Daybreak (34 page)
Arturi and Preacher emerged from the forest cover, with boyish Koss working with Bethany’s reconnaissance team. Pen smiled tightly as they approached, marveling at the change in her old friend’s posture and attitude. Arturi didn’t just walk; he
strode
. A mirror of Tru’s determination reflected in his expression, despite his jovial features and kind eyes. If anything, that contrast made his resolve all the more impressive. O’Malley had turned a peaceful man into a wartime leader.
strode
. A mirror of Tru’s determination reflected in his expression, despite his jovial features and kind eyes. If anything, that contrast made his resolve all the more impressive. O’Malley had turned a peaceful man into a wartime leader.
She wondered if the general had any idea what his greed and violence had unleashed.
As was his style, Arturi greeted a number of people individually. That included Pen. “Good, you’re well. I was worried.” He flicked his eyes toward Tru, with a look that was almost penitent. “We’ll find another way,” he said softly. “I promised you.”
Tru tucked Pen against his side, his arm at her back. “I’ll hold you to that.”
But then Arturi was a leader again, declaring his intentions to the several dozen people assembled to hear him speak. “Preacher and I have discussed tactics, based on reports from our scouts,” he said, indicating Koss and the mission girls. “Any minute now, more explosions will go off. These have been calculated to create confusion along the enemy’s perimeter.” He paused, seeming to understand just how intently his people craved his words—his assurances. “Today we strike, and we claim our first victory. Our hope is that information we’ll gather in the camp will help reveal O’Malley’s exact location, as well as provide intelligence about how to infiltrate his headquarters. Preacher has your assignments. Go now.”
Minutes later, Pen and Tru tramped through the woods at a fast clip. They were on the verge of battle. When would it come, her death? When would she be forced to say good-bye to Tru? She gnawed jerky as she walked, despite her unsettled stomach. Energy was more important, so she choked down the rough breakfast.
“What of scouts’ reports that their people are ill?” asked Miranda, who trailed Preacher.
“We must never let our hope for the best-case scenario cloud our anticipation of the worst.” Preacher held a low-hanging branch aside and ushered their small team through. He locked eyes briefly with Tru, his beard shaped around a smile. “But the reports are that their water supply has been tainted.”
Tru only matched his grin and walked on. Pen caught up with him, tugging on his arm. “What is it?”
“I took a walk yesterday when you were working.”
“A walk.”
“Yup.”
“Had you shifted?”
“Yes, I had.”
Pen caught his humor, although she couldn’t understand its origins. “And?”
“I may have used their freshwater reserves as a latrine. And then encouraged the other skinwalkers to do the same.”
She giggled like a little girl being told a dirty joke. “That’s remarkably crude.”
“I like to think of it as clever and resourceful.”
“That, too.”
They came to the launch point for the operation. Pen looked around, sizing up their small band. Miranda had taken the baboon form she seemed so reluctant to assume, all for the betterment of the operation. In marmot form, Koss was such a small creature—almost unnoticeable, which was his great asset. Overhead, Jules and Xialle circled in their bird forms, condor and crow. A simultaneous dive from both would signal the start of the operation. With the skies covered, Reynard had decided to stay human. He and Preacher carried intimidating weaponry, while Bethany and the mission girls had taken to the trees with their poison blow darts.
Fifteen people total. Arturi knelt at the forefront, a lone human male. No special gift from the Change. But without him, their cohesion and discipline would splinter.
“Everyone has a task,” he said. “Keep to your individual missions and the rest will fall into place.”
Pen could’ve sworn he intended his words just for her. She needed the reminder. Her job was to trail the more physical team members, such as Tru, but to keep within range of the defenses. Confuse the guards as quickly as possible. Resist the urge to kill them outright, knowing such magic only depleted her too quickly. “It’s a marathon, not a sprint,” Arturi had said. And then she would possess enough reserves to heal the fallen.
A woman beside Pen was staring at her with wide eyes. “I can’t believe I’m going into battle with the Orchid,” she whispered.
Pen flinched on the inside. But what was such a soul to do? The myths about the Orchid would be hard to dispel. There was safety in being something
other
, but there was also loneliness.
other
, but there was also loneliness.
“Did you know that some orchids live their entire lives feeding on fungi? They’re beautiful and exotic, definitely, but still parasites. It bothered me when I learned they weren’t as pure as they appear.” Pen extended her hand despite her flabbergasted expression. “My name’s Pen. What’s yours?”
The woman almost backed away, as if a touch would be too much to bear. But Pen held her gaze, steadily, hoping to make this first step with someone who must be as scared as she.
Slowly, as if reaching out across a great distance, the woman took her hand. “I’m Maya. A healer.”
