Killing Time

by Elisa Paige

“Because bitterns are omniscient,” he said easily, chewing.

  “Omni…?” I frowned at the new word.

  “Omniscient means all-knowing.”

  I startled. “No, we’re not.”

  “Oh.” A glimmer lit his eyes. “Then only you are.”

  I crossed my arms. “I’m not either.”

  Koda pushed his bowl away and rubbed his mouth with a napkin. “So how could you have known, Sephti?”

  When I just looked at him morosely, he came to me. Cupping my cheek with his warm hand, he murmured, “You never cut yourself the least little break.”

  I shrugged, squirming under his regard. My gaze fell from his, traveling across his chest—for once, not with hunger, but simply taking stock. I could count Koda’s ribs, could see the terrifying toll of his injuries. And yes, I felt certain the wendigo’s presence that night had everything to do with mine. With the fucking disc I damn well should’ve anticipated.

  Catching sight of the pink lines marring Koda’s ribs, I had to close my eyes, breathe. The knowledge that I’d almost lost him speared through me. “It’s been a rough week.” My voice was raw, forced past my throat’s panicked constriction.

  “It’s been a rough two weeks.”

  I went still. “How long was I in that damn hole?”

  “Too long. But you were unconscious even longer. It scared the hell out of me, so don’t do it again.” There wasn’t even a flicker of amusement in his clouded eyes.

  I made a face, then froze. “What’s the date?”

  He went to the fireplace and needlessly rearranged the burning logs. “October thirty-first.”

  “Halloween is—”

  “Tonight, yes.”

  There was a knock at the door. Not having sensed anyone’s approach—so much for my bittern senses—I jerked with surprise. Score one for the anzhenii, since Koda calmly crossed to the door and opened it. When I saw who it was, I flew to his side with a growl—one that the old man framed in the doorway had no difficulty hearing.

  Koda spoke in Sioux, his tone layered with menace. Answering softly in the same language, the chief touched the fingertips of his right hand to his heart. It looked like a traditional gesture, a salute. Then the old man’s gaze found mine. “I offer my apology and the apology of my people for the harm done to you.”

  “There are no words to speak between us, Waneta,” Koda said coldly, saving me from having to respond.

  “Our ancestors’ dreams are coming to pass, Old One. Of this, we must speak.”

  Koda went still. “The prophecy?”

  “Just as it was foretold.”

  Unhappily, he nodded. “I will hear you.”

  “Pila mita,” the Sioux leader said, crossing to the living room and sitting on the hearth.

  “Do not thank me for what is not willingly given.” After shutting the door, Koda came to put his arm around my shoulders, his angry expression daring the chief to make a comment. Waneta didn’t even bat an eyelash.

  “Tashunke-witke, who the whites called Crazy Horse, foretold, ‘The Red Nation shall rise again and shall be a blessing for a sick world. I see a time when all the colors of mankind will gather. In that day, there will be those among the Lakota who will carry knowledge and understanding of unity among all living things. The young white ones will come to those of my people and ask for this wisdom.’”

  “Meaning?” I asked, my tone harsh. Regardless of his apology, it was difficult having the old man here. My instincts still identified him as a threat and getting past that was beyond my current energy level or inclination.

  “One week ago, the U.S. president sent a delegation to ask our elders for advice. They are so desperate to learn the old ways that they are turning to white-haired chiefs.” The old man’s rheumy gaze fixed on Koda. “Your knowledge would be of far greater use, Old One.”

  “In dealing with native supernaturals, yes. But only a handful of the European variety.” He looked down at me. “Sephti is the expert on those.”

  The chief drew breath to respond but was interrupted by a horn honking outside as what sounded like a fleet of vehicles roared up Koda’s long lane.

  Slowing only to snag coats from the rack by the door, Koda and I stood barefoot and shivering in the cool morning’s breeze. Waneta waited a few feet away, his expression not betraying a hint of his thoughts. Ahanu in Koda’s truck slid to a stop on the gravel drive as twenty cars and pickups and at least as many dirt bikes followed suit.

  “Now what?” I grumbled, wishing I hadn’t left my daggers lying on the floor by my side of the bed.

