“Of course not,” he answered as he brushed some stray hairs away from her eyes. “You already know how much crap I get for being a Mouth getting married to a babe like you. Everyone in the world thinks the only way somebody like you would end up with an ugly mug like me is because I’ve got you hypnotized . . .” he said it as a joke to cheer her up, but they both knew it was partially true, and it hurt him every single time. He smiled. “It sure isn’t because I’m rich.”
Jane hugged him close, her fingernails digging into the back of his neck. “When you can see everyone’s insides all the time, we’re all ugly . . . and squishy.” They both had a laugh, then Jane began weeping again, and Dan did all that he thought an honorable husband-to-be should do, and gave her his shoulder to cry on.
Finally, she spoke. “I can’t bear it. It’s just too much hurt. I can fix physical hurt, but I can’t do anything about this kind. I need to be strong. The others need me. Dan . . . I want you to tell me I did my best. I need to believe it.”
He nodded, and pushed his Power hard. “It wasn’t your fault.” His words resonated like biblical truth.
“Thank you . . .”
***
Sullivan found Delilah standing at the edge of the ocean, staring out toward the setting sun. Her dress was whipping around her in the wind, and he could see her figure as the sun shone through the fabric.
“You’re a tough one to find,” he said.
“Who said I wanted to be found?” she said without turning around.
Sullivan paused, all the practiced words failing him once again. They always worked in his head, but turned to garbage when he tried to form them in his mouth. Instead he just said, “I came to say I’m sorry.”
“For trying to arrest me? For bouncing me off a roof? For being ready to shoot me down for the coppers because you just took their word that I was a mad-dog killer? Or for before that? For when you ran away and left me alone in New Orleans? Maybe even for just being a lousy jerk . . .”
“ . . . Yes . . .”
She finally turned around, placed her hands on her hips and gave him that same dangerous smirk. “You’re leaving again, aren’t you?”
She was so pretty that it struck his heart like a bullet. “There’s something I got to do.”
“Take me with you.”
“It’ll be too dangerous.”
“I’m a Brute, remember?”
Sullivan didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say. She had the Power to pull a man’s head off with her bare hands and anything short of a high-powered rifle would bounce off her skin. She was tough as nails and worth ten men in a fight . . . but she’d always be that same scared girl that he’d found abused and mistreated in Louisiana. He’d put her back together while she’d helped him heal from the nightmare of the war, a pair of survivors who’d started to cobble together a life. But then he’d gone away. Prison had changed him, leaving him hard and uncaring, and it had been easy to believe that she’d become just as jaded while they’d been apart. But he’d been wrong, and here she was, the same girl, only with a harder shell, and she deserved so much better than a lug like him who had already proven he couldn’t protect her. There was no way he could live with her death on his hands. That was one thing that he wasn’t strong enough for. He just wasn’t eloquent enough to explain all that.
“You’re doing this for Pershing? I know what it is, you know. It’s the same reason he brought me here, only once he Read me, I think he decided I wasn’t good enough . . . But by then, he was stuck with me . . .” She turned back to the Pacific. “Story of my life . . . Damaged goods. Nobody wants me.”
Without hesitation, he moved forward and encircled her in his arms, crushing her tight against him, suddenly afraid to let her go. He whispered low in her ear. “I do.”
They were two irreparably flawed people. Together they almost made a whole person, and he figured that might just be enough. She leaned her head back into his chest and he held her there for a long time.
Chapter 15
. . . And on this momentous day, let us remember the brave sacrifice of Junior Assistant Third Engineer Harold Ernest Crozier of Southampton, who was lost after an ice collision on our maiden voyage. His natural magical gifts, combined with his great moral fortitude, enabled him to control the incoming waters before there was any other loss of life. He was a credit to the Active race. We shall now have a moment of silence for Engineer Crozier.
