Spellbound (38 page)

Would she keep on getting stronger like before?
And if so, what would happen if she didn’t use it all up in one great big burst like last time? Would it ever stop, or would the Power just keep on giving her more magic? How strong could she get? And if she got strong enough, could she maybe learn how to use other Powers? Could she become as powerful as the Chairman had been?

All those questions without answers made her head hurt.

The night was really cold, but she’d borrowed some of Jane’s clothes and dressed extra warm, or so she’d thought. The predawn frost made life miserable, and she found herself wishing that he would hurry up and do something nefarious so she could kill him and then go warm herself by the wood stove. The only hay left in the loft was old, and since the roof leaked, it was moldy and smelly, so she couldn’t even lay in that for extra warmth. Her grey eyes had always been extra good at seeing in the dark, so after she got done counting rats she counted the holes in the roof.

A few times she let her eyelids droop shut. Just for a second, she’d tell herself, only to realize what she was doing, panic, and then flinch back awake, expecting to see the Iron Guard leering over her, ready to slash her throat. However, each time she found the Iron Guard still sleeping peacefully below. Finally, after several hours of doing the blink-too-long-and-panic routine, she decided to check her head map to see if maybe playing with it for a time would help keep her awake.

And there was Mr. Sullivan, hidden fifty yards away, wide awake and smoking a cigarette, back against a tree, machine gun resting across his knees, watching the barn intently. He had probably been there all night, unmoving. He had just been trying to be nice when he’d told her to get some sleep. She should have known that of all people he wouldn’t have trusted the Iron Guard either. Faye probably could have Traveled back to the house and gone to bed at that point, but it had now become a matter of pride to see her watch through to the end.

The next thing she knew she had woken up and it was daylight and somewhere nearby a rooster was crowing. Panicking, she scurried over to the edge of the hayloft, sure to discover that while she’d slept the Iron Guard had murdered everyone.

Instead of being on a rampage, he was just sitting there on the floor, legs crossed, hands on his knees, back perfectly straight. He didn’t even bother to open his eyes. “Did you sleep well up there, Traveler?”

He knew?
“I’m watching you, Iron Guard.”

“Do not call me that.” He opened his eyes. “I no longer have the honor of bearing that title.”

“What are you then?”

“I do not know. That is why I’m meditating.” And with that he closed his eyes again and ignored her.

Faye waited for him to do something else. She got bored. “Hey . . . Hey, jerk-face, I’m talking to you.” When he didn’t answer, she found a small scrap of wood and chucked it at him.

He caught it in one hand without opening his eyes. “Do not call me ‘jerk-face.’”

“Why not? It fits . . .” He was a Brute. Faye decided that if she was going to pick a fight with him, she really should have struck when he was asleep. “What should I call you then?”

“My name is Toru.”

“A likely story.”

“Then I do not care what you call me.” The Iron Guard got up, dusted off his pants, and folded the blanket. “You are beneath my notice. You are an insignificant bug.”

“I’ll just stick with jerk-face then.”

“Very well, bug.” Toru put his things back in his pack. Faye noticed that he was very careful to stow the broken sword pieces. He should be. Even with his Healing kanji, he still had a bandage wrapped around one hand from grabbing the sharp part last night.

“What’re you keeping that busted thing for?”

“You would not understand.”

“I know more about your kind than you think,” Faye snapped.

Toru removed some wrapped food and closed the pack. “A blade can be reforged. A soul can be cleansed.” He walked out of the barn, chewing on what looked like a ball of white rice.

Cleansed?
Faye could agree with that sentiment in principle. People could make all sorts of things right, but she had a real hard time thinking of murderous Iron Guards as people.

She found Mr. Garrett in the kitchen, cooking bacon. Faye Traveled in right next to him. “Smells good.”

Her sudden arrival startled him and he splashed bacon grease on his hand. “Don’t do that!” He stuck his burned finger in his mouth.

“Well, somebody’s jumpy.”

“Can you blame me? You about give me a heart attack when you do that.”

“Grumpy too.”

“Sleeping with one eye open will do that to you,” he answered as he forked a few cooked pieces onto a waiting plate. “I didn’t know who was going to murder us in our sleep last night first—the Imperium or the OCI. Jake’s lost his mind, joining up with these people.”

“I haven’t met the other one yet.”

“Hammer. Don’t trust her, Faye. She’s a manipulator.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

“You bet, and that’s why I can tell. Just because you can’t lie to her doesn’t mean she can’t lie to us.”

Faye snagged a piece of bacon and popped it into her mouth. “Don’t worry, Mr. Garrett. I’m still the most dangerous person here.”

“That you are. Well, I’ll just have to trust you’ll keep us safe.” He chuckled, so Faye did too. She had always liked Mr. Garrett. He passed her the plate of bacon. “Here’s my protection payment.” Faye was starving. She wasn’t about to turn that down, and immediately started wolfing down the food without even bothering to sit.

Mr. Sullivan joined them a moment later. He still had his BAR slung over one shoulder. It said a lot about the company that she kept, that his wearing a machine gun at breakfast didn’t even strike her as odd.

“Sleep well?” he asked with a wink.

So much for being sneaky. It was like everybody knew she’d slept in the barn. “Oh, my bed was just
lovely
.”

Mr. Garrett had boiled up a pot of coffee, and Mr. Sullivan poured himself a cup. He took it black. “I just got some bad news.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Faye asked.

“’Cause I don’t want you to fly off the handle and do something stupid when I tell you Francis is missing.”

Faye went numb. The plate shattered on the floor. “We’ve got to do something!”

“We will.” Mr. Sullivan was mulling over his coffee. “The others will be back soon. Sit tight. I got a plan.”

