I can do this.
Her thoughts went ahead of her. The air was clear of objects, the grass was tall, waving, not a concern for a Normal, but for her, every piece represented potential death, a single blade of grass potentially as deadly as a steel knife. No leaves in the air. No big pieces of sand or grit, no bugs, only particulate so small that her passage would brush it aside. Nothing was about to enter that space. She saw
everything.
And it all happened within a tenth of a second and she was gone.
Faye appeared an inch over the tall grass, still in the same prone position she’d been in the cellar, and dropped like a stone. Her landing was cushioned by the weeds and she popped right back up.
The three men were standing in a circle over something. One of them was pointing his pistol at the floor, and she knew that the magic squirrel was just as dead as Grandpa had been. “Lance!”
The men looked up simultaneously, guns rising toward her, and Faye prepared to Travel again, but their eyes collectively jerked upward as something passed through the air over her head with a rustle of cloth in the wind. A petite shape landed in a crouch between the men, knocking one of them sprawling.
It was a woman in a red dress. She rose quickly, slammed her palm into another’s chest with a terrible crack, throwing him back and completely through the brick chimney, collapsing the entire structure in a cloud of red dust. She spun back toward the last man, just as his gun stabbed out toward her, and Faye screamed. There was a gunshot.
The man’s head snapped back. The pistol dropped from lifeless fingers before he collapsed into the ash.
“Good shot, Francis,” the woman shouted, then she turned back to the first one she’d knocked down. She kicked a giant beam casually out of the way, bent down and grabbed a handful of hair, dragging the struggling man from the ashes.
There was the sound of an action being worked, and Faye turned to see a man standing back at the gate with a bolt-action rifle. Faye almost Traveled, but he didn’t point the rifle at her, instead he gave her an easy smile. “It’s going to be all right. We’re here to help you.”
The man was young, probably not much older than her. “Are you Lance the magic squirrel’s friend?”
“Huh?” At first he seemed bewildered by that, then he started to laugh, like she’d said something hilarious.
Faye was confused by his reaction. “Come on! I think they squished him!” she cried, then Traveled back to the house. Her shoes hit the ashen floor, just as the lady in the red dress was smacking the last man senseless. The scary woman glanced up, surprised. She was holding the much larger man effortlessly by the neck, one arm cocked back to hit him again, her delicate knuckles covered with his blood. Faye paid her no mind. These new people seemed to be on Lance’s side, and he had saved her life.
“Oh no!” Faye cried, falling to her knees next to the hole in the floor. The squirrel was inside. It moved weakly. “You’re alive!” She picked up the tiny body and hugged it close. The magic squirrel blinked stupidly. It must have gotten hit in the head.
The young man joined her a moment later, putting one hand gently on her shoulder. “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here. There might be more coming.”
“I wish they would,” said the woman. She appeared with a limp form thrown over one shoulder. The man was much bigger than she was, but she didn’t seem to notice the weight. “I hit that other guy through the chimney a little hard, but this one’s alive. I can remedy that real quick if you want . . .”
“Naw, the General will want to question him,” said a gruff male voice. “Francis, bring the car up and stick him in the back. Looks like some tough guys working for hire. They probably won’t know anything about the Imperium, but it’s worth a shot.” He sounded strangely familiar and Faye looked up. A burly, dark-bearded man was standing at the base of the porch with his thick arms folded. He was wearing rough work clothes and a wide-brimmed hat. He was shorter than Faye, but nearly two men wide in the chest. Faye stood, still cradling the squirrel.
“Lance?”
The man’s eyes twinkled as he grinned. “That’s me . . . Hell, kid. What’re you doing with that squirrel? I’m too proud and not near hungry enough to eat that flea-bitten thing for dinner.”
Faye looked down at the squirrel just as it regained its senses and bit the hell out her thumb. “Ow!” She flung her hands wide and the little animal scurried into the grass.
Lance turned and started to walk away with a pronounced limp, realizing a moment later that she wasn’t following. “You coming or what?”