—Captain Edward J. Smith
of the RMS Titanic,
on its fifth anniversary cruise, 1917
Lick Hill, California
There were four guards manning the main gatehouse. Three were playing a game of poker, while the last was watching the clock, knowing that they were due to be relieved at two o’clock in the morning, and he was dying to get out of the stinking concrete shed and back into his bed. He cursed the slow clock, lit another cigarette, and went back to being miserable.
It was a joke. The entire assignment was a big, stupid joke. Nothing ever happened at Lick Hill. After the Great War showed the absolute war-ending power of the Peace Ray, every nation that could afford it built at least one. America had three along its west coast alone. The Peace Ray was a marvel of superscience. It fired a near instantaneous beam of absolute death as far as three hundred miles in a perfectly straight line. No army could invade a country with a Peace Ray. Everyone knew that Tesla had made war obsolete.
The towers were absurdly tall, and usually put on top of the highest land available. They were a line-of-sight weapon. The higher it was, the further it could engage targets. When the war had first ended, strings of observation dirigibles had been stationed all along the coast, ready to call in a warning and firing coordinates to the huge crews of operators at a moment’s notice. Hundreds of technicians were protected by thousands of soldiers. The sheer amount of electricity necessary to run the machine necessitated the building of huge power plants, but it was all necessary for national security.
The guards were well trained and issued the finest safety equipment. They had to be. A full-charge firing of the Peace Ray could actually turn the very air around the beam into poison. Only the bravest of soldiers were assigned to guard the most important weapon in the arsenal of freedom.
The Peace Ray was the key to assuring America’s safety in the dangerous new world.
Or so they had said in 1920 when they’d built the damn things, but over time, thousands of soldiers had turned into hundreds, and then into two understaffed platoons. Hundreds of technicians had turned into a skeleton crew of thirty. Budget cuts had taken away all but ten of their blimps. Half of those were in the shop, and the rest were expected to watch the coast from Canada to Mexico.
Their gas masks hadn’t been pulled out in years. The private wasn’t even sure where his was. The Army budget had been so deeply cut over the last three years that he wasn’t even sure if they had gas masks at all for the new guys. The power plants had mostly been diverted to feed the growing metropolis of San Francisco, and the last he’d heard from one of the techs, they were running at maybe fifteen percent of maximum power, but that wasn’t supposed to matter, because nobody knew that, and as long as the Peace Ray rose over the coast like a deadly futuristic sentinel, it would do its job as a deterrent, or at least that’s what the brass figured.
Guarding a Peace Ray was a crap job, but at least he had a job, the private thought ruefully, which was more than he could say for a lot of folks he knew. Times were tough, so three square meals and a bed in a barracks wasn’t that bad of a deal if you thought about it, but one-thirty in the morning was a lousy time to be thinking about it.
There was a tinkle of breaking glass and a grunt. He turned, expecting to see that one of his buddies had dropped their coffee mug, ready to give them some grief about the mess, but he paused, realizing that the spreading stain on the floor was too red to be coffee. Somebody was moving around his friends, who had all put their heads down on the table. “Who are you?” The
n the stranger dressed in funny black pajamas and a mask came across the guard shack with a flash of steel and separated the private’s head cleanly from his neck.
Mar Pacifica, California
Something’s wrong . . .
Faye woke up with a start. She was breathing hard, sweating, and had kicked her blankets onto the floor. The house creaked a bit, as the wind from the ocean was strong tonight, but other than that, it was quiet. Everything looked normal. The room was dark, but she’d never had a problem seeing better than most folks at night. She’d always figured it was because of her grey eyes.
Something ain’t right. She knew to pay attention to her instincts. It was like when she Traveled. If she paid attention how she was supposed to, she just somehow knew when things were gonna be dangerous in the space she was about to fill. Faye got out of bed and pulled on a pair of pants under her baggy nightshirt. Some folks might think pants on a girl were scandalous, but frankly, she didn’t care what people thought, and if you were going to go sneaking around because something bad was in the air, pants made more sense.