John Browning

Chapter 15

There will be some innocent victims in this fight against magical Fascists. We are launching a major attack on the enemy; let there be no resentment if we bump someone with an elbow. Better that ten innocent people should suffer than one enemy of the worker get away. When you chop wood, chips fly.

—Nikolai Yezhov,

Deputy People’s Commissar for Special Affairs,

comments related to the resettlement of Actives during

the “Soviet Planned Population Transfer,”
1930

OCI Headquarters

IT WAS LIKE WAKING UP
from a two-day bender, only judging from the dungeonlike surroundings illuminated by the single flickering light bulb hanging from the ceiling, this certainly wasn’t his old fraternity. Rust-colored water was dripping down the brick walls and the floor was poured concrete covered in half an inch of dust. There was a single door, no windows, and he was alone. The last thing he could remember was being clobbered by Crow. He reached up to put one hand to his throbbing head, but a chain snapped tight against his wrist. “Ugh. Where am I?”

There was a noise, some movement, and a cough. “Francis?” The voice had come from the wall behind his back. “Is that you?”

“Yeah.” Francis had to be hallucinating from the head injury. Was there such a thing as auditory hallucinations? He didn’t rightly know. Getting hit so hard that you begin hearing dead people couldn’t be good. “Heinrich?”

“
Mein Gott
, it is you!” There was a scraping noise and the clank of chains. “They got you too.”

“You’re alive?”

The laugh was bitter. “For now, though I don’t know why.”

He was very excited to discover that one of his best friends had cheated death, but the circumstances of their reunion left something to be desired. Francis managed to turn his head far enough to see that there were small holes cut in the wall. His chains led through them, so he couldn’t fiddle with whatever they were tethered to. “You’ve got no idea how glad I am to find you. Where are we?”

Heinrich’s voice was coming through the holes. “I believe we are under OCI headquarters.”

“Hang on.” Francis concentrated on the light bulb to see if he could make it swing.
Nothing.
They had to be under the influence of one of Buckminster Fuller’s nullifiers. “Damn.”

“Using your magic? It doesn’t work here. A man named Crow said they have a device—”

“We’ve met. He’s the reason I’ve got a splitting headache.”

“A pleasant-enough sort, for a statist secret policeman. I believe he will kill us as soon as we are no longer of use.”

“He’s a demon,” Francis said.

“Indeed. His kind always are.”

“No. Literally. He’s a Summoned.”

Heinrich laughed. “You must have gotten hit very hard.”

“I heard from one of the new knights that’s with—”

The chains clanked. “Quiet! Speak of no one else. Do you think they put us where we can talk to each other by accident?”

Francis shut his mouth and studied the walls suspiciously. Heinrich was right. They were probably listening. “Sure . . . Never mind.”

“I was wondering why they finally gave me food and water . . . They wanted me strong enough to have a conversation.” Heinrich sounded very tired. “I’m sorry, Francis. It is too late for many. They made me talk. Drugs and magic. I don’t even remember, but they stole names right out of my mind. I don’t even know who for sure, but I’ve put them in danger. This Crow, demon or man, whatever he is, he’s clever.”

“Trust me. The bastard grows horns and can fly. How long have I been here anyway?”

“An hour, maybe, since I heard them drag you in and chain you up. Not too long.”

There was a ring of metal on metal as his door was unlocked. “Shhhh.”

The door swung open to reveal Crow. “Afternoon, Francis.”

“Go to hell, demon.”

“That’s not fair,” Crow said as he came into the room. The door was closed behind him and relocked by unseen staff. This bunch sure didn’t take any chances. He walked over and stood under the lightbulb, the brim of his hat shadowing his face. “I’m a person too. Born in Cleveland. Dad was a foundry worker. Mom died when I was little. Real sob story, you can fill in the blanks. I’m as much a human being as you are. Well, part of me at least. See . . .” Crow squatted down so they could see eye to red eye. He leaned in so close that Francis could smell the tobacco on his breath. “I’m just not as limited as you. I got more than one body that I can use. When one gets broken, I just get a new one . . .” Crow placed one finger softly on Francis’ cheek.

“Go fu—” And then Francis ground his teeth together as Crow slowly sliced his face open.

“You, on the other hand . . .” The demon rocked back on his haunches, examining his open hand. His fingers ended in black needle points. Crow licked the blood from one and smiled. “. . . are so
fragile
.”

Francis’ face burned. He could feel the heat of the blood dripping down his chin. “What do you want, asshole?”

“I knew you had some fire in you. Knew it from the beginning. What do I want? What was it again?” Crow cocked his head to the side until it was at an unnatural angle. “I want to drink your blood and eat your soul,” he hissed with a voice that was unlike any Francis had ever heard before. It made him think of rusty nails and dried snakeskin.

This was no act. Crow was losing his mind. Francis cringed away.

Crow stood up. His hand returned to normal as he looked toward a sound that Francis couldn’t hear yet. The metal bar clanked and the door opened again. A man stood there, tall and wide, with the broad shoulders of someone who’d been strong in his youth, but the muscle had long since turned to fat. Wearing a pinstriped suit and carrying an ornate cane, he appeared to be in his sixties, with a long white mustache and unfashionably large, old-fashioned sideburns. He came into the room and gave Crow a stern glance. “What are you doing here?”

Surprisingly, Crow dropped his head. “Questioning the prisoner, sir.”

“Get out,” the stranger ordered. He stepped out of the way and pointed his cane at the door. Crow strode from the room without another word. When he was gone, the stranger returned his attention to Francis. “My apologies, Mr. Stuyvesant. You see, Mr. Crow has been under a great deal of stress lately. I’m afraid it has been getting to him.”

“He’s insane.”

The man shook his head. “Only sometimes, and that is entirely dependent on the nature of the body that his mind is currently inhabiting. I’m afraid some can be worse than others.”