Edge Walkers (4 page)

She forced a smile, nodded. “Right. Alternate dimension? Okay. Sure.”

Shaking his head, Gideon folded his arms, glanced down at the floor and back up to her. He let out a long breath, gave up on trying not to burden her with much all at once. It could be it was different for her and she’d accept something that had taken him far too long to deal with.

“Look, I know this seems—well, bizarre is an understatement. But on this side, they’ve been fighting the Edge Walkers with a scorched earth policy, although maybe scorched world is a more accurate phrase. They’re trying to make them move on and if that works…I’m a little worried about where these things might move next. Walkers, well, we think they fall out from between the planes of existence, from...they call it the Rift.”

“Rift?” she repeated and edged further away. “As in a divide, a split?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I don’t know much more. Walkers feed off electricity, or magnetic fields maybe, or—well, I’m speculating here, mostly. But I do know this is one of the spots they don’t come near. Or don’t seem to. It has something to do with the lines—they follow them, hunt along them. They’re drawn to EMFs…electromagnetic fields?”

A spasm of irritation tightened her face and Gideon welcomed it since it meant she was had started to come out of that frozen agony and disorientation left from the Rift crossing.

“I know what EMFs are,” she said. “I’m a little surprised you do. And what do you mean these things…these…walkers are drawn to them?”

“Yeah…uhm, that’s how we track them. Find out where they’re heading, or if another crack’s opened up for the Rift.”

Her eyes narrowed again. “We? Them? As in...?”

“Look, if I knew more…all I know is Walkers—they’re bad. They’re parasites. They use energy. Manipulate it. Need it. Most of what I know is limited to personal experience, and you don’t want a lot of that. Around here, you don’t tend to survive the process of acquiring it.”

She nodded again, but he knew none of this made sense to her because she was still so wary and so tense she looked ready to break. Letting out a slow breath, he wasn’t sure he knew how to make her understand. “Your friends, I didn’t—”

“Oh, I never—”

“Yes, you did. I’d assume...well, they’re gone and you’re here and there’s blood. I know how that looks, but please—trust me. We didn’t pick up the spike in the readings until too late, and by the time we got there all I could do was grab you when you crossed and get the hell out. They already had the other guy we saw and we couldn’t do much to help. He’d become a husk…and now I’m going to have to explain that, aren’t I?”

Shaking her head, she backed away. “You don’t have to—”

“No, you need to know or you won’t stay, will you? I can see that. And if you go out on your own odds are they’ll get you.”

She stepped to her left again. He moved with her to keep himself between her and what could be waiting outside.

“Please,” he begged. “These things, they’re—god, you have no idea. They can’t stay here without—well, they prefer organically generated energy anyway. Meaning something alive. Like us. Survivors. We’re spread thin since anything over a group of about five will start attracting Walkers. There are a few other issues and…and this isn’t making any sense to you, is it?”

“Oh, no. No. Seems very—well, I’m sure I understand everything.”

She still sounded cautious and her face had blanked again, and he knew he’d said too much. Or too little. The information wasn’t even organized in his mind, and he was still high on the adrenaline rush from the last battle, about to bottom out from the aftermath and fatigue.

God, what did he have to do to get her to stay? Would he have to let her read his notes? But there was too much raw and personal in there.

He noticed she was shivering, too.

“Cold?” he asked. Gideon moved a step closer, lifted a hand out to Carrie before letting it fall back to his side again.

Watching him, Carrie rubbed her arms.

She wasn’t sure which of them had to be the crazy person here—him with his energy-eating monsters, or her for having this…this breakdown. She needed reasonable answers to figure out what really had gone wrong in her lab and see what she could do about it. She wanted—needed—something familiar. She needed facts, dammit. And what did he mean the other guy—was Thompson or Chand here, or even Zeigler? Or was everything coming out of Gideon the delusions of some guy who’d been living on the street for too long? She could almost pity him now, he seemed that far gone, and she didn’t trust him for spit. But she knew one way to get herself out of here, so she said, “You know, I wouldn’t mind a blanket.”

For a moment, the guy didn’t move.

