Daybreak (39 page)
The lion focused his wrath on the screeching head. He reared up and swiped with his front paws. The statue smashed to the ground and shattered into fragments. At the moment of impact, the sound stopped and the light died. He crouched beside the emptied shelf, out of the gunmen’s sight. They would have to get within claw’s reach if they wanted to fight.
A stupid one stepped into the doorway, close enough for him to leap. He took the human down in a powerful lunge, clamping his throat, crushing fragile flesh. But the other two still fired their weapons. One bullet struck Koss dead center. The marmot died, his small body blasted apart, as the lion fought back the pain of losing a good comrade.
Bullets sprayed the area, biting into the floor all around him. One hit him in the flank, and he roared his fury and his pain so that it echoed through the house, warning his enemies he was coming. His next attack carried him onto the chest of the guard who didn’t turn to flee. He killed that one in a single ferocious slash. The other he ran down like a terrified gazelle.
The man wept and pleaded for his miserable life. “Please, just let me go. I’ll get the hell out of here. Nobody has to know.”
The lion stared down into the whiskered face, yellow teeth, and bloodshot eyes. Terror wafted from the man’s skin in unbearable waves; he was hardly able to breathe with the weight on his chest. Amusement curled through the lion, chased by vague satisfaction. He existed to see his enemies brought low.
In reply, he growled low in his throat, ignoring the throb of his injured thigh. Blood trickled from the wound, which meant he couldn’t waste more time. Already he had waded through too much human garbage, slowing him down. If wounded again, he might not fare so well when he finally found the old man.
Underneath the big cat’s weight, the guard shut his eyes, doubtless knowing he would find no mercy. He had willingly served evil and could not be permitted to live. The lion ended him.
Tru pushed to the forefront of the mind he shared with the lion. He had established enough distance from his earlier fears to concentrate on the endgame now.
Thanks,
he told the big cat.
I’ve got it from here.
Better if he was in charge to calculate his odds of survival—and with his leg leaking all over the place, it didn’t look good.
Thanks,
he told the big cat.
I’ve got it from here.
Better if he was in charge to calculate his odds of survival—and with his leg leaking all over the place, it didn’t look good.
What the hell. Let’s rock-and-roll.
He padded forward. From two rooms away, he heard O’Malley shouting, “Where the fuck is your A-game? You’re the worst trained sons of bitches I ever had the misfortune to employ. None of you’s worth the bullet it’d take to put you out of your misery.”
“Then we’ll just leave, sir,” came a reply. “Because I don’t think we’re winning this fight. They have too much magic. Too many sharpshooters. Men are just dying, quietly, and we can’t even see what from, not a mark on ’em—”
“Pussies!”
Showtime. Tru nudged through the next room, body low to the ground. His lion half wished for tall grass to conceal his movements, but he settled for skulking behind furniture. Tru wondered if he should shift, go back for some guard’s weapons, and try to snipe them from around the corners. Pick them off, since he didn’t know their numbers. Hard to tell from movement, no way to tell from smell. These bastards all reeked the same.
But no.
His wound would only be worse in a human body, plus he’d suffer lingering weakness from the shift. Better to go out roaring as king of the jungle.
Pen. I love you.
Before Tru charged in, he opened the way to her and channeled that picture like a river. Even if it was messy and awful, he wanted to share his last moments with her. His, hers, whatever. He’d take whatever she sent back. No more secrets. No more fear. Just them, souls together, even if they spent their last moments apart. Their connection should be strong enough to surmount the distance. He hoped.
You’re everything,
he thought, knowing she might not pick up those words. But she’d see his devotion in the picture of the life he’d wanted for them both. Maybe, if he focused hard enough, she’d even hear the words, this one time.
he thought, knowing she might not pick up those words. But she’d see his devotion in the picture of the life he’d wanted for them both. Maybe, if he focused hard enough, she’d even hear the words, this one time.
I gave you my all, love. I did, I did.
