hem of my frock and returning it to its sheath.
“Only the weak hide in the shadows,” Sekhmet says with disdain. She looks like something out of a hunter’s nightmare, a lion-headed murderess completely coated in blood. Her dress is a tattered mess, torn by dozens of bullets and barely hanging on to her sleek body. I glance down and sigh; my clothes aren’t in much better shape. I really liked that outfit, too.
“Where is our prey now?” Sekhmet asks, already hungry for more.
I point at the door to Nan’s little hospital wing. She nods and strides toward it, seeming utterly ecstatic at the thought of shredding more hapless mercenaries. I look around the room, taking in the devastation we’ve caused. Another tremor sends a block of tiles falling from the ceiling, covering the mutilated remains of some of the men in dust and debris. No wonder they had her locked up—I’d forgotten just how vicious she was.
Sekhmet kicks the door in with a single savage blow from her leg. “The judgment of the gods is upon you!” she yells in the shattered entryway.
A brilliant flare of scintillating green energy blasts out of the hall, and Sekhmet rockets back into the laboratory like she’s been launched out of a cannon. She plows through three different stations before coming to a rest atop a heap of ruined building materials, dazed.
“Who let you out of your cage, little kitty?” I hear Garen say from the corridor. Carefully, I pad around to the side and flatten myself against the wall near the broken doorway.
“Please deal with her, Specialist,” Drass says. “Then perhaps we can settle this ridiculous argument, yes?”
“Don’t you dare touch her while I’m gone,” Garen says sharply, and I can tell he’s not talking about Sekhmet. Then, in a louder voice: “Come on, boys. Let’s see how many ways we can skin a cat.”
I move farther from the entrance as footsteps approach, slipping around to the other side of a large piece of rubble. Moments later, Garen strides out of the entrance, a glowing amulet clutched in his right hand. I don’t get the best look at it, but I think it’s in the shape of a stylized eye. The men fan out around him, moving deeper into the laboratory, and I notice Sekhmet has already vanished from the mound of wreckage she made in her flight.
Then there’s a blur of movement and I catch a glimpse of the Egyptian goddess in midleap, soaring through the air toward a stray mercenary with claws outstretched. He screams, firing wildly as she crashes into him. Talons rip through Kevlar and fangs sink into his neck. The men converge immediately, rifles ablaze, and Garen begins running in the direction of the conflict. I take the opening her distraction has made to dart into the waiting hallway.
Drass’s eyes widen in surprise the moment I enter. Now it’s just him and the mercenary monitoring the chamber. The occupant of that tank—the creature wearing the skin of Samantha’s mother—looks at me with unsettling interest as I approach.
I nod at the woman. “Bags all packed, I see.” Outside, I hear more screams and gunfire. Somewhere even farther away, another explosion rocks the complex.
“The station’s a lost cause,” Drass says, swaying a little as the ground rumbles. “The volcano was a nice touch.”
“Thanks. I’m proud of it.” I walk a little closer. There’s another bright green flash from somewhere behind me, throwing my shadow down the hall for an instant. It’s followed by crashing sounds and yells.
Drass chuckles, moving in front of the chamber to face me directly. “Pride. From a god. How surprising.”
“How can you judge me for anything?” I say, frowning as I draw the knife from its sheath on my arm. “You sacrificed your own wife for dark gifts, and now … now I couldn’t begin to guess what’s going on. What is that thing?” I shoot a finger at the creature. It grins at me.
Drass glares. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snaps.
“Enlighten me.”
“I’d prefer to kill you, if it’s all the same,” he says, withdrawing a small platinum cube from his jacket. He glances at it, turning it over in his fingers, and I see it has little markings on each of its faces. Drass picks one side and holds out the device, pointing it at me. I have no idea what it’s about to do, but I refuse to stand around and find out. I coil my legs beneath me and leap out of the corridor, crashing through a damaged pane of glass into one of the empty patient rooms as the cube activates. It emits a dull tone as it hums to life, like an elevator of ruin arriving at its destination. I feel a wash of heat behind me, and the room turns stark white as the thing unleashes an enormous beam of incandescent light into the corridor.
