The wind gusts, but so far no clouds have pulled in and the temperature has plunged to a bone-chilling cold. What are the chances of this hare-brained scheme’s success? It’s easy for despair to set in when so much is unknown and I’m relying on the word of dead man.
He has served me well, but how far can I push this association? What entrapments lie in wait? For surely House Montu has much, much more in its arsenal than for which I can prepare at such short notice.
Ashton’s whispery presence caresses my face. “It’s not a complete loss. It would appear that they’ve sent half their staff to find out what happened to Bitchface and the Beanpole. There are about six guys. I can show you where they are, if you want.”
“No other option, is there? Where’s the old man?”
“He’s in his study, reading.”
“Marlise?”
“Asleep or drugged. I don’t know.”
“Dare I ask about…”
Ashton’s dry laughter brings cold comfort. “It’s way past that chick’s bedtime. She’s watching the History Channel. Fucking hell, I tell you it’s unnatural. Shouldn’t she be playing with dolls or something?”
A surge of anger pushes past my worry. All this is Meritiset’s fault. If it weren’t for her I’d have… Damn. It would have been me there, now, watching television, in the heart of a great House. Would I have had the sense to play dumb, be an agent for House Adamastor? I don’t know.
With a shake of my head, I rise. “Okay, stupid ghost. Lead on.”
I stifle a chuckle thinking of the military applications attached to my working relationship with Ashton. Certainly not ideal, and it astounds me I’ve managed to keep a handle on his fitful presence. Hugging the shadows, I pick my way along the side of the road until we near the front gate.
It takes only the briefest amount of concentration to freeze the security cameras, which, when I visualise them using my powers, appear as blips of static when I focus on their aetheric feel. Then it’s simply a case of matching the signal to get the gate to open and close behind me. Not all the way, of course, but enough space to slip my frame through a gap.
“The first guy’s over there in the office.” Ashton turns my attention to a small room adjoining the garage along the side of the house, where a light casts yellow rectangles in the gloom. “If you hurry, the patrol guy won’t be round here for another three minutes. He’s busy taking a piss in the rose bushes by the koi pond.” The ghost’s smirk is tactile, and my own lips tug in response.
“I’m glad someone’s having fun.” I pitch my voice low.
My footsteps sound unnaturally loud to my ears, but I’m glad for the wind in the trees, though it sends tendrils of hair into my mouth. I’ve no idea whether the man silhouetted in the window is an initiate. At any rate, House Montu would ensure that all their employees are highly aware, sensitive to their environment, so I begin to draw slowly, deliberately from a wide footprint around me, borrowing more from the wind than anything else.
Nothing like a bit of a flicker in the household power to distract someone’s attention from whatever it is he’s doing. Questing for the door mechanism, I’m glad to discover it is unlocked, and one of those regular mechanisms. House Montu obviously doesn’t consider that someone would succeed in breaking into the property, or get this far.
“Hurry,” Ashton says. “The oke is just around the corner now.”
It’s now or never. I grab the handle and barge into the small office, where a man turns around from a bank of screens, his eyes wide and mouth opened in an O of surprise. He doesn’t get a chance to make a sound, however. The force of the daimonic power I smash into him is the equivalent of getting hit by a car. The man is flung into the wall opposite, taking most of the electronic equipment with him in a shower of breaking glass and sparks. His limbs twitch and, for a moment, his Kha shimmers as the souls depart.
“That was a little too spectacular,” I say to Ashton.
“The other goon is running. He must have heard.”
I spin around, gathering from the energy around me as I recharge for the next shot. A young black man, who can’t be older than twenty, bumps right into me, most likely not expecting me to rush outside with the same force of his arrival.
Stunned, we both fall to the ground in a tangle of limbs. He has my jacket gripped by the lapels, and it’s with great difficult that I bring my knee up to get him in the groin. The man lets go, but he’s yelling his head off. Rising into a half-seated position I sideswipe him, hard. There’s an audible crack as vertebrae in his neck disintegrate from the impact, and I scramble to escape the now-jerking corpse.
