by Lou Paduano
Loren’s eyes weren’t on that, though. They were on the object that Evans removed from his pocket. He kept it tight in his grip, the ever-present confidence worn on his lips and in his words. “With this,” Evans remarked, “it is far too late for any of you. With this, there is nothing to stop me.”
He held it out before him, a white light shining on the face of the smooth surface. Loren knew what it was instantly. It had been missing since they found Mentor’s body in the Bypass chamber. He knew it wasn’t truly missing, just taken. Dammit, how could he forget about it so completely? Loren raced for Ruiz, knowing it was too late.
“Greystone,” he said in a distant voice. The captain turned suddenly, taken aback by the scream from behind. An arm shot out to grab his friend. “Ruiz! Down!”
Too late. He knew it as soon as he reached out but was surprised at the speed with which Evans was able to channel the Greystone to his will. For a brief moment, Loren was able to make out a fresh rune on the face of the stone, one he had not seen before in his time with Soriya.
Though he did not know the meaning behind it, one became perfectly clear. The floor began to rumble around them. Loren fell back on his heels, stumbling farther away from Ruiz, who was caught in the center of the room. Water burst from all sides. Pipes shattered like glass within the floor under the bar and throughout the large executive washroom. With a mind of its own, the water floated in the air like jet streams until they all congealed into a single, focused tidal wave.
“No!” Loren cried. He attempted one last leap toward his friend but was thrust back from the onslaught of water rushing past him. His head slammed hard against the corner of the oak desk, his body somersaulting over the desk until it landed hard in the pool of blood that ran from the leather chair.
Ruiz was not as lucky. The wave of water, suspended in air, was directed solely at him. It slammed into the captain, a sledgehammer of liquid, driving him off his feet. It carried him until he felt the glass of the tinted windows crash into his back. Breath left him, the water shifting from his chest to cover his face. Ruiz let the gun slip from his grasp, desperately reaching into the water, hoping to block it for a moment of air. The frothy liquid poured down his throat, threatening to drown him in the tallest building in the city. His hands fought through the constant pressure of the water, unable to penetrate deep enough for a second of relief. The world was darkening quickly.
But that was not the end of it for Ruiz. It started with a simple snapping sound that quickly branched out in deep cracks. The glass behind him was breaking from the pressure of the river blasting against him. Louder now, the cracks deepened until finally the window shattered, sending Ruiz out into the brightening sky that circled Portents. Sweet relief swam through Ruiz’s lungs. There was nothing around him but a sense of weightlessness. When the window shattered, the water suddenly fell away, no longer needed to carry out the execution of one without the ability to soar like a bird. The smallest of respites to the middle-aged man before he felt the floor slip away from him.
Ruiz felt the city close around him, but as the moment of weightlessness ended and the falling began, a hand shot out of the dark and grabbed his wrist. Deep breaths filled Ruiz’s lungs. He was going to live. He was going to make it. Then he saw the hand holding him outside the window. He saw the man holding his life within his grasp.
Nathaniel Evans.
Evans pulled him close. In his other hand, the man held the Greystone. The rune adorning its side was no longer what it had been, shifting to something new. Ruiz barely made it out through the thin fingers of the man holding his life over the edge of the building but it looked like a cross between the letter P and the top of a medieval axe.
It glowed brighter and with it so did the arm of Evans. Heat channeled through his body, down his other arm, until it expelled on Ruiz’s flesh like the deepest flames of Hell. Ruiz screamed, indistinguishable and indescribable cries of pain as the flesh seared along his wrist. The flames shot down his arm to his elbow. His skin bubbled under the heat.
Evans pulled him closer. The smile still pursed his lips. There was no pain in his eyes. The stone channeled the heat through him but away from him at all times, leaving him cool to the touch. Ruiz felt Evans’ hot breath on his face.
“Taste it,” Evans said, holding Ruiz higher within the frame of the window. “Smell the death it brings. And welcome it with open arms.”
