Moans echoed about the great hall as mouths stretched to grab at air, and cheeks became florid from straining, and sweat coursed down faces and dripped upon chest coverings—
The head of the guard on the farthest right exploded first, a pumpkin kicked, fragments of skull and fluffy white pieces of brain flying off in a spray of bright red blood.
As the headless body flopped to the floor, landing upon the weapons once held by vital, fighting hands, the others screamed and flailed, but they were trees a-rooted, going nowhere. One by one, they followed the fate of the first, the bloody chaos overwhelming and inexplicable, for there were no hands upon them, no bludgeoning tools o’er their shoulders or afore their faces, no contact brought to bear upon them.
And yet it was real, for their airborne blood speckled Sahvage’s black robing, and the scent of their raw, meaty flesh was within his nose.
Turning around to Rahvyn, he took a step back from the female he’d thought he knew as he knew his own reflection.
“Who art thou,” he said roughly.
• • •
With a jerk, Sahvage came back to the present—and discovered that he had walked up close to the couch and was staring at the burst of blood and brains on the wall behind where Dave was sprawled in his perma-repose. Even now, even after all these years, and all the person-to-person fighting Sahvage had done . . . he had never gotten over what he had seen that night when Rahvyn had come ’round from a stupor and literally blown the heads off a stand of guards.
“Sleep well, asshole,” Sahvage muttered as he hitched the duffle bag full of guns up on his shoulder and hit the exit.
Out by the remaining truck, he was tempted to take it as well, but not for long. He’d never needed a car, and like he could fence the damn thing without someone tracking him back to this now-murder scene? Whatever. Best to keep things clean, even though he wasn’t going to be in Caldwell for much longer.
Although now? Given his persistent premonition of dying, he had a feeling he was leaving feetfirst. Death was going to be a relief, and if he could steer Mae away from making a mistake with that old female’s inevitable fate? Well, then he’d have done one thing right in this world.
Just before he dematerialized back to the cottage, he looked to the sky and thought of Rahvyn. It had been a while since he’d done that. A couple of decades.
And he felt no better now than he had before. She was his ultimate failure.
Shaking his head, he ghosted out. With any luck, he wouldn’t have to think of her ever again soon. He’d be in that black void that came after your last heartbeat, no more worries, no more cares, no more anything.
Although he had learned the hard way that magic existed in the world, he no longer believed in the Fade. Death was a full stop.
Nothing but lights-out.
Thank fuck.
No, no, no, no . . .
As Erika elbowed her way through a moving forest of half-dressed, fully drunken clubgoers, she was pissed off and on edge. Ahead of her, the bouncer who was leading the way parted most of the sea, but there were stragglers who got in her way—and she had to resist shoving them off. And then there were the lasers. And the buzzy music. It was like being in a hurricane, everything blasting her in the face, too much between her and where she needed to be.
Fortunately, the trek didn’t last forever. Even if it felt like a year and a half.
In the far corner of the club, outside a hallway that was the only thing properly lit anywhere, two plainclothes officers were arguing with a guy who had slicked his hair back with what had to be shellac and was wearing black jeans that had been surgically mounted onto his skinny legs. A minor kibitzing circle of partiers were playing peanut gallery, but most of the clientele were doing their thing at the bar, on the dance floor.
“. . . you can’t make me,” Mr. Smooth was saying to the officer. “You can’t tell me I have to shut down—”
Erika pushed past the argument and went to where a uni was standing outside the women’s bathroom.
“Ma’am,” he said as he opened the door for her. Then he flushed. “Sorry—I mean, Detective.”
Whatever, she had other things to worry about.
Jesus. The smell of the fresh blood was so thick that it overrode the vape stain in the air, and as she slipped on a pair of booties, the copper tang blooming in the back of her throat made her think about throwing up.
Stepping into the women’s facilities, she snapped on her nitrile gloves and looked around. Everything was either stainless steel or tile and she was willing to bet that the place got hosed down with a bleach wash at the end of every night. There weren’t even proper mirrors, but panels of polished metal, like the bathroom was in a public park. Blowers, not paper towels. No trash cans, which explained the condom wrappers, wads of tissue, and questionable flecks and specks all over the floor.