Somewhere in Colorado
When Jake Sullivan woke up
again it was later in the day and there were brown mountains outside blocking the sunlight, but a pair of electric lamps lit the train compartment fairly well. They were still moving and the air felt thinner when he inhaled. Someone was sitting in the chair next to the bed, reading a newspaper. The banner proclaimed that it was the Denver something or other, and the headline was about some anarchists causing trouble, but Sullivan didn’t feel like trying to move his head far enough to read it. He must have groaned, because the paper dipped down, revealing a thick pair of glasses and a friendly smile. “Evening, Jake. How’re you feeling?”
“Not dead. So could be worse.”
The man chuckled as he folded the newspaper. “Understandable. We haven’t had the pleasure of being formally introduced, though we’ve met twice now, I’m Daniel Garrett. I’ve been sent by my employer to make you an offer—”
“Not to be rude, Dan, but which way’s the toilet?”
That caught him off guard, and he pointed to the rear of the compartment. “Well, you
have
been asleep for a really long time . . . But Ira said you shouldn’t try to move—” Sullivan sat up abruptly, feeling the stitches pull and ache. “Never mind, I suppose.” Sullivan swung his legs off the bed, heaved himself up, and stumbled for the back. Walking would have been difficult under normal circumstances, but the rocking of the train made it worse.
“Never been in a train car that had a private toilet. Now that’s high-class,” Sullivan stated on his return. This time there was a whole pitcher of water at the bedside instead of just a cup. He picked it up and started drinking
“Yes, I bribed our way onto the very best . . .” Garrett said as Sullivan pounded down the entire pitcher. “It was the first thing out of Chicago, well, this or a freight car, and the doctor said he needed something decent to work on you, so I made sure I passed around enough dough to keep the crew from talking about the big, busted-up fella in the wheelchair.”
Sullivan slammed the pitcher down. “That’s better.” He leaned against the rocking wall, feeling every ache, stitch, and bruise, and he
still
had a cold. “I’m starved. Any chance I could get you to spring for a couple of steaks?”
“Of course . . .” Garrett replied. “I-I thought you wanted to know what was going on first?”
Sullivan grimaced as his stomach growled. Burning that much Power always made him hungry, and that wasn’t counting the blood loss. “You talk. I eat.”
Chapter 8
Why did I join the First Volunteers? That’s a tough one. My older brother, Matt, he just liked to fight, and figured Germans would serve as good as any. My other brother, Jimmy, he was simple. He went wherever we went. Me . . . I was the one that liked to ponder on stuff. Roosevelt did like he did before with the Rough Riders. My daddy was a Rough Rider in Cuba. President Wilson didn’t want him to go, but General Roosevelt wanted to prove that Actives were good for the country. Got himself killed in the process. Never did like his politics, too progressive for me, but I’d follow that man into battle anytime. Lousy politician, great leader . . . Sorry. The question . . . Why’d I go? I guess I felt a duty to show that Actives could be useful . . . that we could be the good guys . . . I was a fool.
—Jake Sullivan,
Parole Hearing,
Rockville State Penitentiary,
1928
Mar Pacifica, California
The three strangers
drove Faye south along a road overlooking the ocean. The young man, who introduced himself as Francis, was driving. Lance was sitting up front, and the woman, Delilah, was in back with her. The man that had tried to hurt her was on the floor, with his ankles and wrists bound and a burlap sack over his head. Every time he started to move Delilah would kick him again as a reminder.
Lance had taken a piece of charcoal from the ruined house and drawn a complicated mark on the unconscious man’s forehead before pulling the sack over his head. She didn’t know what that was supposed to do, but it seemed to satisfy Lance.
Faye had started to ask questions in the car, but Delilah had shushed her, explaining that if the General, whoever that was, decided to let this man go, then the less he knew the better. Faye had a suspicion that Delilah had just said that out loud so the man on the floor would have some hope, and maybe that would make him more cooperative. Or maybe she just didn’t want to talk. After all, Faye thought, why would a beautiful, sophisticated woman, that could jump across a vacant lot and throw men through brick walls want to waste her time talking to a hayseed bumpkin from El Nido by way of Ada, Oklahoma?