Killing is too easy and I stare stupidly at the body, another human reduced to so much meat in less than a minute—by my bare hands and daimonic potential. Then I’m knocked sideways by an invisible force.
A loud bang shatters the night and something whines through the air near my left ear as I struggle to regain my feet. My lungs wheeze painfully.
“Motherfucker’s got a gun!” Ashton yells. “Run!” He gives me another hard shove, in the direction of the back of the house, and I can hear the thud of at least two pairs of feet behind me, men shouting at me, but their words are an unintelligible jumble over my own ragged breathing.
The back of the house is paved, pillars supporting vine-laden beams as I dodge past wrought-iron furniture and a covered lap-pool. Another loud explosion shatters the night and hot fire rips through my left arm, sending me sprawling against the wall. The blaze of agony is exquisite in detail, each tendril coiling through my nervous system. At first I look about to figure out what I perhaps bumped into but then it dawns on me that I’ve been shot.
“Bugger it!” Ashton screams in my head.
It’s through the haze as I manage to turn to face my aggressors that I see first how the one flies through the air to plunge head first into the pool, the second falling hard to come skidding to a halt five metres from where I’m half crouched.
Even as the one on the ground tries to rise, I release a blast of power that flips him over backward. He does not get up again, his limbs contorting in final paroxysms of death and blood oozing out of various orifices.
The one in the pool thrashes to the side. I don’t have any daimonic reserves for him but I stagger forward to kick him hard in the face as he pulls himself over the lip. Cartilage crunches and he falls back. I almost follow him, swaying dangerously over the edge.
“That’s four down,” Ashton says. “You don’t have long. The other two are coming down from their quarters. They’ve heard the ruckus.”
“And the old man?” Warmth flows down my skin, soaking into the T-shirt and jacket.
“He’s gone to the girl’s room. He seems far too calm.”
“Save the best for last,” I remark. “Let’s get the annoying minnows out of the way.”
“Hardly annoying minnows. Look at how you’ve fucked up my body. If it weren’t for your Jedi mind tricks I’d have taken over the steering again. You kill this body, bitch, I’m going to—”
“What?”
“Never mind. They come. Kitchen door to your right.”
Dragging at the aethers, I pull more power into me just as the two men shove through the door. The air around me crackles and a sharp twinge in my sinuses warn me of an incipient nose bleed to accompany my efforts. Even Lizzie never had to draw so hard on her daimonic powers.
The men stop to stare at me.
The power hums through me, the wind whipping at my hair. For a moment I gain an impression of what I look like from Ashton’s almost omniscient viewpoint, disorientating to have more than three dimensions, and an increased sense of the spirit world howling at the edges.
The creature these men face seems lit from within, the skull gleaming through a thin layer of skin spattered with blood flowing freely from the nostrils. Goulish. Hair flowing against the gusts of wind. Eyes wild, white-rimmed.
One man reaches in slow motion for the gun holstered at his thig
h. This is all the prompting I need to release the gathered force. My aggressors are pummelled back, the kitchen door splintering from the impact.
I lose my footing, thrown back by the recoil to smash into the ground, a devastating suddenness. Blackness swallows everything.
* * * *
The first thing I’m conscious of is the ringing in my ears. Then the crushing, polarised pain. Tentatively I flex my arms, my fingers; my left arm chilled and numb in the blood-soaked jacket. Above the trees’ limbs lash at the starry void.
“Get up! Fool!” Ashton says, his voice sounding in my head as though from a great distance.
An awful groan rips from my belly and I strain, my muscles at first not obeying me. “What—”
“It’s a mess. The kitchen. It looks as though you’ve microwaved them or something. Dunno. Bits of…” Fear laces his tone. Ashton is deeply afraid. Of me, my powers.
I reach with my daimonic senses, but only the slightest trickle curls into me. I pray I haven’t fried my synapses. It is with great effort that I manage to pull myself into a seated position, a wave of nausea bringing a sweet trickle of semi-digested vomit up from my stomach to trickle from my parted lips.
