No Turning Back

by Sharon T. Rose

  Chapter 11

  She leaps from the balcony, straight into the air above the crowd, which cannot possibly respond in time. The people seem frozen as she gently floats over them. Her hands tug the marker devices from the bandoleer, cradling them between her fingers. The crowd, the prey in their contaminated hosts, has not moved yet. Lazily, carefully, It flicks her wrists.

  The little missiles whistle cheerfully through the air, trailing their high-pitched cries as they speed toward their targets. Its grin becomes wider, baring her teeth and gums as she reaches for another handful. These, too, sing merrily as they fly. Another double-handful-- It frowns. There are not enough. Not enough markers for all the marks. Rage and anguish well up, and she tamps them down. If not now, then later, she promises. This is only the beginning. It accepts her soothing, but It does not like it.

  The first missiles have not traveled halfway to their destinations, but that is because It aimed for those farthest away. The second volley is halfway to its conclusion. The third, partial volley speeds toward more of the contaminated as she reaches the height of her jump and begins to fall on her primary target.

  The crowd has had enough time, a few seconds, to begin to react. Shocked inhalations are all they have managed when the first missile strikes. This is immediately followed by a dozen more in rapid succession. Dimly, she is aware that some in the crowd now bear bright orange smears on their heads and faces, but that is of no consequence to It. Let the others gather them; that is their task. Hers is yet to come. It reaches for the bandoleer again, this time drawing forth the larger balls.

  The contaminated respond the quickest, but they are not quick enough. They are never quick enough. The Hunter is always faster, and now It has a partner in Its Mistress. One, two, three, four, five, six ... the containment balls, the means of imprisonment, scream through the air, expanding and striking heads with easy precision. As she descends, the human screams begin. Fear, shock, terror ... rage, despair. The second barrage completes its mission, draining the energies of the enemy, holding that delicious essence fast within mechanical chambers. By the time she lands, she has caused the collapse of over a dozen individuals in the crowd. By the time It lands, It knows the other Masters are fast collecting the rest. No, not all of the rest; merely the ones They had had enough missiles to paint. That would be enough. And there would be more later. Yes, many more.

  They land easily on the cobbles, merely five seconds after leaving the balcony. The human woman screams, clutching the arm of the contaminated, which snarls and shoves her to the pavement. He places his hands to his chest; they glow softly. Thrusting them outward, he fires a blast of white energy point-blank at the Descendant in front of him.

  He blinks, grimace frozen. Where did it go? The blast went true, yet the Descendant still stands in front of him, languid and self-satisfied. He felt the Power leave him, so--

  He takes another look at her, then another. That face ... that expression is not right. It is not true of the illegitimate ones. A memory surfaces, one that is not his. The memory is vague. The terror that accompanies it is clear. He does not have time to scream before a large hand grasps him by the throat, lifting him from the pavement.

  They hold their prey easily, dangling it, savoring the terror. So much better when prey are afraid, so much sweeter. This part of satisfying the craving was the prey's punishment for wrongs aeons past. And now, They would taste that punishment.

  NO! She freezes, holding Their prize above the ground, above the sobbing woman, above the brave souls who did not flee. Or could not flee. No, there is no need to destroy the host; the prey can be extracted! There is no need, and will not time marinate the fear? She begs silently, hardly noticing that she squeezes his throat tighter.

  Before It can create an argument, she launches herself up and backwards, onto the balcony. There are others there, other contaminated, most with orange faces and clothes. Some lie unconscious on the stone. She lands lightly, still holding the feebly struggling man. The Masters look at It warily, knowing that It is hungry, knowing that It longs to feed. She closes her eyes, commanding It to obey. So close! Let us make the point to all of the enemy, she orders It, inner voice gaining confidence. Let us tell them, in perfect clarity, that they should fear and hide. That will make the Hunt worthwhile. It lashes her tail in eager agreement.

  They understand one another.

  The red one takes a step toward them; They hold up their unencumbered hand to still him. He complies. He looks into Their eyes, probing, seeking. Then he nods and steps back. They look at the others, who take their cue from the red one. The other green one does not want to obey, but he does. They smile reassuringly at him, but he does accept the comfort. No matter. They turn away from him and face the remnants of the crowd.

  They lift the man up so that all may see him. Tiny bursts of light splash from the remnant, accompanied by louder pops and softer clicks. They know the humans wish to record what They do, and They want the humans to record this. Then the prey will know. They hold the man up for several seconds, making certain all can see. He dangles, limp and nearly unconscious. They consumed his Power before, rendered him impotent of harm, so They do not fear attack from him. He is young, too new to have any force. His fists beat weakly at Their hand, which amuses Them in a small way. When They feel the documentation is sufficient, They turn to face the man.

  Their right hand holds him high while Their left hand rises to lie gently on his chest. Again, They wait for the popping and clicking to subside. No more secrets, no more hiding. What They do, let all see.

  Their hand clenches the fabric covering the man's chest, earning an involuntary twitch. More popping, clicking, and gasps. When all falls silent, They act.

  Their hand digs into the man, dragging a scream from him. The crowd screams, too, but it does not understand what is happening. Not yet. Their fingers dig into the man and through him, up to Their elbow into the inner part of him where the prey lodges. There is no blood this time; there is no need for any more blood. They clench Their fist around the prey and rip it from the host.

  They lift their trophy to the sky and roar in triumph. At last! At last, a whole prey, no host flesh in the way, no boxes tainting, trapping the base essence without the substance. The prey screams, a sound so shrill that the humans barely hear it. The devices around the square, on the balcony, shatter. Explosions small and large fill the air with smoke and shrapnel. Screams from the on-lookers. Popping, clicking, whispered curses and tearful prayers. Exclamations of disbelief, gibbered nonsense.

  They hold their prey for all to see. Its form is distorted in the eyes of the humans, wispy and vaguely real. It tears at Their hand, but it has no strength to hurt Them, no ability to injure. They laugh wildly and bring up the last ball, the one They saved for this. They will show all how to properly use the Masters' art. Their fingers curl around it, remembering where to press amongst the carvings. The device clicks quietly, growing slightly larger as it opens along the etchings. They lift the ball so that the clickers and the poppers can make a record, but only for an instant. Weak as it is, the prey could still escape if left in the open too long. Triumphantly, They bring the ball to the prey. It shrieks again and writhes furiously. To no avail.

  A flash of effort, and the prey dissolves into a grayish swirl sucked into the heart of the device. All of it, not merely the surface, now in captivity. Two seconds, and it is done. The prey is contained, and it knows its fate. The feast will be sweet.

  The device shrinks to it tame state, and They tuck it into the bandoleer, patting it possessively. It will keep. They then look down at the host, the man lying limply on the balcony at Their feet. Somehow, he is trying to rise. They crouch down.

  Lifting his chin gently, Fulenthen tells him, "Do not be afraid. You are free now, Jerell Graig of Ivrithin."