  Koda moved in front of me as men and women piled out of the vehicles. My instincts stirred dangerously upon seeing that each human carried several rifles, in addition to pistols at their waists.

  “Slayers!” Ahanu called as he ran to us, his face an angry mask. “A division of light infantry, led by their principal sociopath, Militis, is headed straight for the reservation.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Five hours later, we stood at the top of a gentle swell, staring down at four divisions as they moved an appalling number of camouflaged vehicles into formation. In the center of the ants’ nest of activity was a large, tanklike platform on six wheels. A purple flag with gold emblems snapped in the stiff breeze, making it obvious the armored thing carried Militis. Standing tall on its open back end, resting a casual hand on the largest mounted machine gun I’d ever seen, was the man himself. His ridiculously ornate uniform made him look more like a peacock than a general.

  Militis had made no attempt to communicate the reason for his troops’ aggressive, heavily armed drive toward the Tallgrass Reservation. For some reason, Waneta felt he should have. Apparently, humans formally declared war on each other—they didn’t just show up with their armies and have at it.

  So the old chief, Koda, Ahanu and I headed down the slope to demand Militis’s intent. We’d gone maybe twenty feet when the massive mounted guns swiveled our way, making it clear the guy had no interest in talking. That he’d threatened us while Ahanu carried a white flag incensed all three men.

  “That’s Militis down there,” I pointed out once we were back on top of the hill.

  “And?” Ahanu asked.

  Koda smiled, easily reading me.

  “And?” I echoed. “I’m an assassin. A really good one. I can slip up on him, slice the bastard’s throat and our problem goes away.”

  Koda coughed to cover his laugh and Waneta looked faintly ill.

  Ahanu, however, eyed me. “You can do that?”

  “Hell, yeah. Five minutes, max.”

  “It is not our way.” Waneta’s voice was firm.

  I tilted my head, considering him. “Why not?”

  “It is wrong to use supernatural methods to kill a human. Even one who so richly deserves it.”

  Koda’s eyes glinted and Ahanu looked mutinous, but the brothers remained silent.

  I huffed. “Who says Militis is human?”

  “Do you have proof he is not?” Waneta asked with sudden interest.

  I shrugged.

  “I see.” He frowned, crossing his arms. “You are guessing.”

  “No, I’m suggesting.”

  Waneta sighed. “Unless you know with certainty he is not human, I cannot condone—”

  “I wasn’t asking you to,” I snapped.

  Interestingly, it was Ahanu who placated me while Koda watched, looking pleased. “It was a good idea. But Waneta is principal chief. Our laws require we respect his wishes.”

  “But if Militis is a supernatural?” I probed.

  Before Waneta could respond, Koda growled, “Then kill him by whatever means necessary and make sure he stays dead.” He flicked a hard look at the old man. “I have spoken my will.”

  Ahanu nodded his agreement, his jaw tight.

  I grinned broadly to see Waneta’s flinch. I had the impression the proud chief wanted to argue, but would never countermand Koda’s open directive.

  Other th
an turning his huge guns on us, the only other indication that Militis knew our hundreds of warriors stood between him and Tallgrass was to make a dramatic point of counting heads as he turned to take in our horseshoe formation on the ridge above him. Remembering a movie called Braveheart that I’d watched on TV, I suggested we bare our butts at him in retaliation. In the film, it had really pissed off the English invaders. But Koda told me that many Native Americans were shy about nudity. I would’ve offered to do it for them, but a quick look at the beet-red faces closest to us made me think twice.

  We’d been up here for an hour in the midday sun and all the while, Militis kept his divisions in constant motion. It made me wonder about his strategy, his battlefield experience…even his sanity. He seemed more determined to put on a show than to get down to the business of war. But then, nothing the bastard did made sense.

  Bored, I let my gaze travel around our odd conglomeration of fighters and the even stranger mix of clothes, weapons and transportation choices. Humans in jeans, T-shirts, sweats and buckskin regalia, complete with fringe, feathers and warpaint, rode motorbikes, filled the beds of pickups and even sat astride brightly decorated horses. Representing all the nations, the sight of several hundred Native Americans ready for battle stirred my blood and brought my heart to my throat.