“Get up, bitch!”
“I’m…not…your bitch.”
“You gonna be the old poes’s bitch if you don’t pull yourself together.”
“Wha—”
“He’s moving from the study. Coming this way. And I think he’s fully loaded. You’re not.”
“Fuck.”
It’s one thing coming up against a rabble of initiates and almost-Inkarna. It’s quite another matching my strength against a man in the latter years of his power. While the Kha may no longer be as resilient as that of someone in his prime, the mind of an Inkarna, after years of meditation and workings, is a truly frightening thing to behold, especially in concert with an experienced Akh.
Lizzie would have packed some serious punch, controlled and efficient, but my grip over Ashton’s Kha seems to result in a bit of a hit-and-miss situation. Now I’m running on empty. When I stretch my senses, I can feel the vast presence approaching, a man who heads up the local chapter of one of the most powerful militant Houses in our society.
The first impulse is to turn tail, to try for a better day, but the backpack containing The Book of Ammit is a heavy burden. I will run and run, and every time I try to go to ground in order to lick my wounds, my enemy will grow stronger, wiser to my ways. I have a few seconds at best to prepare.
Anpu Upuaut, open the way for me, Set stand before me and lend me strength, Harwer behind me, give me dominion over the negation of Apep, Ma’at, let the just prevail…
There. I can sense a trickle. It’s not much but something, a sense of strength flowing into my body as though I’ve broken some barrier holding me from tapping into the aethers. It’s nothing like the build-up of power I used on the two unfortunate employees bare moments ago, but it’s better than nothing.
“The gun, idiot. Get your gun.”
“I’m not sure—”
“Let me guide you.”
This means allowing Ashton a modicum of control over this Kha, which in this dire situation is less than ideal, but what option do I have? I’ve never used a gun before.
“We’re pretty fucked, either way.”
“Scum it.” I let slip some of my control—not everything, but enough for Ashton to move the Kha with some degree of autonomy. The very real fear of obliteration, or eternal slavery, has me in its grip, though Ashton’s handling of the slim black pistol is reassuring, especially the way he knows just how to toggle off the safety.
I recall something Richard said many years ago, about not having qualms about using any resource at one’s disposal, that so long as the results are congruent with Ma’at, the way would be right. However, each action doesn’t come without consequences, and it is understanding this delicate balance that allows us to sometimes circumvent disaster.
It isn’t right holding Ashton here, making him dance at my beck and call, yet without him I wouldn’t have made it this far. Let the man have his hour, perhaps redeem himself for all the evil he has done unto others.
Ashton bares my teeth in a bitter snarl as Jonathan steps out the kitchen door. The man has the same almost-supernatural presence about him, his white hair standing on end with the static of daimonic powers.
While Ashton lifts the gun I do what I can to draw hard on the available sources. Damn, Jonathan is good, better even than Richard in his prime, and all energy—even mine—is sucked toward the impossible vortex spinning about my opponent.
The old man seems impassive, almost bored when he looks upon me. I’m not certain whether I detect a faint flicker of disappointment, even.
“You gonna die, old man,” Ashton says. He pulls the trigger, but it’s as if time itself slows down. I feel something click in the gun before a protracted roaring starts, the bullet crawling from the muzzle at a snail’s pace.
Before me Jonathan has his hand raised, the projectile slowing until it glows white-hot before dropping to the ground with a metallic plink. True hearing returns and everything resumes its mundane pace. The old man smiles at me, his features reminding me of someone more benevolent, a Benedictine monk perhaps. The wind falls oddly still and, somewhere in the garden beyond the first line of trees, a frog starts a hesitant call before falling silent abruptly.
“That wasn’t a very intelligent way to approach this predicament, Inkarna Nefretkheperi.” Jonathan shakes his head slightly.
He doesn’t know about Ashton’s angry ghost. He doesn’t know who really is in charge of this body.
“Please don’t do anything stupid,” I beg of Ashton.