“Nimble thing, aren’t you?” I hear Drass say. His footsteps sound in the hallway, drawing nearer. Before he gets a chance to corner me, I get up, flip the knife around in my hand, and lean out the broken window. He’s just ten feet away, holding the cube in front of him.
I launch the blade at him before he can turn it on again, and I’m rewarded with a cry of pain as the weapon blurs through the air and embeds itself in his remaining hand, knocking the cube from his grip. Behind him, the woman in the chamber laughs and claps.
“Sir!” the remaining mercenary says, moving toward him.
“Keep your damn eyes on the readings!” Drass yells, motioning him away with the stump of his left arm. In the distance, there’s more shouting, following by another cry of pain and a bestial roar. At least somebody’s having fun.
I walk back into the hall as he grabs the hilt of the knife between his teeth and yanks it out, spitting it away from him. He flexes his injured palm—I notice it’s not bleeding nearly as much as it should be—and sighs. “What is it with you and my hands?” he asks, eyes darting over the floor. He’s looking for the cube.
In response, I pull the 9mm handgun from my bag and shoot him in the chest. He staggers backward, wincing in pain. “Agh, that stings,” he says, reaching up with his remaining hand. He tugs at the hole in his suit, and his fingers come away with a flattened lump of metal.
“Really?” I say, confused. “A blade cuts you just fine, but you’re bulletproof?”
He shrugs, flicking the slug away. “Skin’s enchanted to have the exact properties of Kevlar. Magic can be annoyingly literal, at times. It’s not going to stop a knife, but it usually gets the job done.”
“How about an eye?” I say, lining up a shot and firing. He throws an arm in front of his face to block the bullet, but I’m already moving. I dash forward and drop into a slide, shooting across the floor like a runner going for home—Drass looks down just in time to see me sweep up the platinum cube and come to a stop right beside him, aiming at him with my gun in one hand and the artifact in the other.
In response, he kicks me in the ribs with enough force to pick me off the floor and send me sailing into another nursing suite. I clip the edge of the divider as I crash through the glass, denting the metal window fr
ame. I refuse to count this as getting knocked through another wall—that’s been happening to me too much as it is. Drass rushes in after me, but he’s too late. I’m already staggering to my feet, and I’ve managed to hold on to both my gun and the cube. I fire a warning shot into his abdomen, then brandish the platinum device at him.
“Fine,” he wheezes, pulling the new bullet out of his suit and holding it up in surrender. “What do you want?”
“That’s simple: I’m going to kill you for what you’ve done, Gideon,” I say, furious.
“Kill me for what I’ve done?” he repeats, seeming amused. “You haven’t the faintest idea what that is, little goddess.”
“I know enough.”
“Do you, now? And what will killing me accomplish, exactly? Do you think I am somehow special? That my death will deal Finemdi a blow? I’m a figurehead, my dear, elected by a board of directors who have done far worse than even I will ever know, to say nothing of their chairman.”
“And who is that?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “As if they’d tell me. You’ve never had to fight a bureaucracy, have you? So used to a world of black and white.” He puts out a hand to steady himself on the doorframe as the building sways again and some very loud rumbles shake the wing. “I’m an employee, Freya.”
An uneasy feeling slides into me. My goals, once so clear and indisputable, suddenly seem as unstable as the building I’ve ruined. I feel the need to reignite my anger, to justify it to myself. “Then explain the woman—explain what you did to your wife!”
“She agreed to it, you presumptive parasite!” he yells at me, beyond frustrated. “She sacrificed herself for the greater good, to keep that monstrosity chained! It has no true form, so we had to give it one before we could seal it away. And now your idiot scheme has threatened everything. We need to get her out of here immediately, and I need her cage reinforced before we can. To do that, I need a god’s energy, so if you’re not going to volunteer, how about stepping aside while we use hers?” He jerks his head at Nantosuelta, still lying in her bed across the hall.
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