Reckoning sa-5

by Lili St. Crow

  The Maharaj were seriously bad news. From what it looked like, they could throw hexes even Gran would’ve had a hard time with. Poison and sorcery, and they were backing up Sergej and his vampires. I might have a chance of hiding from the suckers or from the djinni-children, but both? That was a whole different ball of nasty wax.

  Especially since I had no safe place left to run to. California, yeah . . . but Remy and his team were human hunters. They cleaned out sucker nests, sure, working the edges. Could they go up against Sergej? The name sent a glass spike of pain through my temples.

  No way.

  Was it even faintly responsible to bring trouble to their door? Was it what Dad would’ve done?

  California was never anything but a pipe dream. You knew it. You knew some damn thing would happen, and you’d bring danger to someone’s door. Dad would kick your ass for leading Sergej right to your fellow hunters. My heart hurt, a piercing, stabbing pain. I’d been dragging Ash and Graves along because I’d been hoping Remy would be able to tell me what to do with both of them.

  Way to go, Dru.

  I shook my head, dropped the Jeep into gear, and headed back for the freeway.

  It occurred to me then, something I should have thought of already. Atlanta. The rocket launcher and the helicopter. Maybe the Maharaj were just that good, maybe the Order had slipped up—I mean, a helicopter on a roof isn’t exactly subtle, you know?

  But there was also the possibility that someone had sold us out. Again.

  The Jeep’s interior filled with the soft sound of wingbeats under the radio playing Creedence Clearwater Revival. There was a bad moon rising, and she was me.

  Gran’s owl didn’t show. It was just softly audible, the wingbeats keeping time with my frantic pulse.

  I hit the freeway and just headed north. I had to decide what to do, and I had to keep moving while I did it.

  Except in the end, it didn’t matter.

  * * *

  The outskirts of Dallas are not a good place to get caught by the cops. I was going the speed limit, but the red and blue lit up like Christmas in my rearview and I had to make a decision: gun it or pull over?

  For a few seconds I thought he was just going to go past me, on a call somewhere else. But no dice. I pulled over, edging as far onto the shoulder as I could, and he followed. Small rocks scattered on the shoulder crunched under our tires, and he was going to run the plate number soon and find out this car was hot as hell.

  Great. I added everything up—the malaika still strapped to my back, the gun I wore, the gear in the back, the cash, the two sets of fake ID—and subtracted the cost of having to lose the cops, ditch this car, and steal another one.

  It wasn’t even a contest. I waited for the cruiser’s driver’s door to open. Light traffic, dusk had already eaten the sunlight, and it was muggy and hot as hell. I was gonna miss this Jeep.

  The touch resonated inside my head like a plucked string. As soon as the door opened, I turned the wheel and stomped the gas. I could almost hear Johnny Law cussing as he piled into his car again.

  The Jeep swerved out three lanes; I corrected and drifted back. The touch sparked, I jammed the pedal to the floor and the aspect woke, my fangs tingling as they lengthened, scraping against my lower lip. A bolt of pain went up my left arm, I was squeezing the wheel hard with both hands. Red and blue lit up my rearview and the siren whooped on.

  Dad would’ve just killed me. Sure, he’d taught me how to get wheels if I needed them—but it’s always a fool’s game, because getting in a chase is one of the stupidest things you can do. The cops have radios. And computers. And a whole hell of a lot of know-how when it comes to outsmarting dumb criminal drivers.

  But I wasn’t a criminal. And I couldn’t risk losing all my gear and being in a cell when the vampires or the funky sorcerers showed up. I just couldn’t. So it was this, or nothing.

  My head rang and Gran’s owl exploded into being right above the Jeep’s hood. Feathers puffed, torn away in the slipstream. I actually jumped and let out a shriek, and the Jeep swerved crazily. Years of Dad teaching “self-defensive drivin’” kicked in. The worst thing you can do in a situation like that is overcorrect and turn your car into a flying pancake.