  The western-most point of our formation consisted of forty vampires, courtesy of Koda’s friend, James. I’d not yet met him or his mate, Evie, since the immortals had taken up position at the last possible minute—a purposeful strategy because vampires don’t do well in groups. But I was relieved to see these particular allies here, since Militis’s forces outnumbered us five to one. Each immortal was easily the equal of five humans.

  Seeing my focus, Koda told me James and Evie had been the reservation’s guests ever since Dallas. Turned out, the Siouxs’ extreme hostility toward me the night I’d taken Koda to them was driven by their sacred duty to protect anyone enjoying their hospitality. Since I looked fae and the Dark king was behind all the violence, they’d naturally assumed I intended to harm the couple.

  Knowing their enmity wasn’t driven entirely by species hatred went a long way toward easing my residual anger toward the Sioux, although I was still cautious—my intellect might understand, but my instincts were slower to forgive.

  Attempting to make peace, Waneta had given me a red dirt bike with knobby tires that were perfect for going cross-country. Under his breath, Koda’d explained that giving gifts was a way of expressing peaceful intent. Having been to the reservation, I knew without his telling me that the people didn’t have a lot to give. And so I’d accepted the bike with gratitude, blushing at Koda’s approving grin.

  As always, my gaze sought him out like he was magnetized. Heat stirred in my belly at the sight of him a few yards away where he sat astride a tall black-and-white pinto. He’d plaited a feather into its long mane and painted a yellow circle around its left eye, diagonal red stripes across its forehead and a black handprint on its snowy neck.

  In full war paint, Koda looked fierce and magnificent, a warrior of old. He had a band of red across his eyes bordered on the top by a stripe of black and white dots. His hair was braided with sacred eagle feathers and his deerskin shirt bore tiny glass beads sewn in a sun-burst pattern across his chest. Fringe and dark horsehair hung from the long sleeves, stirring in the wind and mingling with the pinto’s mane.

  I was going to battle in my trademark black, the clothes donated by Ahanu since I had yet to replace those I’d bought at Tanner’s inn. Koda explained that they’d been Zih…I caught myself before thinking her name. They’d been Ahanu’s fiancée’s and Koda said I would honor the brothers by accepting the gift. He explained that anzhenii remembered their lost loved ones by giving away their earthly belongings and my wearing the clothes was a good thing, a kind thing. That Ahanu wanted me to have them was…surprising.

  My ever-present daggers were in their sheaths. Courtesy of Koda, I even had my owl feather woven into my warbraids.

  Other than the vampires who required no weapons, our forces were armed with rifles, pistols, bows and arrows and all manner of knives, daggers and sharp, pointy things.

  Looking down at Militis’s divisions and their huge machine guns, I swallowed hard. Stricken, I glanced up at Koda and had no difficulty imagining what the weapons could do to him. “When, Koda?” I growled.

  “I’ve had enough watching the parade.” Pride and worry for me warred in his gaze. But he gave me a fierce grin, his white teeth flashing against his tawny skin and war paint. “Take them out, Sephti.”

  Baring my own sharp teeth, I crowed, jubilant. Midnight was still twelve long hours away and the wait would’ve been interminable. I felt sure wreaking havoc on Militis and his mercenary slayers in the meantime would make time fly.

  Leaving my dirt bike behind for now, I blew a jaunty kiss to Koda. Shading, I sprinted silently down the hill. I wasn’t at full strength yet, but—in the five hours since Ahanu’s warning about the approaching divisions—I’d consumed more than a pound of jelly beans and half a side of bacon. Koda needed more time to finish healing, but neither Ahanu nor I had been able to convince him to stay out of the coming fight.

  I didn’t like Koda’s presence on the battlefield one bit and intended to destroy as much of the enemy’s force as I could, long before he faced them. Even without the sugar and bacon feast, my rage at the threat to him could’ve fueled my efforts. The way I felt, it could’ve fueled a small city.

  My feet flew as I sprinted past the front-line infantry where they’d set up in the grass. Their heavy rifles could do a helluvalot of damage, but if I started with them, I’d lose the crucial element of surprise. My first objective was to take out the mounted machine guns. There were four in all, one to each division, plus the monster in Militis’s armored vehicle. Once I’d destroyed these, I’d deal with the individual weaponry.