She didn’t bother with shoes, as her soles were like saddle leather, but she did pick up the big .45 automatic that Mr. Browning had given her. He said that next time she needed to shoot somebody, this one would put a proper hole in them. Francis had told her that it was probably too powerful for a girl, but she’d been milking cows, and had a stronger grip than the city boy did, so what did he know?
The hallway was quiet. She padded down the thick carpet of the second floor balcony. There was nothing moving in the space below or on the stairs.
She used her Power to check her surroundings. Having had a lot of practice recently, she’d gotten even better at scouting before a jump, so good in fact, that it was like she could see everything in a big circle around her, not with her eyes, but inside her brain. The area around her had always been like a map in her head, and when she picked a spot to Travel into, she could focus more on that space, but she’d been Traveling so much lately, that she’d discovered that her head map had gotten bigger and clearer. It was almost like her thoughts could Travel on their own, and she didn’t even need to send her body to see what was going on. A big book Mr. Browning had, written by a Dr. Fort, had called her Power by the name of Teleportation, but even it hadn’t mentioned anything about being able to have a magic map in her head.
Faye checked her head map. It used to only stretch for about fifty feet in a circle wherever she was standing, but with practice, it now seemed to go about double that. It didn’t have a lot of detail, so she didn’t feel like she was invading anyone’s privacy, and besides, something was fishy tonight besides the ocean. Mr. Sullivan’s room was next to hers, but it was empty. Next was Delilah’s room, and she was surprised to find that both of them were asleep in the same bed. That was a little shocking to her since they weren’t married folk, so she kept going. She liked Delilah and just hoped Mr. Sullivan would make her happy.
Nobody was moving on the second floor, so she decided to Travel downstairs. Grandpa had always warned her not to Travel into a spot where she couldn’t see with her own eyes, but she’d been breaking a bunch of his rules lately. She appeared in the fancy dining room. There was something in the shadows behind the piano, but it turned out to just be a curtain moving a little in the breeze from an open window.
The map in her head didn’t show anything weird. Even the servants were perfectly still, sleeping standing up in their bare quarters. She didn’t know what they were, they sure as heck weren’t people, but darn if they couldn’t fix a mighty fine sandwich. Then at the very edge of her map, something twitched. She checked the spot in the living room, clear, and Traveled.
Her bare feet appeared an inch off the carpet, and she landed with the lightest thump. In the dark ahead of her was a shape, dressed entirely in black, crouched low, doing something to the magic carvings on the wood around the big glass windows. There was a scratching noise as the visitor flicked a knife back and forth.
Her first inclination was to just take Mr. Browning’s .45 and shoot the stranger in the back of the head, but she’d promised Lance that she’d try extra hard not to kill anybody else by accident, and she was afraid that this might just be another Grimnoir that she didn’t know. Lance had said that there were hundreds of them. “Can I help you?” Faye asked politely.
The person’s head whipped around. He was wearing a black mask under a hood. A pair of grey eyes seemed to glow in the dark, then they just disappeared.
Traveler!
Faye felt the air behind her move and she reacted on instinct, Traveling. She could almost feel the knife drive through the space she’d just occupied. She landed on the other side of the couch. The stranger’s hand snapped through the air and Faye jerked to the side just as something metal passed her face. A four-sided metal razor embedded into the wall with a thunk. “Hey!” Faye shouted, then she disappeared just as the stranger threw another razor at her.
She landed on the second floor. She’d never been in Lance’s room before and almost managed to impale herself on the antlers from a stuffed elk. “Lance! Lance! Wake up!”
“Huh?” Lance immediately sat up in bed, his hand flying to a holstered revolver hanging from the bed post. “Faye?”
“There’s a Traveler and he’s trying to kill—” Her instincts warned her that something was coming and she threw herself back just as the stranger appeared, swinging a knife for her throat.
There was a terrible bloom of fire and the man crashed back into the wall. “Damn ninjas!” Lance bellowed as he fired five more rounds in rapid succession. Faye covered her ears. The stranger was still sliding down, leaving a trail of blood on the wallpaper as Lance sprang out of bed and turned on the electric lamp.
