by Mel Odom
“Our Voice won’t want anything to do with you,” another man said. Blood leaked from wounds in his head where he’d recently grafted three small demons’ horns. They were from a flying demon no larger than a spider monkey, but which had the ability to throw off waves of electricity.
“I think he will,” Warren said confidently. “When he finds out what I have to offer.”
“Don’t be too proud of yourself, demon thing.”
“I’m not.” Warren gestured at the man.
A wave of shimmering force slammed into the man. His knees buckled and he went down to the cracked pavement. He cried out in pain.
The young man with the machete brought his weapon toward Warren’s head with startling suddenness. Almost effortlessly, Warren blocked the strike with the spear, turned the heavy blade to one side, and banged the spear’s butt against the ground. A wall of force erupted from the ground and blew the man backward.
The third man, this one shaved bald to show the tattooing across his skull, drew a blocky-looking pistol. A strange liquid reservoir attached to the top glugged as he fired.
With one hand, Warren raised a shield. Four small demons no bigger than the end of his little finger embedded in the shield. They wriggled horned tails angrily, striking the shield again and again.
Naomi choked back a curse and retreated. The demons had weapons that fired living ammunition, insect swarms and things like this, but Warren had never seen them in the hands of Cabalists.
“Interesting,” Warren commented. “Did you make the weapon yourself? Or did you learn how to use it?”
The Cabalist leveled his weapon again.
Warren gestured and the wriggling ammunition flew back from the shield and stopped only inches away from the Cabalist’s head. The man got the message and lowered his weapon.
The Cabalist with the three small horns stood. A look of amazement showed on his face as he ran a hand over his horns. “My head feels strange,” he said.
The pistol-wielding Cabalist looked at him. “Your head has been healed, mate. The horns look like they’ve grown there forever.”
“Healed?” The Cabalist ran his fingertips around the horns. Surprise filled his features, too. He looked at Warren. “You did this? You healed me?”
“Yes,” Warren answered.
“How?”
“This is one of the things I have to offer.”
The Cabalist kept pulling at his horns as though he couldn’t believe it.
“I want to see the Voice,” Warren repeated.
“All right,” the man said. “Let me send someone to let her know.” He gestured to the Cabalist with the Mohawk.
Growling curses, the younger Cabalist got to his feet and went inside the building. As an afterthought, Warren imploded the live ammunition and let their lifeless bodies drop to the ground.
The building’s interior was a wreck, but a few areas had been cleaned out to make living space. Warren counted as many as thirty people, but there might have been more. None of them appeared happy to see him. Watchful eyes stared at him as he walked up the stairs to the third floor.
A large section of the second floor held garden containers. Herbs and vegetables flourished. Judging from the size of the vegetable boxes, everything was designed to be immediately mobile.
He recognized some of the herbs and spices as things that were used in natural medicines, but there were several plants that looked warped and twisted. Some of them only grew in areas the Burn had claimed.
A young woman stood waiting on the third floor. She looked nineteen or twenty, slender and Asian. Her shoulder-length hair was electric blue, and she had almond-shaped green eyes. Tattoos covered her face, arms, and legs. She wore a tunic top, cargo shorts, and hiking boots. Although she didn’t look like someone who would be a Voice of a Cabalist sept, Warren felt the power rolling off her.
“I’m Daiyu,” she said. Four Cabalists stood around her.
Warren almost smiled at that. Although the woman was petite, probably not even five feet tall, the power he sensed about her offered more protection than the men.
“I’m Warren Schimmer,” he said.
“I’ve heard of you. They say that you belong to no sept.”
“I don’t.”
Daiyu studied him with open interest. “I also heard that you command power without wearing tattoos or sigils.”
“I don’t need them.”
“They say that’s because you wear the demon’s hand and his mark.” Daiyu’s eyes rested on Warren’s silver hand.
Warren flexed the hand to show that he owned it and that it worked. “It allows me to focus my power, but the power I have is my own.”
“I see.” Daiyu focused on his eyes again. “What do you want here?”
“To make you a deal you can’t refuse,” Warren said.
“There’s nothing you can give me that I can’t take for myself.”
Warren gestured to the man whose horns he’d healed. Reluctantly, the man approached them.
“Your people try to emulate the demons by wearing their trophies,” Warren said. “All they do is make themselves weaker by opening wounds into their bodies. I can heal them, and I can teach you to guarantee that the transplants you’re attempting take hold and become permanent.”
“Look at my horns,” the Cabalist entreated. “He healed them only moments ago.”
Daiyu waved the man down to his knees, then examined the horns. Cautiously, she touched one of them with a forefinger. An electrical spark stung her flesh, and she jerked back.
“Once the transplants are in place,” Warren said, “they become foci and allow a greater control of the arcane forces your people can control.”
The young woman eyed him suspiciously. “Will the body later reject them?”
“No. Not unless the person wearing them decides they no longer want them.”
Conversations around them grew louder. More Cabalists came from the other floor to listen in.
“We’re supposed to accept your word on this?” Daiyu asked.