The only other conversation was when Lance apologized for his swearing and called her
little lady.
He said that he tended to cuss more when his mind was in more than one body at a time.
So Faye went back to spinning in her head, examining the car, the finest thing that she’d ever ridden in, all shiny chrome and bright blue paint and soft leather, intricate mirrors on top of the spare tires, and a little golden angel on the end of the hood. She watched the ocean, amazed at how far it seemed to go until you could see the curve of the world at the edges, and even the people she was riding with, at least two of them just as special, if not more so, than she was. It was all very intimidating.
They turned off the main road onto a windy gravel path. They drove under a stone arch with elaborate writing on it. Faye could read, but these letters didn’t look right. They looked more like what had been scratched in the ashes of the burned house than normal words. There was a blocky shack behind the gate, and someone watched them through a dark window as they passed. Or maybe
something
, Faye thought, as the shape swiveled to follow them, and it looked entirely too triangular to be a person, unless they were wearing a very strange hat.
The house at the end of the lane was spectacular. It was three times the size of the Vierra’s milk barn, only instead of holding cows, it was made for rich people, and it was on top of a giant finger of land that stuck out into the ocean. Three sides around the house turned into cliffs that ended in waves crashing on black rocks far below. The front of the house had tall white pillars and more windows than she could quickly count.
They parked inside a garage, which seemed strange that there would be a space actually
inside
the house to leave your car, but this was big enough that they could probably park four tractors inside and have room to spare. She was having a hard time wrapping her brain around the kind of wealth it would take to build something like this, and suddenly the little wad of money hidden in her traveling skirt seemed pathetic.
“Delilah, would you kindly drag this piece of trash downstairs and lock him in the basement?” Lance asked. “We’ll get to him in a bit.”
“My pleasure.” Delilah grabbed the man by one ankle and yanked him out onto the cement like he was a piece of bad luggage.
“She seems kind of scary,” Faye said to the two men once Delilah was gone, the man bumping painfully down the stairs behind her. “Is she going to kill him?”
Francis shook his head. “That gunsel? The people he works for shot Delilah’s father down in cold blood. For all we know, he might be one of the ones that did it. Serves him right.”
Faye studied him. Francis seemed like a nice young man. Polite, friendly, well spoken, she even had to admit that he was rather handsome. He talked like he came from the big city, but not from the poor big city, but a place with schools, and houses like this. He turned and caught her staring and she looked away quickly. Then again, he had blown a man’s head off earlier without hesitation. She reminded herself that she needed to be on guard. It wasn’t like she knew these people.
Lance gestured for the door. “Let’s go get that thumb looked at. Never been bit by a squirrel before, though I
have
bit people
as
a squirrel. It looks like it hurts. You’re probably hungry too. We’ll get you a room where you can clean up before supper.”
Faye looked down at her shabby dress. It was covered in dirt, coal dust, and speckled with dull red drops of dried blood. She had even gotten the seat dirty in the car. “Sorry for the mess,” she said sheepishly.
“What?” Lance said gruffly. “This?” He snorted loudly. “Girl, you don’t know much about what goes on around here, but let’s say that I’ve seen a whole lot worse. Come on. You’ve probably got a bunch of questions, and I’ve got a few myself, like who your grandpa was, why he gave you a Grimnoir knight’s ring, and why those goons were following you.”
That reminded her. “I need to speak with someone from that note. Is Pershing here? Or Christiansen? Jones? Southunder? It’s really important. My Grandpa’s last words were that I needed to talk to somebody named Black something.”
Francis and Lance glanced at each other. The muscular Lance only came up to Francis’ shoulder, so he actually had to look up. “Your call,” Francis said. The younger one was dressed in a fancy suit, and Lance was wearing worker’s clothes and a dusty hat, but it was obvious which one was in charge.
“Nothing personal, but I want some of our people to talk to you first. I’m in charge of security around here, and
nobody
gets to see General Pershing until I say so.”