  The owl jetted forward, and the Jeep leapt to catch up. The engine thrummed, the tires actually lifted off the pavement when we breasted a short rise, and if I had to do something I was going to have to do it quick before Johnny Law got on the radio and reinforcements showed up to box me in.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Ditching the Jeep was a little easier than I’d expected. It was a good car, but two of her tires were busted and she was making a wheezing noise by the time I killed the lights and scrambled for the backseat. I kicked the rear passenger door open, bailed out with the duffel, and was on the roof of a nearby abandoned warehouse by the time the chopper found the car again, its bright white beam stabbing down like a shot from an alien abduction film. They’d get my prints, probably, but I couldn’t do anything to help that. The empty ammo boxes in the back next to the can of gas would perplex them a bit, too.

  And there went the Tiger Tails, too. Dammit.

  I shrank into the shadow of a big silver HVAC unit. It wasn’t humanly possible to get up here, so the cops should ignore it. I’d gone straight up the side of the building like I was a fish being reeled in, the aspect smoothing down over my body like hot oil and my wrists aching as my claws sank into the lip of the roof, my arm tensing to pull me and the duffel over. My left palm was a searscorch of pain, but that didn’t slow me down.

  Landing with jarring force, sneakers skidding, and I’d actually crashed into the vent and stayed there. I almost didn’t think to twitch the duffel back out of sight against my feet, everything in me rabbit-jumping as if I still had to run.

  Don’t be stupid now. Be smart. Be still.

  My pulse dropped now that I was reasonably safe. It was hot, an oppressive wet blanket full of smog-taste and the reek of cooling pavement. More sirens bayed in the distance as more cop cars arrived, bouncing over the train tracks and sending up spumes of oily dust. I kept my eye on the chopper, though, lighting up the fenced railyard next to the warehouse. It was a good guess—through the busted-out parts of the chain-link fencing and among the confusion of the yard and the scrubby kudzu and trash wood was pretty much the only way to run with a hope of losing them.

  For a human, that is.

  I wasn’t even breathing hard. I watched as the cops swept the area, more of them arriving all the time and searching through the rail yard. The warehouse was locked up below; I know because they circled the whole building looking for a way in. Just in case.

  Well, gee, that was easy.

  I was just congratulating myself when my temples gave a flare of pain and a ghost of citrus wandered across my tongue. It wasn’t danger candy, but it was enough to make me stiffen.

  In the distance, a high glassy cry rose like a spiked silver ribbon.

  Suckers.

  Shit.

  Were they after me, or just hanging around? That was a hunting cry, but it was a long ways away. The suckers could be chasing someone else. Who knew I was here? Who could’ve tracked me when I still wasn’t sure where I was going?

  You don’t know, and you can’t take a chance. Get the hell out of here.

  Still . . . I was hidden, and the cops were still spreading out and searching. It could be unrelated.

  Yeah. And monkeys could fly out your butt, Dru. Come on.

  But I waited. I watched them swarm over the Jeep and look for me.

  If I could go up a wall like this, evade the cops this easily . . . wow. It was a weird feeling. Creepy. Scary.

  Powerful.

  Was this what Graves was talking about when he said he didn’t want to go back to being normal?

  Then I thought about finding a place to sleep tonight, getting a fresh set of wheels, and figuring out where the hell to go next and what to do while suckers were trying to kill me
. I thought of the burned-down hulk of the Houston Schola and wondered if anyone, djamphir or wulfen, had died in the flames. I thought of a broken body lying in a hotel hall with red and blue hexing crawling all over it. I thought of Piggy Eyes Lyle slumped against the newspaper box like a mangled toy and how easy it had been to tear up a cop car, how easy it would’ve been to pull the trigger on that poor county sheriff. I thought of Dad, and Mom, and Gran’s house burning down, and Graves’s eyes turning black as Sergej reached through him. Of Ash screaming while he tried to change back into his human form.

  I don’t want this. I never wanted this.

  I didn’t even know how to fight back without hurting someone who didn’t deserve it. Or who might’ve deserved it, like Lyle or the hex-kid, but who might not’ve deserved how much of it I dished out.

