by K.M. Weiland
Chapter Forty-One
Back in Chicago, someone was pounding on Chris’s hotel room door—a door which only two people knew he was behind. He crossed the room, freed the deadbolt, and pulled the door inward, right out from under Brooke’s upraised fist.
She stepped back and hoisted her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “Oh. You are awake.” From the half-determined, half-nervous expression on her face, she looked like she didn’t know whether to be happy about that or not.
He set one elbow against the doorjamb and blocked her from any chance of entering. “Don’t tell me you’ve got another psychotic boyfriend you want me to meet. Or that you actually decided to believe me?”
She licked her lips and pasted on a smile that didn’t hide the tension in her face. “May I come in?”
Well-meaning or not, she’d already sabotaged any trust he still had in her. He hadn’t talked with either her or Mike since her stunt with Kaufman last week. “Brooke . . .”
“Please.” She squared her shoulders. “I need to come in. What I have to say is better not broadcasted in the middle of a public hallway.”
Against his better judgment, he sighed and stepped back against the door.
She entered and crossed the room to stand in front of the window.
He clicked the door shut. “Well?”
“Well . . . I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what you told me the other day. And . . .” She stared at the bedspread’s striped pattern. “I think you need help.”
“Brooke—”
Her eyes darted to his. “And I know you well enough to know you’ll never get it on your own.”
“I don’t need you telling me what I need.”
“You don’t know what you need anymore! You were absolutely insane last week. That whole stunt with my car, then babbling about dreams and weather and people wanting to shoot you!”
“Did you talk to Mike? Huh? What’s he say?” He had sounded crazy the last time he talked to them. He knew that. But, even still, Mike wouldn’t write him off just like that. Brooke was the one who liked to jump to conclusions, not Mike.
She stared at the bedspread some more. “He thinks you need help too.”
That set him back on his heels. He licked his lips. “I notice he seems to trust me enough to let me work this out my own way.”
“I think you’re past the point of being able to work things out by yourself. Listen to me, it doesn’t have to be a psych ward or anything like—”
He gaped. “Psych ward? You’re here to try to talk me into voluntary commitment?”
She dragged her fingers up and down her purse strap. “I’ll drive you down to Lakeshore Hospital. They have professionals who can evaluate you and coach you through this. Chris, I’m doing this because I care about you.”
He clenched his fists to keep from grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. “I asked you to trust me.”
“Stop it.” She dropped both hands to her hips. “What you asked me to do is believe something that’s impossible! You are completely out of control, Chris. Completely! You’re endangering yourself and everyone around you!”
“You don’t understand.”
“I’ve been absolutely understanding.” Her earlobes burned red around her hoop earrings. “You asked me to stay off the story—a good story, the kind of story that could have made me a real writer. And that’s what I did. I’ve done everything you’ve asked me. But this whole dream-world fantasy of yours either means you need serious intervention or you’re lying to cover up!”
“This isn’t the kind of help I need right now.”
She moved to his side and clutched his forearm, her hand hot. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t you realize that after that stunt you pulled last week, you’re dangerous enough to warrant an involuntary commitment?”
He shook his head. “They can’t hold me. That’s against the law.”
“They can hold you long enough for evaluation.”
“And after that, you figure it’s a sure thing, do you?”
“Don’t make this difficult. Please.”
He stripped her hand from his arm. “You know what? It is difficult, and that’s just the way it is.” He took her by the elbow and shepherded her across to the door.
“All I’m trying to do is help. That’s all I want to do! I can’t stand by and do nothing!”
He pushed her out, and a wave of dizziness clobbered him in the back of the head. He reeled and caught his balance against the door handle.
“CHERAZII!” The cry blasted through his ears.
The stamp of her foot drifted in from far away. “Now what?”
Darkness swarmed his vision, and hoofbeats pounded. Something was happening in Lael. Something was waking him up.
“Chris?” Her voice rose a notch. “What are you doing? You’re not going to pass out? Chris?”
One more step. Take one more step into his room and shove the door shut. Then he could sleep. But not now, not where he would be at Brooke’s mercy. He strained against the door handle.
