The Awakened World Boxed Set

by William Stacey

  She dreamed of movement, of drifting through the air, but in her dream, she heard the soft clicking of wheels. Then her posture and weight changed, as if she were going down a long ramp.

  When she became aware again, it was to the feel of cold air, as if she had kicked her sheets away in her sleep. But it was more than that. She felt cold metal on her back, especially the backs of her legs, as if she were lying on metal. I'm dreaming, she thought. She reached for the sheets, or she tried to, but her arms didn't move. In fact, she couldn't move at all. All she could manage was to open her eyes slightly.

  Someone was with her, two people, a man and a woman. The man she didn't know. He was ugly, with a thick beard and pockmarked skin. The woman, though, was Kim. She leaned over Angie, prying one of her eyelids open, staring at her pupil.

  This wasn't her room, she realized. Brightly lit by a lantern, the walls were ugly brown tile. A long case with glass doors stood behind Kim, and inside the case were rows of bottles filled with chemicals. The air was ripe with an antiseptic bleach smell, a sickly-sweet stench of decomposition.

  She didn't like this dream. It was worse than the crash.

  "Ixtil, she's waking," a deep male voice said.

  A shiver coursed through her when she realized the man was speaking in Spanglish.

  "No, she's not," Kim replied in Spanglish. But it didn't sound like Kim. "Sometimes they drift in and out. Don't worry. I gave her enough to sedate a man. This one's way more dangerous than she looks."

  She let go of Angie's eye, and the room went dark again, but Angie could still hear them. A part of her knew this was wrong, that she had to wake, to fight, but she just couldn't.

  "This thing itches," Kim said, followed by a wet plop as something hit the tile floor.

  "She's a pretty little thing," the man said. He placed a large hand under her gown, on the tender skin of her upper thigh, and left it there. "Can I?" he asked in a voice thick with desire.

  A whimper slipped past Angie's lips, or maybe she just imagined she whimpered.

  "If it were up to me," Kim-not-Kim said, "I'd let you. But Mother Smoke Heart herself is coming, and you know how she feels about rape."

  The man snatched his hand from Angie's thigh as if burned. "Mother? Why? This one's nothing."

  "You have to ask after that fuck-up last night? Trust me, she's angry. Don't give her a reason to take it out on you."

  Then she heard something else, something she couldn't understand at first, a snicking noise. When she felt the fabric of her hospital gown drawing tight about her, she understood: Someone was cutting away her gown with scissors. The separated parts of her gown were drawn free, leaving her in her bra and panties, but only for a few more seconds before her underwear was cut away and discarded as well. Snip. Snip. Snip. Angie was a living statue, the metal cold against her naked back, buttocks, and legs. She needed to wake up, to move.

  This was all wrong, not a dream, not even a nightmare. It's real!

  "Give me a hand," the woman said.

  They lifted Angie's legs, sliding them into something like a sleeping bag, pulling it up her body. Then they rolled her onto her side, and her eyelids fluttered open once more, if only a fraction, as they worked the bag up her body. She stared in confusion at the dead bodies lying atop one another on the tiled floor, blood pooling about them, glistening wetly: the older Horse Cop with the kind eyes, his throat a gaping ruin, and a woman's naked body, her face cut away completely, exposing the bloody tissue, bone, and huge blue eyes staring at Angie. Her hair was short and curly and as red as the blood that soaked it.

  Beside the corpses, lying discarded, was Kim's distorted face, now nothing more than a flesh mask covered in freckles.

  She had felt magic.

  She heard a zipper draw closed from her toes up. Just before they pulled the bag over Angie's head, the woman leaned in close and whispered into her ear, "You're going to suffer for what you did to my friends, concha." Then she dribbled spit on Angie's face, and it ran down her cheek.

  When the zipper closed and her vision went dark, she realized she was in a body bag.

  But she was already slipping away again.

  Chapter 8

  A part of Angie knew she was dreaming—it was the same dream that haunted her every night.

  But knowing that didn't make it any less real, any less horrible.