I may as well be asking a bull elephant to stop in mid-charge. Ashton bunches the muscles and storms forward before I can grab control of him. Jonathan doesn’t do more than twitch his hand slightly. It’s like colliding with a wall and I fall back. While Ashton gasps for air it’s easy to push him into the back, though the inversion of control for this Kha doesn’t come without a price as the flesh surrounds me once more. I’m the one who now struggles for breath.
“I’m going to fucking kill him!” Ashton rages, rendered safely impotent.
I’m too busy trying to shake off the overwhelming pain to reply, dimly aware of Jonathan stepping forward to stand over me, peering down with concern stamped on his features.
“I must admit, I did underestimate you somewhat. I shall have to call in reinforcements from Johannesburg and Durban now, thanks to you. More than thirty years’ training undone tonight with the amount of death and carnage. I underestimated you.” He sounds almost quizzical, as though everything that has transpired is a mere glitch in his well-oiled plans.
The grumble of an engine tells me the vehicle has returned with its complement of staff. Whatever advantage I had is gone. The man gets a faraway look in his eyes and I suspect he must have a mind-meld with one of the goons who have come back because it’s not long before I hear the thud of boots coming around the side of the house.
I’m powerless to stop this and tears of frustration form, running cold streaks down my cheeks. That’s when I feel it, and so does Jonathan, because he stiffens where he stands, casting about wildly for the source of power whining.
The wind stops shaking the trees. The lights flicker in the house, dim; go out. The air plumes in front of my face, so cold my skin is instantly chilled. All is darkness, pale faces etched in starlight and the green gleam of emergency lanterns switching on to bathe everything in a chthonic glow. Ashton, what in the hell are you doing?
The men run up, half a dozen of them, but Jonathan holds up a hand in signal: wait.
“I can tell this is not you, Inkarna Nefretkheperi. It is too polarised. What is this thing you have brought upon us?”
My lips won’t shape any words, and I blink up at him. Ashton, having learnt by example—having seen me in action enough times to—has figured this out himself. Only he has no body
to act as focus. There’s no telling what could happen. This trumps his previous manifestations by mega-Watts.
The whine grows into an ear-splitting hum, and I have to clap my hands over my ears in a vain attempt to shield myself. The vibration crawls through my core, wriggling in my collarbone. A man cries out and drops. Then another.
“What are you doing?” I ask, but I look straight at Jonathan while mustering an expression of abject fear. I may as well confuse the hell out of him, but I can’t deny the fact that I’m scared witless. Paralysed.
Ashton doesn’t answer me, but then I hadn’t really expected he would.
One of the soldiers screams, flung like so much meat against a pillar. He doesn’t move. While one of the remaining men freezes, his gun half-lowered and looking about him with confusion stamped on his features, the two others run, uttering gibberish.
This is too much for the last guard. By now the air feels thick around us. I watch with dawning horror as the young man lifts the pistol to his own head. He turns to face Jonathan, a frightening too-wide grin splayed across his lips.
“Die, motherfucker.” He pulls the trigger.
I close my eyes, but the sudden release of pressure and the thud of flesh and bone hitting the paving is unmistakeable, as is the iron tang of blood and something else, organic and wild.
Jonathan’s groan has me summon the courage to look at the old man fallen to his knees before me. He stares glassily at the remains of the man he’s no doubt lavished with training for years.
Without waiting for Ashton, I stagger to my feet and throw myself at Jonathan, using all the power in my limbs. Although he is a slight man, Jonathan manages to flip me onto my side, but I grab him by the throat, eerily reminded of that night I fought Ashton off Marlise.
I straddle him, using the advantage of my height and bulk to keep him pinned to the ground. Whatever resources of daimonic power he had earlier he’s lost. Words are wasted on this man. I’d dearly love to know why, but something ugly in me just wants to choke the life out of him. A sudden electricity flows through me, a raging torrent. Then a snap and everything spins into real-time, the wind crashing the branches overhead, Jonathan making a strangled gargling.
Inkarna Page 27