“THE GIFTED! WHERE’S THE GIFTED?”
That voice was familiar. It was . . . Orias’s voice.
He was waking up in the other world, whether he wanted to or not. His legs collapsed. Only a pinpoint of light remained in his vision, focused on the cherry wainscot in his room.
“Chris, stop it!” He could barely make out what Brooke was saying. “What’s wrong with you?”
His knees hit the thin carpet of his room, and then—
—he opened his eyes to the globe-lit darkness of his tent.
The door flaps burst inward, followed by the outline of a soldier. “Sir, we’ve captured a Cherazim! We think he may be the one who tried to kill you this afternoon!”
He shook his head hard to clear away the images of Brooke’s panicked expression. “All right, I’m coming.” He rolled to his feet and winced at the dull ache in his ribs.
Outside, lightning glared across the chaos in the camp. At the center of a growing mob, the white gleam of a Cherazim face loomed above the crowd. If it was Orias, what was he doing here? He must know the Laelers would never welcome him. And if he’d come on another mission for Mactalde, then why hadn’t he gone through with killing Chris yesterday afternoon?
“Chris!” A high-pitched Riever voice pierced the din.
He broke into a run.
The soldiers had wrenched Orias’s arms behind his back and a blue ribbon of blood inched across his cheekbone. Allara had been right. The men had not been kind, and Orias hadn’t fought back. Someone had already clapped a hand over the Rievers’ mouths.
“He’s a spy!” A man smacked his fist against Orias’s chest and grinned at Chris. “He’s the one, isn’t he? He’s the one who tried to kill you this afternoon?”
“Let him go,” Chris said.
“What?” The soldier’s grin faded. “He’s a Cherazim. He’d kill us all if’n he had the chance.”
“I said let him go.”
At the rear of the crowd, a voice hollered, “Make way for the king!”
Tireus pushed through the crowd. He glanced at Chris for confirmation of Orias’s identity, and Chris nodded reluctantly.
“What do you seek here?” Tireus asked.
Orias towered above the soldiers. Beneath his coat his muscles bulged. Even in manacles and surrounded by his captors, he held his chin high and stared over their heads.
“I’ve come to warn you,” he said.
The soldiers guffawed.
Chris’s neck prickled. He stepped forward. “Warn us of what?”
Orias ignored Tireus and looked straight at Chris. “Mactalde’s left Ballion. He’s taken the Aiden River troops up the Karilus to Glen Arden. He may be there already.”
A ripple spread through the crowd.
With a growl, Tireus snapped a finger at his aides. “Bring him to my tent.” He raised his voice. “All the rest of you, back to your posts.”
The four men guarding
Orias led him forward.
Under the awning of the big tent, Tireus whirled to face him. “What you’re saying is impossible. Mactalde could never have moved that many troops without our outposts knowing. The Wall is highly defensible. A thousand men would die before even one could reach the top.”
Chris’s gut thickened. “If the outposts between here and Glen Arden were held by Nateros spies, they could have been feeding you all’s-well messages for weeks, while Mactalde moved troops. We’d never have known.”
For the first time, a look of alarm fluttered across Tireus’s face. He stepped nearer to Orias. He was a tall man, but even he was dwarfed by the Cherazim’s power.
“Why should we believe you?” he asked. “A Cherazim who abandons his people and their principles to fight with their enemy?”
“If I abandoned them, it was for good reason.”
“What reason justifies treachery?”
Orias hesitated.
From behind the muffling hand of his captor, Pitch nodded encouragement.
Orias’s shoulders came back even more. “Rotoss gave me a choice. If I helped him find the Gifted and use the Orimere to bring Mactalde back, he would spare the Cherazii. I had a chance to save my people. That’s all I could see.”
“Then why are you here now?” Chris asked.
“Because.” In the darkness, Orias’s eyes almost disappeared within the canyons of his face. “I cannot change what has been done. But perhaps I can stop it in its tracks.” He glanced at Tireus. “If you heed what I say.”
Tireus gestured to an aide. “Send a rider to the outpost at Riadon Heights. Find out what’s happening there.”