“Enough,” a voice called from the far side of the room. Deep and booming, it cut through the gravel spewed from Evans. The heat fell away from Ruiz when Evans lost his concentration on the stone and turned to the sound of the voice.
Soriya Greystone stood waiting, thin ribbons running down her left side and her own Greystone tight in the palm of her right hand. Fire burned hotter in her eyes than any the stone was able to produce.
“You want an ending so badly?” she called to Evans. “Come and get it.”
Chapter Forty-Three
The great circle of light surrounded the obsidian tower at the height of Portents. It spun clockwise around the beacon in the sky, gaining mass and speed from the flashing lights of the Bypass, slowly vacating the underground chamber. As the size of the wave grew to its maximum width, the speed declined until it stopped completely. Then it began to stretch out over the city, heading in all directions. The green cloud brought with it a storm that shattered the silence of the clear night that had settled over the city mere minutes before.
Time was running out.
Inside the penthouse, no one knew this more than Soriya Greystone. She had raced through the subway tunnels, up to the city streets, making her way quickly to the epicenter of the great tide of light that flowed over the citizens of Portents. The tower made sense. It brought everything together. From the old soul behind the killings, his name written in red letters streaking across the obsidian building, to the final chapter of his plan.
She bounded into the building, finding the staircase to the executive elevator as if a sixth sense had tied her to the call of Mentor’s Greystone. Two guards were in the process of shutting down the golden-framed elevator when she approached. They wheeled toward her, surprised by the fierce look in her eyes.
“Leave it running,” she commanded. They stepped aside, letting her enter the elevator. They did not try to stop her. They did not believe for a second that they could.
Chaos surrounded her arrival to the penthouse office that once belonged to Gabriel Evans. The windows were shattered. Bodies of men and women she did not recognize decorated the floor like area rugs. Loren’s worn shoes were the only visible sign of him from his position behind the desk. When she called out to Evans, he tossed Ruiz aside with glee. The middle-aged Latino crumpled against the floor, unconscious from his struggle with the suited beast.
“The prodigal child. The stone bearer,” Evans taunted.
Soriya stood her ground, feeling the thin coils of ribbon down her left side whip around her with the wind.
“Tired of hiding? Tired of running away? Of watching everyone and everything burn around you? Go home, child. Sleep the sleep of the damned with the rest of the city.”
“No,” Soriya replied. The ribbons flew forward when her left arm extended out toward Evans. The pink folds snapped around Evans’ head. “No more running.”
With a tug, the man flew forward. His hands moved the ribbons from his line of sight too late, feeling them sear the skin he had taken great pains to acquire in pristine condition. With his vision cleared from the ribbon, he was greeted by Soriya’s right fist. It slammed against his cheek while the ribbons retracted. The combination sent him reeling back but Soriya pressed forward, allowing herself a slight smile as the feeling of the punch reverberated through her like a shot of ecstasy.
Loren moaned back into consciousness. His head felt like it had spent the better part of a week in a blender filled with rocks. Carefully, he lifted his weary body to his hands and knees. His left side slipped, causing him to crash back against the tile
. A second attempt with a slow turn to his back helped him sit up behind the large oak desk, keeping him out of sight. There was blood on his hands. Fearful, they shot up to his forehead. A slow trickle had dried to the gash above his left temple where he had collided with the desk. There was nothing to indicate the streams that dripped from his fingertips. Then he peered down and realized where he had landed. The blood of Gabriel Evans washed over his body like a second skin. Pushing off the desk to his right, Loren spun around and kicked free of the pool underneath him. He blinked rapidly, attempting to shake loose the moments prior to his unwanted nap.
Soriya was there, Loren noticed while taking stock of the room around him. She looked different, more alert than he had seen her over the last few days since learning about the death of Vladimir Luchik. He was glad someone was still on their feet to confront Evans. Merrill and Daniels were dead. It was still unbelievable to think it. Naeger as well. God only knew about Jankowitz, remembering the crunching sound of her impact with not only Daniels’ body but also the tinted window. Only one person remained unaccounted for and Loren spun on his backside for a clear line of sight to find his friend and captain.