  The Shrike's warning alarm shrieked. Someone was screaming. Angie thought it was Elisabeth, one of her intel sergeants. The pilots fought the controls, screaming at one another. Smoke filled the fuselage, choking her. Then the aircraft spun, and she was flung out into open air through the side door. Air rushed past her, and the alarm sirens, so loud a moment ago, faded away. She had time for only the quickest of flashing images: the duo-rotor helicopter trailing thick black smoke in the night as it spun out of control, the villa's red-tiled roof, adobe walls, and cobblestone courtyards and garden below, and another of the mission aircraft banking and shooting with its door gun, the noise deafening.

  She flew like a Frisbee, spinning away from the villa, her arms and legs akimbo as she headed for the stable thirty-seven meters from the northernmost wall of the villa's main building—a measurement she herself had taken from an aerial photo while planning this operation. The irony wasn't lost on her as she smashed through the thin roof. Her shade, the entity she and Char simply called the Other, created a shield just before she hit, absorbing most of the impact, but she still slammed down too hard on something below, the air knocked from her lungs.

  Then the Shrike hit the villa, and the world detonated about her, washing over her with heat and fire.

  She might have passed out, because when she bolted upright, she was awoken by the terror-filled screams of the horses. Equal parts smoke and terror washed over her, energizing her. Against all odds, she had landed on bales of hay, smashing one of them flat. She staggered upright, amazed to still be alive. She was unhurt. Mostly. Blood dripped down her chin. But if not for the Other...

  The stable, more than a hundred meters in length, was on fire, but the flames were at the far end, licking at the wall. The horses, dozens of them, were trapped in their stalls, screaming and kicking at the gates. Several had broken free and dashed away but couldn't get any farther than the closed stable doors at the other end.

  She patted herself down, quickly assessing her condition. Alive, still in her body armor. She wore Nightfall on her hip, but her rifle was gone, the strap broken. Her fingers drifted over her sidearm, a 9 mm pistol in a hip holster.

  The helicopter had crashed. That was the source of the fire, and the villa must be burning as well as the barn. Her blood ran cold. I can't stay here. I'll burn.

  She stumbled toward the closed doors, stepping carefully past the agitated horses that had broken free.

  A single wooden beam secured the double doors, and she lifted it easily, dropping it on the straw-covered stable floor before shoving the doors wide. The escaping horses bolted past, one of them careening off her—or rather, off the shield the Other had just put in place to protect her. She fell to her knees, covering her face as the other escaped horses galloped past.

  How much mana did she still have? Not much; she never could draw more than a trickle of what a combat mage could. She rose and ran outside, her mind racing.

  The gunfire was heavier now, the fighting more intense. A comet lit up the night, trailing fire as it sped from the ground with a whoosh and rocketed toward one of the Shrikes. The aircraft banked, and the missile missed, disappearing into the night. That was an anti-aircraft missile, she realized in shock. That must be what hit us. Where the hell did the Norties get those?

  And why hadn't she, the S2, known about them? Any deaths tonight were on her.

  She gave herself a shake, knowing this wasn't the time to feel sorry for herself, not if she wanted to see the sunrise. The mission had gone to shit before they could insert the Seagraves, but there was always a fallback plan, and Nathan and his combat mages would land
at the alternate LZ. Together with the Seagraves, they'd push forward and assault the villa from the ground, blowing through walls with magic or explosives. If she could make it to them, she could—

  The screams of the horses still trapped in their stalls stopped her. She spun, staring back. The fires consumed the entire far wall now. The rest of the place would go up like tinder soon enough. It was almost certainly too late to help the animals.

  She ran back inside anyway.

  Angie freed the horses closest to the fire first, unbarring the stall doors as she darted from one side to another. None of the animals needed encouragement, and they all bolted for the entrance, each one running like a champion thoroughbred and not the patrol mounts they were. Her mouth dry, the air growing thicker with smoke, she freed the last horse and watched it bolt away, its hooves kicking up sparks as the hay caught fire.

  Get out of here, Angie!