  Another high piercing cry, this one much closer and shading up into what had to be ultrasonic. It drilled through my head, but I was pretty sure the cops clustering around wouldn’t hear it.

  Get the hell out of here, Dru. The need to be moving rose under my skin. I couldn’t tell if it was more rabbit-jumping, or if it was the touch warning me. If I started doubting the touch I was dead in the water, but I was also dead if I tired myself out running when I should’ve been staying put and resting so I could run when it was absolutely necessary.

  “All right,” I muttered, and took a look around. They were starting to lose hope over in the train yard, and apparently nobody seriously thought I would’ve gone this way. The warehouse slumped under an oppressively heavy sky, hard diamond points of stars trying to pierce the orange glow that was citylight trying to replicate sunset and failing miserably. Other warehouses crowded close, some empty and others just locked up. The spaces between them weren’t overly wide. Not for a djamphir, I guess. Which meant not for a svetocha.

  I eyed the closest building, the one that would set me up for leapfrogging to another one, and another. My eyes picked out the likely route with no help from me, and the aspect’s warmth was a balm even under the oppressive heat. My left hand stopped smarting and settled into a heavy ache.

  First things first. Wonder if I can jump to that rooftop over there?

  Well, no time like the present to find out.

  * * *

  A half-mile away I dropped the duffel and peered down into the street. It’s amazing what a difference so short a distance can make. A neon sign down the street—a pair of legs in fishnet stockings—blinked blearily on a post lifting it up like a sacrificial victim. Underneath it, a red-roofed windowless bulk crouched. The place was called the Lustee Ladee, and I immediately crossed it off my list of Places I Might Conceivably Want To Hide.

  On the other hand, there were cars clustered around it like shiny little piglets hooking up to a sow. It was a veritable smorgasbord. A good chunk of people who worked around here were probably parked there, having what I supposed might pass for a good time to a certain type of grown-up dude. I realized my face was squinched up as if I tasted something bad at the thought.

  I crouched on the nearest warehouse roof, a muggy breeze touching my messed-up braid but not cooling my forehead one bit, taking my time. You can’t just pick any car. It has to be right—something with some legs and pickup, but that won’t get you pulled over. You also have to consider that a parking lot isn’t the best place. Too much chance of someone strolling out or a bouncer getting nosy, a security camera or something messing everything up.

  I was still eyeing my choices when the touch twitched inside my skull, and my head jerked up. My left hand jerked, palm filling with molten pain. There was a low weird sound like silk tearing, and my heart dropped into my stomach with a splash, somersaulted, then leapt up into my throat and did its best to strangle me.

  The red and blue sparks came out of nowhere, birthing themselves from the static-laden wind. Swirling, they coalesced, and the shape gathered strength. Long and low, a lean muzzle and four slim legs, a gleam of eyes as smoke appeared too, filling in the spaces between the sparks. The knots resolved too, complex threads catching and holding fast.

  It would have probably been awesome if I could just stay still and watch how it was being built. You always want to pick up new stuff where you can.

  For a few precious seconds I froze, staring at the thing. I’ve seen extra-weird in plenty of flavors all over the US, but this was . . . Jesus. To do something like this at a distance—was it even at a distance? I didn’t smell any Maharaj around.

  Would I know it if they were sneaking up on me, though? The aura—the wax-citrus taste that used to tell me when something was off—had deserted me. Probably because I’d bloomed. I’d have to find other ways of staying alert.

  The blisters on my left hand ran with hot prickling painful tingles. The sense of force building was familiar, my eyes hot and dry and my solar plexus tightening. Get up a head of steam and hit that thang before it gets solid, Dru-girl.

  My right hand flashed up, touched a malaika hilt. Hawthorn wood, good against lots of things in Gran’s universe. My left jabbed forward, and the touch flared. If you can grab the point at which something unphysical is coming through to build itself in the tangled, snarled fabric of the real, you can disrupt it. I’d done it before, most recently with a big red tentacled thing in the girls’ locker room at the Schola Prima.

  Now that had been a doozy.