“If you have another offer,” Warren said, “then you should take it.” He made himself sound brave, but he’d never interacted with people well. He wasn’t forceful by nature, and he wouldn’t have been now if he hadn’t been so desperate. He had nowhere to run, no hiding place, and Lilith seemed bent on dragging him to his destruction if he couldn’t take care of himself.
“You said you came to make a deal,” Daiyu told him.
“Yes.”
“But it’s not a deal until you get something out of it.”
Warren was impressed. She was smarter than he’d expected.
“I want the same thing you want,” he told her. “I want more power. I can’t get any more without help.”
“You want my help?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I want you to follow me.”
“I follow the First Seer.”
“That’s fine,” Warren said. “Follow the First Seer if you want to. But follow me in this. I can make you more powerful. The First Seer can’t. I can give you power that no other Cabalist has.”
Daiyu studied him for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll have to discuss it with my Savants. I’ll get back to you.”
“Soon,” Warren warned. “I have other people I can talk to.”
Naomi took a package of flavored noodles from the bag she’d filled only moments ago from a grocery store a few blocks away. Although there were survivors in the city and it had been four years since the invasion, enough food remained in places to keep many people fed. All the perishable items were long gone.
She opened the package and poured it into a small pot she’d found a few days ago. She missed having proper kitchen equipment like what she’d had at Warren’s building. Within a few minutes, a small fire blazed inside the basement apartment where they’d holed up after speaking with the Cabalists under Daiyu. She poured water over the noodles and added the flavor packet.
Warren stood at the window and stared out through the dirty, cracked glass. He appeared calm, but she knew him well enough to know that the appearance deceived.
“What’s on your mind?” Naomi asked as the smell of the food filled the small apartment.
“The Cabalists.” His distracted tone told her that was only half the truth.
“Are you worried about the decision they’ll reach?”
“No. They’ll reach the right decision. They don’t have a choice. I can do things for them and teach them things they can’t do on their own.”
“I have to admit, I thought they’d be more afraid of you.”
“They are afraid of me,” Warren said, “but they’re more afraid of not ever being able to do what I can do.”
A little jealously, Naomi knew that she had the same fear. “Are you going to teach them those things?”
“Yes.”
“Why haven’t you taught me?”
He looked at her. “Do you really want to learn?”
Naomi thought about that. She was torn. Having more power, especially with all the danger around her, was a good thing. The only part that worried her was how close she’d have to get to the demons in order to have that power.
“Perhaps,” she answered.
Warren smiled a little sadly. “That’s why I haven’t taught you. Something like this, you have to want it.”
“Did you?”
“Not at first, but I knew I was going to have to learn everything I can if I’m going to survive. There’s no guarantees even then.”
Naomi stirred the pasta. “Have you seen Lilith lately?” The demon hadn’t been around in two days, so far as Naomi knew.
“No.”
“Where do you think she’s gone?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will she be back?” Naomi silently hoped not.
“Yes.”
“If the Cabalists come back to you and accept your offer, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to teach them to fight the demons.”
“I thought you were convinced anyone who did that was only going to get killed.”
“Not,” Warren said, “if you win.”
“Do you think we can really win?”
“Hiding is no longer an option. Since the beginning of this thing, I’ve been drawn into the demons’ battles.” Warren paused. “I’ve fought for everyone but me.”
For a moment, Naomi saw the fear in him. Many times she’d mistaken it as selfishness, but she’d learned that it was fear. There was something broken inside Warren that had never been fixed.
“What about you?” Warren asked. “Are you going to stay or go?”
Naomi had been asking herself the same question. As soon as the building where they’d been hiding had been destroyed, most of what Warren had had to offer her had been lost. Without the sanctuary, he was a lightning rod for demons.
“Does it matter?” she asked.
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I’d like you to stay, but it’s going to be dangerous. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I don’t want to be hurt, either. But I’m going to stay.”
Warren nodded, tried to speak, and couldn’t. He just nodded again.
“The pasta’s ready,” she said. “You need to eat.”
Together, using chopsticks they’d found in the debris of a Chinese restaurant, they ate from the bowl and listened to the screams of demons and victims out on the streets.
FORTY-ONE
L eah strained at the wall. The nanohooks on her palm locked deeply into the metal. Just when she thought the panel wasn’t going to move, metal screeched and it slid free. Instead of a passageway as she normally found, a breeze loaded with the scent of pine and fresh grass wafted in.
In disbelief, Leah stared out at the forest beyond the opening. She didn’t know how the machine she’d been buried in had ended up in a forest, and she wasn’t going to waste time questioning it. She shoved her head and shoulders through the opening and fell out onto the soft earth.
Heart hammering, she pushed herself to her feet and ran. Fog partially obscured the landscape and blocked the sunlight when she glanced up and tried to get oriented. She didn’t know in what direction she fled, but anywhere away from the demon machine had to be good.
The marshy land held water in puddles and pools. She ran through them, getting soaked and chilled almost at once. Her clothing, cold and heavy with mud, clung to her as she ran. Her breath gusted out in gray puffs.