Ruiz lay in the middle of the room on his stomach, turned away from Loren. He wasn’t moving. Loren focused, his head cursing each squint of his eyes. Small shifts as Ruiz’s back lifted and fell indicated the unconscious man was still breathing. Loren sighed with relief, hugging tight to the floor, scurrying along to grab Ruiz without attracting unwanted attention. He could hear the wails of the lights surrounding the tower. The lights above were all but out but the green glow from outside kept the room well lit.
“Ruiz?” Loren grabbed hold of his left arm and dragged him back to the safety of the executive desk. There was screaming around him—the cries of the fight between Soriya and Evans. They were fighting for an entire city and Loren was worried about a single man. Who had their priorities straight? Not that it mattered to the bloodied detective, who shuffled back to the relative safety of the desk.
Ruiz did not stir. He did not groan from his face rubbing against the tile from Loren’s pulling. He did not curse in the Spanish-American hybrid that wasn’t an actual dialect of either language, though no one would admit it to Ruiz. There was nothing.
“Come on, Ruiz,” Loren whispered, begging the man who stood next to him at his wedding to wake up. “This is not the time to take a bow.”
Slowly, Loren turned the unconscious body of Ruiz. He needed to check his pulse, needed to see for himself what had happened while he was out of the fight. He reached over, lifting the right arm and pulling it around. It was hot to the touch. The green glow illuminated the burned flesh that ran down the length of Ruiz’s wrist and arm. Large bubbles of skin and deep red welts covered his forearm.
“No.” Loren almost dropped his friend from the sight. He felt the heat of the wounds, saw the pain in the shaking brow of Ruiz. He was breathing—that was the saving grace. The wounds, however, were extensive.
Loren knelt close to his friend. He should have forced him to stay with Pratchett downstairs. He should have asked for more men from the start. Dammit, he should have done more.
Suddenly, he knew what Soriya had lived through over the last three days. The sense of loss. The sense of failure. Thinking of her reminded him of the struggle spanning the length of the room around them. He found his sidearm amid the pool of blood left in the wake of Gabriel Evans’ demise. Loren felt the grip of the revolver slip into his palm.
Soriya’s heel smashed into Evans’ side, but the man did not fall. She went at him with everything she had left. There had been little sleep, little food, and little time for her over the last three days, but with each breath, she found a little more to give the suited man. He responded in kind but she kept her distance, waiting for openings when they came. His fist extended and she sidestepped it, using his reach against him to grab his arm. She lifted up her small frame, rolling over his arm and allowing her legs to kick out. Her feet connected squarely with his nose. A loud crunch resounded through the large office. She let loose his arm, allowing him to fall to the ground.
As he fell, she found her feet and pressed forward once more. “No more doubt. No more questioning. I am the Greystone.”
Her fist struck solidly across his lips. Skin sheared off his face and she felt blood cling to her knuckles. From the force of the blow, Evans wheeled around so that his back was to her. He lay on his hands and knees, his breath erratic from the assault.
“This is my city. Not yours,” Soriya’s voice boomed.
Soriya loomed over the broken and beaten form of Nathaniel Evans. The winds flowing through the shattered windows surrounding the floor carried the long ribbons through the air. They snapped with each brisk wave of air, circling Soriya like a thin, pink shield. Her fists were clenched tight, small dribbles of blood falling from them. She failed to notice. It did not matter. All that mattered was that Mentor’s killer stayed down.
Reaching into the pouch secured to her hip, Soriya once more retrieved the Greystone and held it before her.
When she turned, Evans made his move. He spun around quickly, his newly acquired stone tight in his palm. He extended it before him, the rune on its face glowing brighter with each second. Soriya fumbled with her own weapon at the sound of the rumbling outside the walls. Lightning cut through the glowing green cloud. It struck down then cut across the skyline of the city directly for the tower. She held tight to the stone, readying herself for the blow. It struck her straight on, sending her soaring across the floor away from Evans.