He bounded into the room, where O’Malley stood screaming at two guards. The old man didn’t have a weapon. No hesitation, no doubts. Tru knocked them down before anyone raised a gun, and he slaughtered them fast. His claws savaged soft skin and tougher bone, leaving O’Malley helpless. He expected the cowardly monster to bargain, maybe, as if a lion would accept terms of surrender.
But before he closed for the final kill came the unmistakable sound of rifles being cocked. Tru froze. Glanced up. He hadn’t scouted the room before committing—that had been the marmot’s job. Up above, he found a whole gallery of snipers with their weapons trained on him.
The old man was smiling.
“Not as smart as you thought, eh, skin-filth? Did you really think I’d send all my troops away? Your people will fight to the death outside, but they won’t be able to touch me in here. It’s an instant kill zone.” The general raised his arm, ready to order Tru’s execution.
The lion closed his eyes. Only a miracle could save him now.
FORTY-ONE
Eventually Pen found her strength.
She held her head with both hands as if her brains would leak out her ears like whipped cream. Nothing worked right. The whole universe might be crammed inside her skull. What would happen if she opened herself to so much magic but couldn’t refasten the door?
Staggering away from the ruined car and the little woodshed, she managed to keep low and tight to the edges of the compound. An eerie stillness had fallen over her senses. She saw violence but couldn’t hear the sounds or smell the stink on the wind. Full night meant shadows running among bursts of gunfire and flames that ate at the barricades.
But no more blood red. The witch was destroyed.
She propped her arm against a piece of wood that looked to be an old pillory. Maybe O’Malley put his men in the stocks. Leaning there, she felt something cold creep up her spine. It wasn’t the witch, but some other awareness, her mind wide open to so much energy in the world. If the Change could be spoken to, she was doing so just then.
Arturi.
She pictured him as an old man. Always on the short side, he was a little stooped and walked with a cane. Zhara was there, her beautiful dark face still smooth, but her hair tinged with sharp streaks of silver. Arturi addressed a huge collection of onlookers. Tens of thousands—numbers she hadn’t seen since before the Change, when people had filled enormous sports stadiums. Hard to believe.
But there was Arturi. He raised his hands. And he spoke of hope and resurgence, using that same intoxicating calm he had so perfected. A leader for the ages.
Pen blinked, trying to find her way out of the powerful vision. Perhaps the magical world was compensating her for the death she still expected. She could see Arturi’s success in her mind, even if she never saw it in person. Because if she believed in one prescient vision—so good and clear and beautiful—then she had to believe her nightmare would come true, too.
And that meant finding Zhara. Pen would reunite the lovers and make sure that future happened.
Tru.
Tears seeped out of the corners of her eyes even as she pressed on, deeper into the compound. The screams of the dying echoed in her ears now, her senses slowly returning to the physical world. But she dreaded movement forward. That wobbling progress, which grew stronger by the step, dragged her toward the moment when she would give up Tru forever.
Smell was back, and taste—the sickly bite of blood, where she’d chomped the inside of her cheek. Then came touch. The pressure of her boots striking soil with each step. The feel of wind and the heat of fire against her skin.
Ahead awaited a long series of tall metal cages, all draped in tarp. They looked like semi trailers—the same kind that had once been her voluntary prison. The chicken-wire frames and metal support beams were the echoes of a long-ago nightmare. She’d thought herself so clever then. Before Tru. Before she’d learned all he had to teach.
Arturi limped around a distant corner, bleeding from his foot and thigh. Preacher, who was covered in the gore of battle, supported their leader’s body. Pen signaled them with a wave of her hand. Shouldering their rifles, the pair hobbled over as quickly as they could. Arturi’s face was covered in sweat. In the orange firelight of burning wood, his freckles were dark splotches against pale, slicked skin.
“The witch?” he asked, panting.
“Dead. Zhara?”