  She sprinted through the open double doors, the night air cool on her sweaty face. She saw a flash of movement to her side and dodged away as something came at her head. Off balance, she tripped and fell to the side. She looked up just in time to see a young man, no more than sixteen or seventeen, his hair long and disheveled, his eyes wild, ram a three-tined pitchfork at her face from feet away. The pitchfork stopped just before her eyes, smashing into the shield the Other had created. The air crackled with magical energy, and sparks fell like rain. Confusion filled the young man's eyes, replaced a moment later by a rage-filled madness. He struck again and again, hammering at her with the pitchfork, each time hitting a shield the Other created.

  But each time, the shield was smaller, thinner, less effective.

  As she scrambled back, rising to a knee and grasping at her sidearm, she realized she needed to do something to scare him away before she ran out of mana and he killed her. She drew the pistol, pointed it at him. "Get back! Get back, or I'll—"

  This time his pitchfork broke through her shield. Two of the tines snapped off, but the third drove deep into her torso, sliding between her ribs. She gasped, the pain like fire within her, and she dropped her pistol.

  He drew back the pitchfork, yanking it from her, and raised it to strike again. He might have been young, but he was powerfully built and tall, with at least fifty pounds on her. She flipped onto her hip and side-kicked him on the inside of his knee. It wasn't a solid kick, but it was enough to send him staggering back. She rose to her feet and started pulling Nightfall from its sheath, but he recovered too quickly and slammed into her, knocking her to the ground before she could finish drawing the side-sword. This time there was nothing to protect her from the impact, and his weight stole her breath.

  Then he was astride her, straddling her, his hands around her throat, choking her. She was hurt, badly maybe, but there was little chance she’d bleed to death before he strangled her. She needed to do something—now! All those hours of hand-to-hand training and sword drill in Char's school vanished like smoke, and she panicked, futilely trying to buck him off, but he was way too large for that. Her vision began to dim. She scratched at his face, but he just kept digging his thumbs into her throat.

  She'd have died right there, should have died right there. Instead, he toppled over, letting go as he fell onto his side. Power like she had never thought possible coursed through her as she coughed and gasped for air. She managed to roll over and rise to a seated position, rubbing her throat and staring at the stable hand. His eyes were open in death, his face pale. What did I do?

  And then a voice spoke within her like thunder in her skull, neither male nor female nor remotely human: SOURCE MAGE. RISE AND FIGHT, OR WE DIE!

  It was the Other, her shade.

  She knew it for a certainty, although she couldn't say how or why it had chosen this moment to speak to her, something no shade had ever done. And what the hell was a source mage? She staggered upright, recovered her pistol.

  "Who are you?" she asked the night.

  For answer, a jet of ice-cold water tore Angie from her dream, waking her.

  To an even worse nightmare.

  She hung from her wrists, naked, secured to a beam above her head, her toes just able to reach the slimy, slippery floor. A thin, pockmarked man with a receding hairline and long, scraggly hair and filthy coveralls stood before her, laughing as he held a hose, spraying her in the face with water.

  She tried to turn her head away, to snatch at some air, her mind desperately trying to understand what was happening. Her feet slipped on the floor, and her arms felt as though they'd wrench out of her sockets as her bound wrists caught her weight. Then the pain from her broken rib hit her, and she screamed in agony.

  The man was laughing now, thoroughly enjoying himself, as he directed the flow of water over her face again. She tried to turn away, to put her back to him, but the way her wrists were tied far apart restricted her movement.

  "Enough," a woman's voice said. "Don't drown her."

  He turned the hose off, and Angie could breathe again, although the pain remained, throbbing through her.

  Now Angie saw the others, a fat bearded man and a woman. They were in a large industrial room of some type. Gray light, the dawn's glow, spread through the narrow slit windows along one side, bathing the chambers and large machinery in shadows. Several of the windows were raised inward at a slant, and Angie heard what sounded like a chorus of animal grunts coming from outside.