“You hurt?” he shouted as he dropped the empty revolver and picked up a lever-action rifle from the bedside. “I hate damn ninjas.” He worked the action. Faye realized that he was as hairy as the animals he controlled and buck naked to boot. She shrieked, pointing. Lance looked down, swore again, and covered himself with the rifle butt. “I sleep like this. Old camping habit . . . Never mind. Hell. Go get Browning,” he ordered.
Faye Traveled to Browning’s room and froze as the old man sat up in bed, aimed a shotgun right at her face, and pumped a round into the chamber. Faye screamed and Traveled off to the side. “It’s me!”
“I near blasted you, young lady.” Browning admonished as he lowered the shotgun. “Who’s shooting? What’s going on?”
The Grimnoir sure did wake up fast. At least he was wearing pajamas. “There was a Traveler, and he tried to stab me, but Lance shot him a bunch, and said he was a damn ninja!”
Browning just nodded, placed the shotgun on the bed beside him, did something with his Grimnoir ring, made a fist with his ring hand, and slammed it jarringly hard into his palm. “We are under attack,” he said.
***
WE ARE UNDER ATTACK.
He was already waking up from the sudden banging, but Sullivan rolled out of bed even faster as someone bellowed the words directly into his ears. “What?” he shouted.
Delilah was already up and moving, throwing her clothes on. “Gunfire.”
“Who was yelling?”
“What?”
Sullivan’s sleep-filled head realized that it had been Browning’s voice, but of course, Delilah didn’t have a Grimnoir ring, so she wouldn’t have heard. He had put Pershing’s ring on his pinky, the only one of his massive digits it would fit. “Never mind.” He grabbed the thick .45 from the nightstand.
There was enough light coming through the window that Sullivan could see her throwing her dress over her head in a terrible hurry. It reminded him of when he’d had to flee New Orleans just ahead of the law. Delilah looked at him, eyes wide. “Just like old times, huh?”
He drew back the slide of the automatic and let the oiled steel fly forward under spring pressure, chambering a round. “Yeah, just like old times.” Only I ain’t running this time.
***
Madi’s improved hearing easily picked up the gunshots. Three hundred yards away lights started coming on inside the house. The scout he’d sent to disable their alarm spells had failed, but it was a worthwhile sacrifice. He’d been surprised that his men had made it this close to the property before alerting the Grimmys, and he was thankful for the fog coming off the ocean. The Imperium men around him tensed, ready for action.
He’d gathered nearly thirty men for this operation, most of them were new recruits from San Francisco or Los Angeles, desperate suckers willing to risk their lives in exchange for gold or a touch of magic. He’d given them a big pep talk, a gun, and promises of the Chairman’s eternal gratitude. He figured they’d take terrible casualties, but they were expendable. He planned on letting the Grimnoir use up their Power on the chumps first so he wouldn’t endanger any of his more valuable assets. If any lived, that would prove they were strong, and therefore worthy of further training.
“Get ’em, boys,” he whispered.
To their credit, most of them didn’t hesitate. They rose from the bushes, some screaming as they charged the house, in a terrible impersonation of a proper Imperium battle cry, naively believing that the single kanji of vitality he and Yutaka had carved on them would make them bulletproof. It would make them tougher, but that wasn’t near the same thing. The smarter ones actually took the time to use cover and aim their guns at the lighted windows as they approached.
He turned to his second wave. He’d kept two Shadow Guards, both Travelers, for himself and sent the rest with Toshiko for the raid on the Peace Ray. He didn’t like splitting his forces, but he’d promised the Chairman something epic, and he always kept his promises. Now it looked like he was down to just one. He glared at the little Jap Traveler.
“Get in there. Find Pershing. I want him alive. Then report back.”
Hard Magic: Book I of the Grimnoir Chronicles Page 24