“No sign. These cages next. We can afford to release the prisoners now that the fighting has died down. The girls are ready to escort them back out into the forest to the rendezvous.”
“I should tend your leg,” she said.
“No time. Let’s do this.”
Pen swallowed her protest and nodded. Together they ripped the canvas off the ragged chicken wire. Inside, prisoners of all ages, shapes, and colors—mostly naked, some wounded, all near starving—cowered back with their arms around one another. Breathing calmly, Pen sent her magic out to them. Just a touch of softness to ease their fear.
Still no Zhara. Not among a hundred prisoners.
“Where is my wife?” Arturi called. “Her name is Zhara. O’Malley’s pet. Someone, please. Tell me!”
Pen caught a general impression of sadness in reply to the question. Sweet earth, what if the woman really was dead? Pushing her senses, she tried to find a glimpse of Zhara’s leaf-green aura, but too much magic swirled around the compound—a whirlwind that blunted her ability to pinpoint one individual woman.
Bethany slipped forward with her troops, of which only three remained. Their young, grim faces attested to the rigors of the conflict and the losses they’d suffered. With her usual aplomb, Bethany took charge of removing the prisoners from their detention cells. Preacher covered their exit.
One captive grabbed Pen’s hand as she loped out, her gait tired and uneven. “The dark lady. She is in chains. North tower, awaiting the old man’s bidding.” She grimaced. “At least, she was.”
Pen thanked the woman and slugged Arturi on the arm as she ran. “This way!”
The scenery felt eerily familiar. She saw a gun turret and a lookout tower, both shrouded in a concealing treetop. A rope ladder led up and up, to where a dead guard draped lifeless over the side.
My nightmare.
I’m not ready.
In her vision, however, Pen hadn’t been able to see anyone else. Just the ladder . . . and the compulsion to climb. Suffering awaited her if she did.
But she wasn’t alone. She turned to find Arturi coming up behind her.
“There,” she said, glancing skyward. “She’s O’Malley’s prize, kept away from the fighting.”
Hope lit his face. He reached for the ladder, but Pen stopped him. “You can’t. Your leg. I’ll go.”
I gave you my all, love. I did, I did.
She froze.
That was Tru’s voice.
The whole time, Pen had assumed those final, heart-stricken words would be hers. Instead, Tru spoke them. He was the one in danger. And he was saying good-bye. Cold streaked her skin and sank talons down to the marrow of her bones.
You promised,
her heart screamed.
You promised we’d be together forever.
her heart screamed.
You promised we’d be together forever.
Only at that moment did she realize the hideous injustice she’d perpetrated. Not only had she misinterpreted her vision, she’d asked Tru to commit to a woman who had no intention of living. To make promises when she had no goal of honoring them. Not really. She would forsake all others for as long as she breathed, but what was the use of her sacrifice if she courted death so diligently?
“I have to go,” she whispered.
Not waiting for Arturi’s reply, she sprinted across the compound. Love gave her strength, yes, but so did dread. The sheer terror that she would be too late. Although her lungs ached, scorched by flames and smoke, they had nothing on her tortured heart.
I’m coming, Tru.
The main building was huge and labyrinthine. But the Orchid didn’t abide walls. And she didn’t tolerate threats to the man she loved.
Bursting through the front door, she did what she’d never thought to do again. Only one other time had she let go with such wild abandon. Her magic had been propelled by fear and desperation. She’d not been able to distinguish friend from foe.
That was long ago.
She sensed the gold aura of her mate—so much stronger in her mind than anyone else—and shielded him.
Then she detonated a bomb of pure magic.
The concussive force of her spell knocked Tru back against a wall, knocking his head against a marble fireplace. He went still. All around, fire sprang up as if the room had been doused with gasoline.
As for the snipers in the gallery, they
melted
. Not just their minds. But their bodies, too. Agonized cries bounced off the high ceilings until they were no more.
melted
. Not just their minds. But their bodies, too. Agonized cries bounced off the high ceilings until they were no more.
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