The adjutants behind Chris shifted, and Allara walked through their midst. She stopped beside him and handed him his coat, but her eyes never left Orias.
He saw her and inclined his head the tiniest bit.
“Why didn’t you kill him this afternoon?” she asked.
His arms strained against his bonds. “Perhaps I need him to make things right just as much as the rest of you.”
Tireus paced a few steps away, then back. “How far has Mactalde gotten?”
“He was still in Ballion four days ago. My Riever—” Orias nodded to Raz, who hung in a Guardsman’s grip, arms crossed over his chest, “—says Mactalde seems to have been orchestrating this for weeks. He’s been moving troops from the Aiden, and a few from here in Ballion. He and Rotoss left to join them the day after I crossed your lines.”
Tireus stared at the ground. “With a relay of fast horses, he could have arrived at the Wall path in two to three days.”
Allara breathed out. “If he’s commandeered the skycar line to Glen Arden, he could reach the city by tomorrow morning. We’d never get there in time.”
“If that’s where he’s gone,” Tireus said. “I cannot send substantial reinforcements on a four day march to defend a city that may not need defending.” He looked back at Orias. “This whole thing may be yet be a trick, a diversion to distract us from Mactalde’s true destination.”
Orias’s eyes never flickered.
If he had wanted to fulfill Mactalde’s bidding, he would have taken Chris’s head back with him yesterday. He could have bested Chris easily had he wanted to. But something had held him back.
“It’s not a trick,” Chris said. He turned to Tireus. “Let me go.”
“What for?” Tireus growled, like a wounded animal at bay. “By the time any of us get there, Mactalde will have been king of the city for days.”
“I think I can get there sooner than that.” He had an idea—an insane idea—but he could hardly just stand by and do nothing. If he could get himself and a small team to Glen Arden ahead of Mactalde’s advance troops, he could at least warn the city. Hadn’t Allara once told him Glen Arden was the most defensible city in the realm?
Tireus shook his head. “No. There’s no point. I refuse to let you needlessly risk your life again.”
Allara stepped up beside Chris. “Let him try. We have nothing to lose.”
For a long moment, Tireus looked back and forth between them.
Finally, he nodded. “Fine. Do what you need to do. If you manage to get there, launch a distress signal. It will be relayed back to me, and I’ll be ready to move as soon as all this is confirmed.” He gestured to the men holding Orias. “Take him away and put him someplace secure until we can get this sorted.”
Chris gave Orias a nod. Then he took Allara’s arm and hustled her back to his tent.
“What do you need?” she asked.
“Wrak.”
She stopped so fast she pulled her arm from his. “What?”
“I need to go to sleep. There’s something I need from my world. Get the surgeon.”
She hesitated, then turned and ran.
Ten minutes later, he lay, naked, on the ground in his tent. The surgeon stood over him and prepared the anesthetic by lighting a fire atop the vial of amber liquid. In his hand, Chris clutched the tingle of the Orimere. It’s white glow strobed through the shadows.
The surgeon slipped the hose nozzle into Chris’s mouth, and he bit down and inhaled his first breath of the steam. Sweetness filled the back of his throat, followed by a chemical tang. A few more breaths, and the inside of the tent began to swirl. He closed his eyes—
—and opened them to the brown stain edging a ceiling sprinkler.
“I don’t know, I don’t know.” Somewhere behind him, Brooke’s voice squeaked. “He’s passed out. I don’t know what’s wrong with him! Maybe he had a heart attack. He’s too heavy for me to move and—”
He rolled over on the floor and found the Orimere in his hand. Since he hadn’t been wearing or touching anything in Lael, nothing else had come over with him.
With a squeal, Brooke dropped her cell phone and ran to help him up. Tears streaked her flushed cheeks. “I was so scared. You just fainted, just like that, for no good reason. Are you all right? Do you hurt anywhere? I’ve called the ambulance. I called Mike. I don’t know what else to do.” She hiccupped.
“It’s okay.” He patted her hand on his arm and got his feet under him. “Where are your car keys?” She wasn’t going to like what he was about to do, but at least there’d be no more talk of psych wards.
She sniffed. “Right here. Why?”