Crashing to the floor, she felt the impact of the first blow and the sizzle that left her blouse singed at the edges, her skin burned from the intensity. Evans stood tall, rubbing the dirt off his freshly pressed pants and jacket.
“This city is mine,” he screamed over the lightning strikes that snapped past him. They kept her isolated in the center of the floor, unsure which way to turn. She cradled the Greystone, hoping for a moment to repay his kindness while he inched closer and closer. “This city has always been mine.”
She saw the rune dim, shift to Thurisaz, and glow once more.
Fire burst from the floor, pipes bursting around her. She felt the heat reach toward her, slowly collapsing in on her, causing a scream to escape her lips.
“It is mine to create or destroy.” He laughed over her anguish, the stone extended before him. “Its fate is mine to determine. Learn that lesson well.”
Fighting through the heat of the flames that nipped at her body, Soriya forced her arm up. The stone in her grip illuminated, and water pummeled against the onslaught of the flames. Steam separated them but Evans continued to step closer and closer, his leather shoes clicking along the tiles.
“Your teacher had to learn that lesson,” Evans continued. The flames stretched farther, forcing the water back. The steam stung his eyes. It burned his flesh. Still he approached, his taunts filling the air. “I believe he finally understood just as I snapped the life out of his broken body.”
“You bastard,” Soriya shouted, hoarse from the vapors rising from their attacks. She was losing. She could feel it in her voice, in her stance, in the way the air constricted and the flames glowed brighter than the red eyes of her assailant. She found her feet, determined not to let another failure occur.
Loren watched in silent desperation as Evans inched toward Soriya. There was no doubt she was weakening. He had seen the onslaught of water slam against Ruiz with the force of a train. Her stream was a leaky faucet compared to that.
The flames slammed forward.
Loren found his feet, his sidearm in hand. Ruiz’s breathing was shallow but continued. Loren let his friend rest on the tiles and moved for Evans.
“You can’t stop the freeing of the Bypass,” Evans continued. “You barely understand the power contained within. All yearning to be free to rain death over this world.”
The water stopped and the flames erupted in Soriya’s face, causing her to fal
l to her knees. Evans slammed her stone away with the swat of his hand. The Greystone flew through the room, skittering across the tiles. His fist returned with a backhand, hitting her cheek. Blood filled the inside of her mouth. She spat it out defiantly.
“You resist the inevitable. You fight things you can never understand.”
Soriya understood plenty. She understood the threat the rising lights truly were for the city, watching them continue to amass and spread out over the skyline. She understood the power her attacker had accrued with the stone in his grasp. She watched the light under his fingertips glow, another rune activated. This one was not for her but for him, his cuts and seared flesh beginning to close and heal. She understood how defeated she was and how unlikely victory would be for her alone.
Evans leaned in. Soriya wound up and let a right cross connect with his cheek. He followed suit, pummeling her with his fist. Three quick blasts slammed into her with the force of an anvil. Her left eye swelled shut. Her cheek puffed. Blood soaked her hair, down her shoulders. All that and she still felt the smile creep across her face.
“I understand enough.” She coughed, and blood spattered to the tile floor. “Like how human you’ve become to pull this off.”
Evans right hand shot to his lip. Blood slipped to his fingertips and ran down to his palm. His empty palm. His eyes widened at the Greystone in Soriya’s grasp.
She smiled. “And when a distraction is needed.”
Evans heard the click of the gun near his temple, catching sight of an extremely pissed off Loren in the corner of his eye.
“Understand this, asshole.”
The gun snapped back in Loren’s grasp when the bullet ripped through Evans’ head and out the other side. For a moment, the killer stood, carrying a look of shock in his red eyes. The shock dimmed, and his body—complete with his descendant’s looks and clothing—fell to the floor of the penthouse office. Eyes once wide with victory and triumph closed and never reopened.