At the top of the grade, winded and unable to run any farther, she stood in the shadow of a gnarled spruce tree and gazed back. The demon machine looked as big as a three-story building. She knew it couldn’t be because it had fit inside the Apple store.
That’s where it fit the last time you were outside of it, Leah told herself. The demons could have added to it. But how did they move it? How long have I been trapped in there?
While getting her breath back, she scanned the countryside. At the very least she expected roving patrols. There was nothing. Not even a bird broke cover.
How many other people are in that thing? She didn’t know. She was certain she’d been inside it for days, but she couldn’t be sure she’d ever seen or heard anyone else. Everything she’d encountered inside the machine had been an illusion.
It had to be. She’d witnessed horrible things.
Breath regained, she turned and ran down the other side of the hill. She didn’t know where she was. The ground was springy and damp. Verdant growth clutched all the way up her legs to her knees.
She ran until she couldn’t run anymore, and she thought she’d gone for miles. The countryside never changed. The fogbound landscape was impenetrable. Finally, exhausted, she lay down. Just to rest. Somewhere out there birds chirped. Although she didn’t want to, she slept.
When Leah woke, she was dreaming that she was back in the attack on the munitions plant. She was hunkered down behind an overturned freight van. The SRAC machine pistol and Thermal Bolter felt heavy in her hands.
“Leah!”
She stared at the dead man at her feet. His name was Jamey Capps, but she’d never met him in her life.
“Leah!”
When she glanced up, Leah saw Robert Wickersham standing in front of her. He looked just as young and vulnerable as that night she’d lost her eye.
This is impossible, Leah thought. I can’t be here.
“Leah, are you with me?” Wickersham reloaded his assault rifle.
“Yes.”
Concern fired his eyes as he looked at her. “You looked like you were somewhere else.”
“Where are we?”
Wickersham studied her. “You sure you’re all right, love?”
No. “Where are we?”
“Trying to shut down the weapons plant. Where did you think you were?”
Leah shook her head. Not true! Not true! Something’s wrong! Her senses spun. “Never mind.”
“Not like we have any bloody choice. The satchel charge is at your feet. You want to ferry that thing? Or me?”
When she looked down, the satchel charge lay there on the street. Blood dotted the scuffed surface.
“We’re Satchel Team Three now,” Wickersham said. “Are you ready for this?”
Leah nodded, but she felt anything but ready. She holstered the Thermal Bolter and scooped up the satchel charge.
“Let’s go.” Wickersham led the way out. He spun round the corner and froze.
“What’s wrong?” Leah asked. Then she noted the bloody claw sticking out of Wickersham’s back.
He stumbled backward and leaned heavily against her. When she shifted, he flipped round to face her. Blood dripped from his parted mouth. He tried to speak but didn’t have any luck. His eyes glazed as she watched, and he slid toward the ground.
No! Leah thought in horror. That’s not what happened! Jamey Capps didn’t die, either! These deaths are
n’t real!
Even as she denied it, though, a Blade Minion stepped up in front of her and grinned. Leah tried to bring the SRAC up, but the demon batted it away easily. In the next moment, it thrust its blade hand through her armor and her stomach. With a sideways jerk, it spilled her intestines to the ground.
Unable to remain standing, Leah dropped into the steaming pile of her own body. The pain hammered her mercilessly for a moment, then went away. When it did, she went away with it.
“Can you get the door open?”
Panic welled inside Leah when she realized she wasn’t dead. She ran her free hand down her body and found that her stomach was whole and intact. There was no blood. Her other hand held a Scorcher, a pistol designed to spew Greek Fire. It was a Templar design, scavenged from a fallen warrior.
“They’re coming. Can you get the door open?”
Dazed, not comprehending, Leah looked over at the speaker. Her night vision barely pulled in enough light to see the four other people in the room. All of them wore black armor.
The big man beside her let out a vicious oath and shoved her out of the way. “What’s wrong with you? If we stay here, we’re going to die. Those zombies have us outnumbered.”
Leah stepped to one side and tried to fathom where she was. It was a tunnel, maybe an auxiliary passage off the tube.
At the back of the passage, the big man worked frantically at a door that was rusted shut. He yanked on the release lever, but it only snapped off in his hands with a banshee screech.
“Here they come!” someone shouted.
“Get set! Hold them back till Pete gets the door open!”
Leah knew the door wasn’t going to open. They were at a dead end. Literally.
Zombies lurched into the passageway ahead of them. Blood glistened on their mottled skin, offering silent proof that they’d already succeeded in their hunt for victims.
“Pete! Are you gonna get that door open, mate?”
Looking back at the big man, Leah saw that fear had claimed him. He stood frozen and mute. Then weapons fire filled the tunnel. She fired the Scorcher, feeling it buck and twist in her hand as flames sprayed out over the zombies. Although the first line of them caught fire and jerked in response, the dozens behind them kept pushing them forward. The zombies that succumbed to the flames got trampled on by the undead behind them.