  Her terror mounted worse than her pain. The tiled floor was slick with blood, and blood splattered the nearby walls. A grate ran the length of the room with water and blood dribbling down into it. The wall across from where Angie hung was lined with the hanging carcasses of dozens of pigs in a row, all missing their heads, all gutted and dripping blood. A stainless-steel machine the size of a wagon stood behind the two men and a woman, between them and the pig carcasses. Steam rose from its pipes, and faded letters painted on the side read DEBONING TANK #3. A large diesel engine was built into the machine. It looked both sinister and ancient, pre-Awakening. The stench washed over her, a physical force: oil, raw meat, blood, feces, urine, and chemicals.

  God help me, she realized in horror. I'm in a slaughterhouse.

  "All awake now, concha?" the woman asked.

  She recognized the voice—the mage who had attacked her and almost cut off her ear. The woman was sitting atop a garbage can with the lid on. She was a young woman with long, scraggly brown hair and black face paint over her eyes that made her look like a raccoon. She still wore the nurse's uniform she had taken from Kim, and there was dried blood matted in her hair as well as around her face and neck. She was barefoot, her feet dangling over the garbage can. In one hand, she held a knife, the blade made of shiny black stone, like a caveman's tool, but in the other hand, she held Angie’s watch—her father’s watch. The woman's face almost glowed with excitement as she placed the watch on the garbage can lid beside her, turning her attention to Angie.

  Angie screamed for help. All three laughed. Then the woman screamed as well, crying out for rescue. The men laughed even harder.

  "Give it up," the woman said. "No one can hear you. No workers today, and the night watchman isn't feeling so good." She glanced over her shoulder, which was when Angie noticed the legs of a man lying on the filthy floor behind the garbage can, blood pooling about him.

  "Please," Angie said. "I don't know where Erin is."

  "Save it, concha." The woman jumped down from her perch, her bare feet splashing in the filth as she approached Angie, the knife in her hand. Anger surged through her, but Angie remained very still, her heart pounding like a gong, her muscles trembling. The woman grabbed Angie's hair tightly and yanked her head back, exposing her neck. She trailed the tip of the blade along Angie's throat, just barely touching the skin, teasing the jugular. Then she leaned in and whispered into Angie's ear. "Compared to what's gonna happen to you today, concha, you'll wish you had let me cut your ears and nose off last night. My name is Ixtil. How does that make you feel, knowing this place will be
the last place you ever see, mine the last face you see?"

  "You crazy bitch, you murdered that nurse, that cop. I'll kill you!"

  Ixtil laughed. "Mother Smoke Heart says that the best way to control wild animals is to blind them. You know what? You don't need your eyes for this." Ixtil leaned in and licked Angie's neck. The skin of her face and neck was scarlet, as if she were aroused. "Now, hold very, very still. I always mess this part up." She pried one of Angie's eyes open with her free thumb and forefinger. Angie, unable to help herself, whimpered in terror as the woman brought the tip of the obsidian knife toward her exposed eyeball.

  The far door clanged open, and Ixtil hurriedly let go of Angie as she drew back. Another woman entered the chamber, although “dominated” would be more accurate; she strolled across the filthy chamber as though she walked through a palace garden, completely oblivious to the horrors about her. Ixtil and the two men stood upright, almost at positions of attention. The woman brushed past them without a glance, coming to a stop before Angie.

  She was of average height and weight, perhaps in her late fifties but still a very handsome woman with her dark hair pulled back and coiled about her head. She wore green stones, as large as Angie's thumb and no doubt priceless, for earrings. Everything about her screamed class and wealth and status. She wore clothing that Angie couldn't identify, but the flowing silk robes, multicolored and beautiful, seemed to be of Middle Eastern origin. A series of bright silk scarves worked in intricate designs, no doubt hand stitched, hung about her neck. Elaborate leggings covered her legs beneath her robes. She even wore cloth slippers, now stained with the blood and filth of the slaughterhouse.

  She considered Angie, a thoughtful look in her large copper eyes, which were fringed with sweeping lashes. Few women other than prostitutes still wore makeup, but this one did—and she was clearly no prostitute. Her flawless skin was a light brown, her nose aquiline and strong, the eyes proud. On her hip, tied to one of the many gold belts and sashes she wore wrapped around her, was a jeweled sword, a thin curved scimitar. So, she was a mage as well.