She willed him to believe her. But someone this lunatic—someone who could talk about other realities and things that ate energy—to stay alive and on the streets, that kind of person had to be good at reading people and playing them. She still needed to go. Now. She had blood on her hands and she could remember screams. Something more than awful had happened. She had to get back to her lab.

Staring at this guy, she kept her face neutral, made herself think she’d stay and be good, so he’d buy it. Years ago, she’d been able to sell the same to her father. But that was a lifetime ago. She’d reformed her habits to get through college, because she’d found something else she wanted instead of pointless rebellion against her life, her dad, and herself.

Two more heartbeats and Gideon gave a fraction of a nod. Some emotion flickered across the shadows of his face, twisting his mouth—sorrow, loss maybe, or was it understanding? But he was still half-hidden. He moved back, and only darkness stood in front of her again.

How long did she have?

He had home court advantage—she had desperation. She used it, bolted, stumbled, dodged the alabaster bowl and ran, her shoes slamming on stone and cold air punching her lungs as her muscles screamed. Darkness swallowed her. God, what if she smacked into a wall? But her feet only smacked the floor. She reached tall doors and she found cold metal in her hands. She yanked hard.

The weight tore at her shoulder, and she clenched her teeth against the burn of straining muscles. The door creaked, cracked open. A breath of ice brushed her face, the door shrieked and gave to her, flew wide. And she stared into utter desolation. Her mind reeled and tried to shut down even as the images assaulted.

She’d seen images on the news before this—bombed buildings, scattered fires from targets hit and partially destroyed, cities torn to rubble by riots or earthquake or war. Things her father had done or ordered done. This was worse. Far worse.

Ruined piles of jagged structures jutted up into a night sky, washed by faint, indistinct light that leaked from a cloud-covered sky. At her feet a street pock-marked by gaping holes stretched into a night left inky except for pockets of tall flame. Natural gas for fuel, she guessed—that accounted for the blue in the dancing yellow. She’d watched fires burn at oil refineries. The destruction was pretty refined here, too, and her mind reeled from the certain knowledge battering her senses.

No, not Kansas. Not even close. He hadn’t lied. Not about anything.

Body numb, mind blank, she stood there, trembling. No lies meant the others had to be dead—he’d said one of the guys had become a husk and that couldn’t be good. They were dead—and she’d lost everything.

She bit her lower lip—hard. She wanted to fall to her knees. Her chest ached with a sob she wouldn’t let out. Something snagged her waist, whirled her around and Carrie jerked back in reaction.

CHAPTER FOUR

Carrie, crossing? Yes, that surprised me. But…that’s not what matters now. You have to listen to me—you have to listen to Carrie, because if they—what? They, who? Who do you think, for god’s sake? Who the hell have we been talking about for the last six hours? The Edge Walkers, dammit. And don’t you dare think you can fight them and end up with anything more than your own destruction. — Excerpt Interview with Gideon Chant

Carrie hit back, struck sharp rib with her elbow and knew it had to be Gideon holding her. She let loose, let the fractured grief spill, kicking and squirming and cursing and crying. Arms wrapped around her, stopped her hits from having enough force to do more than bounce off hardened muscle. His weight pressing into her stopped her kicks, but not her curses, and not the tears starting to spill.

Muttering soft, Gideon told her not to do this. He grabbed her wrists and dragged her back inside. Her back hit stone and the length of him pressed into her, anchored her. He was stronger than she’d expected. And hard. Too hard in some places, and that stopped her faster than anything else, left her mind skittering with yet another shock.

Panting, gasping, her face damp and her body shaking, she stopped fighting him. She looked at him to see more of a truth she didn’t want to face. But she had no choice. She met a stare so intense it almost hurt—eyes large and pupils blown black, rimmed by a horizon of blue, locked on her. This close she couldn’t do anything but see him, even in these deep shadows, and he didn’t look mad or angry or anything but…she wasn’t sure what. Maybe...god, just eyes so blue.

Endless. Like deep ocean. Not crazy eyes, but she was crazy enough at this second to have frayed reason unravel as she searched his face for something.

She needed to stop the shaking and anguish inside. She needed…god—dead. All of them? Her fault, too—her lab, her experiment, and what had gone wrong? She stared at Gideon as if she could find answers in the shadows and planes of his face. A faint stubble of beard came in golden-brown on his upper lip and across the edge of his jaw, glinted against pale skin. The crescent of a scar on his left cheek struck a patch where his beard didn’t grow.