  The hex-dog snarled, crouching as it solidified. Well, maybe solid wasn’t the word, because it was built of smoke and knots of hexwork. But its teeth were chips of obsidian, glittering as its insubstantial lip lifted, and the snarl rippled through it. The knots were tying themselves together with quick jerks, and I didn’t have much time.

  My left-hand fingers cramped together, weirdly twisted like I had the rheumatiz. The touch grabbed, slipped, grabbed hold again, and I flung myself backward as the hex dog finished its crouch and sprang. Another ripping sound, this one like wet meat shredded in iron claws, and the thing let out an agonized howl that scraped along every nerve ending I had. My back hit the rooftop, my head bouncing, and the dog exploded in a rain of smoke and icy flashing pellets of something that stung as it showered down.

  I couldn’t even feel good about that. Because another sucker hunting-cry lifted, spearing the muggy night, and it was so close I scrambled up, shaking the little bits of almost-ice away. The raw blistering pain in my hand eased a little.

  A burst of cloves and incense belled out from the hex-dog’s vibrating, fading “fingerprint” on the snarled tangle of the fleshly world, the smoke shredding. I grabbed the duffel, slinging the longest strap diagonally across my body.

  I was not losing my gear again, dammit.

  I took off across the roof, sneakers whispering. The smoke wanted to cling to me, but when Gran’s owl hooted softly and arrowed over my shoulder, its wings snapping down and almost brushing my hair, it shredded the vapor away. My body moved smoothly, the world slowing down, encased in the hard clear plastic of supernatural speed as I gathered myself and leapt, flying over the street below and landing soft as a whisper on the top of a gas station’s roof. A short hop, getting some height as my feet touched the hood of a vent, and I was airborne again.

  It was like flying. It used to be I’d have to strain every muscle to keep up with Gran’s owl. Now it was the world turning under my feet doing all the work, my sneaker soles touching down to propel me in different directions. Like running with the wulfen through Central Park’s leafdapple shade, feeling like a complex part of a speeding machine. That was the difference, I guess, between running now and running with them: with the wulfen, for a few minutes as we ran, I felt like I belonged.

  Now I just wanted to get away.

  The owl, glowing white, veered sharply to the left and dove. I followed, hitting the pavement a little harder than I liked and taking off. Behind me, like infection pushing up against the surface of a wound, I felt them.

  Suckers. My breath came fast and light, sudden knowledge blooming inside me. I didn’t have th
e taste of danger candy to warn me, I just had intuition now.

  Great.

  Gran’s owl let out a soft who, who? Wings snapping, it braked, hard. I skidded to a stop, and the bird turned in a tight circle over me. Part of me was on the ground, ribs flaring and squeezing down as I breathed, and before I knew it I’d reached up and the warm satin hilts of the malaika were in my hands. The duffel was going to weigh me down, but I didn’t have time to drop it.

  Because the black-paper cutouts of suckers boiled out of the darkness.

  There were so many of them. Two females closing in fast, their irises turning black as the hunting-aura closed over them in a blot of cold fire, both wearing dark jumpsuits, one blonde and one dark-haired but both with ponytails that bounced smartly as they pulled up short. The rest were males.

  None of them looked a day over sixteen, but the hate on their young-old faces twisted them up like dripping, nasty tubers. I dropped into first-guard, the aspect rising over me like a cobra’s hood.

  I was fully-bloomed and deadly to them. But they had numbers. Which meant I had to think fast. But my thinker was busted. There was just nothing left to do, nowhere to go, and nothing to depend on to save me.

  If I’m going down, I’m going down fighting. I swallowed, hard, and then did either the stupidest or smartest thing I could.

  I gathered myself, took a deep breath, and screamed as I launched myself at the ones in front of me. If I could break through their ring I could lead them on a chase, and when it came down to that I’d rather be running full speed when the nasty hits me.

  I almost made it, too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  For a long time there was a whining sound, a bumping and buffeting. I drifted in and out of consciousness inside something cold and metallic. I couldn’t move—my wrists were held down, and my ankles.