  Behind me, horses snorted and chewed their bits. The dirt bikes and truck engines were purposely kept off to continue the illusion that our forces were waiting for Militis to make the first move. If he or the slayers noticed the sudden tension in Koda’s stance or how his eyes swept the field, they’d no doubt assume the stress was beginning to get to our side.

  Leaping to the top of the first armored vehicle, I ran down its length on silent feet, nimbly avoiding the driver and his two rifle-bearing passengers. The machine gun was mounted toward the rear and the mystery of why its gunner was idly chatting with the others became clear when an electric whine crackled to life.

  Flicking a glance to the command vehicle where Militis was holding a megaphone, I drew a dagger and stayed focused on my task. It would take all my concentration since I had to solidify just the blade as it slid into the gun. Too fast and it would become visible. Too slow and it would pass harmlessly through the weapon’s steel.

  Koda had coached me at great length, but I’d tuned him out—something he’d twigged to immediately and fussed about. I took great pleasure in silencing his diatribe with a kiss, just as he was winding up. Knowing the guns were fifty-cal M2HB machine guns meant nothing to me. All I needed to know was how to destroy them. Which, courtesy of my ehrlindriel blade, I was amply able to do. With glee, I set to work carving the machine gun’s moving parts into metal shavings. The fae dagger sliced through the mundane weapon easily, soundlessly, and I grinned to myself imagining the gunner’s shock whenever he eventually noticed it was trashed.

  Slipping off the vehicle, I took out another division’s big gun and was moving to the third when Militis began speaking. The reservation harbors vampires and must be destroyed. All supernaturals are evil abominations, hell-spawn bent on world domination. The coming fight is no less than the first blow in a battle for human survival. Blah blah blah. The hatred he spewed twisted my stomach, but his slayers soaked it up. It figured that the bastard didn’t bother telling his troops the Native American elders were working with the government to help mortals. Why dilute his repugnant message with ev
en a crumb of truth?

  I finished off the third and fourth machine guns and headed for Militis’s vehicle. The rapt expressions of the slayers I passed disgusted me and I wondered at their leader’s influence. Were the humans such mindless sheep that his hatred could so enflame them? Or was there something else at work here, something that couldn’t influence me…but that held the slayers so thoroughly in thrall?

  Leaping onto the command vehicle’s rear platform, I eased up on the weapon’s far side. Militis stood in the front, gesturing wildly and spewing vitriol with boundless energy and no sign of slowing. Only a month ago, I would’ve killed the bastard then and there, but now…now, I had something to prove to Waneta, Ahanu…hell, to myself.

  I wasn’t a mindless killing machine.

  Shaking off the violent urge, I kept a wary eye on the soldiers surrounding me. All of them hung on his every black word, many with a slack-jawed expression of total absorption. Creeped out even as I was reassured by their extreme distraction, I pressed the tip of my dagger into the gun’s central mechanism, solidifying the blade with infinite care. The ehrlindriel made no more sound slicing through steel than if it had been paper and the slayers standing a few feet away never twitched as I made short work of the gun. Carefully letting out the breath I’d been holding, I hopped down to the prairie. Standing in the vehicle’s towering shadow, I thought about our force’s motorbikes, horses and pickups and decided to improvise.

  Slipping among the four-and six-wheel transports, I silently sliced the valves off the big tires, wincing at the hiss of escaping air. Moving at top speed, I figured it was only a matter of seconds before somebody noticed the oddly canted vehicles and inspected my handiwork. But Militis’s droning voice continued to hold his troops spellbound and I wreaked havoc undiscovered.

  Figuring I was about to rouse the oddly captivated soldiers, I poured on the speed. Sprinting through the lines, I swung my daggers left and right as I ran. The ehrlindriel parted the heavy rifles’ steel with ease, but it was astonishing that not one soldier reacted to his weapon being bisected in his hands. Up and down the rows, slayers stood utterly focused on Militis as he continued to rant. Up and down the rows, I carved fourteen inches off every rifle’s barrel, the severed lengths thudding to the ground. And not one person reacted.