She took it in, took him in, the smell of him, warm and musky with sweat and an undertone of his own needs. He looked so normal, so real, so unlike anything outside those doors that she wished she hadn’t seen. She grabbed more breath, grabbed for him, and something shifted in her, like china breaking inside her lungs.

God, he felt good pressed into her, against her. Not wrong. Not crazy. Not falling to pieces ruined like everything else here. He stood steady and steadying. His blood beat in rapid thuds where his fingertips lay over her pulse—or maybe that was her heart skipping. The silver cross, and a sheen of sweat, glinted on his chest. Every pull of breath she dragged into her chest swamped the scent of him over her, earthy and sharp. But that mouth of his didn’t look sharp, just soft, and his lips parted as he pulled in long, deep breaths as if he’d been running.

Or maybe he was thinking a lot about sex.

She started thinking about it, too, because it was better than thinking about anything outside those doors. It wasn’t reasonable, and she tried to hang onto that, but need swamped her.

She wanted to forget herself—to lose herself. She needed to connect to something that wasn’t death and destruction. She thought she’d done away with this part of herself—she had tamed her worst-case impulses. But it seemed she had just buried it deep.

Staring at him, she told her body to shut up, but it had stopped listening to anything like sense. She had fallen into instinct so pure it hurt.

He still had his hands around her wrists, the long fingers tight, kept her pressed into that stone pillar. He held her, just as he held himself with hard control over his want and need. It rushed in that she wanted his hands other places. She ached for a touch of skin to hers, vital and strong, and the need for it lodged in her chest, ripped her open in a rush.

“Gideon,” she said, whispered the word, had no idea what she was asking with just his name.

He stared back at her with those impossible eyes, his body tense and ready and so close, and he seemed to need permission before he could do anything. His stare moved, traveling her face as if he had something to map, or maybe he could see better than she could in these shadows. But the shadows weren’t that strong when they were this close.

The tremor ran through him and into her where their bodies met, which seemed everywhere. She shook with it, shook with him. And he pushed his hips into her as if he couldn’t stop his reaction.

Lips parting, head-dizzy rush warming her face, she stared at him. They’d already joined except for a thin interference of clothes. His stare kept traveling, and her mouth dried as the tip of his tongue slid over his lower lip to wet it.

“Don’t...” he said, his voice breaking, something caught deep in his throat. “I don’t want you—”

Oh, but he did. Want filled his eyes and tightened on his face and busted loose the same in her. She wanted to feel something that wasn’t panic or the crowding misery of gaping loss. She wanted to hold him so tight she’d feel safe again. Working one hand, she twisted free, bunched her fist into his robes and found softness. But that wasn’t anything she wanted.

She wanted not to have a mind for five minutes. She wanted insensible, because the opposite wasn’t working and she was shaking now but no longer with fear. She could call it reaction, but—oh, hell, she’d never crossed realities before, but she knew the bitter taste of grief. And the only way she knew out of that was a plunge into the next damn thing. Which was him.

That was mad. He had to be, too. But, dear god, the warmth of him—she needed that. Needed holding, to be held together, and maybe he could stop her fragmenting into even smaller pieces. She wanted the comfort she could see lurking in his eyes, begging to be taken.

He leaned closer, stopped when his mouth hovered a kiss away from hers. His eyes stayed open but dark lashes lowered. She could trace the rough texture of his skin and almost taste it on her tongue. Unbearable not to have. So she lifted her chin and met his lips with a whisper.

Just a touch—a benediction.

Hunger sparked.

He covered her mouth with his, took the air from her on a pull that wasn’t demand but was desperate as her soul. That tentative supplication for more stripped the last drops of sanity’s resistance.

His fingers loosened, trailed up her arms, his touch leaving behind rough shivers. And that heat. Sweet heat. Her right hand left his robes and her fingers found his neck and slid into soft, ragged hair. She held on as his mouth opened, went from soft lips to sharp teeth and a questing tongue. She couldn’t breathe, had to grab gasps around his, but he was breathing hard, too, and that still wasn’t enough. So she started fighting again.