“Let me have them. We need to go.” He guided her toward the door with one arm and took the keys from her with the other.
“But why? I don’t understand. You should rest. The ambulance is coming—”
“It’s all right. I promise I’m fine. Do you have a full tank of gas?” He left his ground floor room and hurried her down the hall, through the lobby into the parking lot.
“Yes, it’s full.” She craned her head to look up at him. Her tears had ceased, but she still sniffled. “What’s going on?”
He spotted the duct-taped taillight on her Land Rover and let go of her. “Just stay right here for a second.”
She stopped. “Why?”
“I’m going to borrow your car.”
“What?”
He broke into a jog. The surgeon was supposed to give him ten minutes before administering the antidote to the wrak. He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d woken up, but he had to be getting close. His limbs grew heavy, and whispers from Lael clogged his ears.
“Chris?”
He forced himself to run the last few steps to the Rover. His legs buckled. He hit the pavement on his hands and knees, and the lurch of pain anchored his consciousness for a moment longer.
“WAKE UP, WAKE UP!”
Back in Lael, someone slapped him.
He transferred the keys to his teeth, gripped the Orimere as hard as he could, and reached his free hand to touch the tread of the Land Rover’s rear tire. His eyes drifted closed, and—
—he woke up with Brooke’s scream still in his ears.
“Here you are, sir.” The surgeon helped him sit up. “How do you feel?”
He rubbed a han
d over his face and tried to dispel the leftover fuzz from the wrak. The antidote buzzed under his skin, like a caffeine high. “All right, I guess. Did it work?”
“Judging from the commotion, I’d say yes.” With a wry smile, the surgeon handed over Chris’s clothes.
Outside the tent, shouts of fear and excitement mingled with a hubbub of running feet. He stomped into his boots, tucked the Orimere away, and ducked through the flaps.
Brooke’s Land Rover sat in the middle of the camp. Soldiers swarmed it, gaping and gesturing, all of them talking. Those who saw him emerge stared at him with new eyes. Whispers spread through the group. Making an exotic two-ton vehicle appear out of nowhere appeared good for the Gifted business.
Allara met him. Her eyes were big, but she kept her voice calm. “What is this?”
He shrugged into first his jerkin, then his pistol bandoleer. “Think of it as a skycar that runs on the ground. A fast skycar. We’ll keep to the wagon thoroughfares as long as we can and go off-road where we can’t. If we cut straight down to Glen Arden from here, we might just be able to get there before Mactalde does.”
Quinnon walked over with Chris’s sword belt in one hand. It was hard to tell in the shadows, but he might actually be a little impressed.
He tossed the sword at Chris. “Thought I told you never to let that out of your sight.”
“And I thought you told me I didn’t need help.” He couldn’t hold back a little grin as he belted on the sword. “You and Allara coming with me? We’ll have to leave the horses.”
“That’s all right. We’ll pick up new mounts when we get there.” Quinnon stalked forward and dispersed the gawking soldiers with a terse order.
“Where’s Orias?” Chris asked.
“Over there. Why?” With a frown, Allara pointed to where a Guardsman was driving a metal ring into a tree, while one of his buddies prepared to attach Orias’s manacles to it. Orias stood motionless, but even he couldn’t seem to look away from the Land Rover.
“I’m thinking we could use his sword when we get to Glen Arden.”
“Not if it’s aimed at you.”
Maybe he was stupid to trust Orias after all he’d done, but if he left him here among these angry, frightened troops, the Cherazim would be lucky to live through the night.
“He just saved us from an ambush,” Chris said.
Allara shook her head. “But he tried—”
“But he didn’t.” He snagged an orderly and sent him to first secure Orias’s release, then fetch Worick.
A moment later, they were all crammed into the Land Rover, Chris and Allara in the front, Orias, Quinnon, and Worick hunched in the back, and the Rievers standing up in the cargo area. Chris set both hands on the steering wheel and steadied himself with a breath. The scent of stale French fries and Brooke’s cinnamon air freshener seemed dizzyingly out of place here.
He glanced at Allara, then turned the key in the ignition. “Here goes nothing.”