“Then we have that in common. We’re in this together, Maya. Don’t forget that.”
Maya nodded in apparent understanding, but cradled her hand against her chest like a mother with a babe.
At Pen’s side, Tru belly-crawled into position. He whispered, “They’ll come around. Keep at it, love.” He brushed a kiss on her cheek. “See you on the other side.”
The caw of a crow.
Everyone looked up to see Jules and Xialle dive straight down in deliberate unison.
“Hold,” hissed Arturi.
A bright, deafening explosion heralded the start of the violence. Three more mines rocketed plumes of fire and soil into the sky. Tru shifted, the last of the skinwalkers to do so.
“Three more mines,” Arturi said, arm lifted to hold back his troops.
Another explosion. Another.
Pen’s ears rang, and her nose clotted with the acidic stench of explosives. An image triggered in her mind—an image from Tru, no matter that he had assumed his lion form. She saw a flash of his grief as he’d approached the burned-out wreckage of his town, where his family had been murdered. Focusing hard, she gave him a picture of her own: the matched leatherwork on their wrists. The roaring pain in her head eased. His focus became as clear and sharp as hers, no matter that his heightened senses must be reeling from the explosions.
She snatched up his bracelet where it had fallen after his shift. After safely looping it around her knife belt, Pen and the remaining humans gathered the skinwalkers’ clothes and shoved them into backpacks. Maybe someday, hundreds of years from now, skinwalkers would no longer feel the compulsion toward modesty.
But that day wasn’t now. It would never be unless Arturi’s small army succeeded.
The last explosion rocked the ground beneath Pen’s knees. Arturi lowered his arm. Tru led the skinwalkers’ charge, his compact, powerful legs tearing through the forest. Clumps of dirt flung up from beneath his great paws.
Arturi, Pen, and the other humans ran in pursuit, with Reynard and Preacher at the forefront. The stink of smoke and singed earth filled Pen’s nose as she ran. Huge mine craters looked like the planet trying to swallow a meal. She could only hope her efforts the night before had identified the mines’ locations.
If not . . .
No
. She closed down that surge of guilt and responsibility. She’d been able to do no more. They would find another way. And even Pen was not so naive as to assume the assault would result in zero casualties.
. She closed down that surge of guilt and responsibility. She’d been able to do no more. They would find another way. And even Pen was not so naive as to assume the assault would result in zero casualties.
Fire licked at a wooden barricade where a mine had thrown showering sparks. Men in plain drab uniforms scurried with water buckets and weapons, as if uncertain what problem to tackle first—the fire, or the oncoming assault.
Arturi’s faithful fanned out across the clearing, scattering in what looked like a random assault. True to their instructions, each individual performed only his or her task. Tru provided cover for sneakier, smaller skinwalkers such as Koss. His massive paws slashed and hacked through the unwary. But he was not bulletproof.
Pen slid to a stop within ten meters of the barricade. She ducked behind a fat tree trunk, where leaves from a dozen autumns clung to her boots like wet paper. Concentrating, she focused on a guard in the lookout tower who leveled his machine gun. He was a killer. A thief. A man of such malformed conscience that the list of deeds she discovered in his mind flipped her stomach. Pen swallowed a surge of bile—and squashed the impulse to see justice done with a twitch of her will.
Magic, yes. But in control.
Instead of murder, she dazed him. The trick seemed almost elementary after the magic she’d wielded recently. The man simply . . . lowered his weapon. He stared up at the sky, as if tracking a formation of geese.
Miranda, so powerful in her baboon form, bounded up the watchtower and savaged the guard. Tru slammed against the gate with his bulky, muscled shoulder. He threw back his head and roared . . . such a roar, like the sky split open to reveal an angry god. That would definitely terrorize his opponents, because even Pen’s arm hair stood on end.
What an amazing creature.
Mine.
The gate’s loosely fastened chains gave way to the force of his battering-ram body. He mauled another guard as smaller skinwalkers—marmot, ocelot—slipped inside. All ready to take the encampment apart.
It was working. Arturi’s plan was working.
Pen shook her head at her own hubris. She might have forged her reputation as the Orchid, but she knew the limits of her potential. Magic was magic, but a human body had limits. And if there was anything Arturi and his people represented, it was the superiority of civilized cooperation over single-minded barbarism.
She was just another cog in a well-oiled machine. What a wonderful thing.
With a tight grin, she sighted another guard and turned his dazzled eyes to the sky.
THIRTY-SIX
The lion let Tru lead, or at least co-lead. Even his animal self understood the importance of this first battle. The timing needed to be precise. Such a fight required incredible trust. One unsteady hand on the trigger and he was dead. Yet he had no fear. Some risks were worth taking.
Cordite and gunpowder scented the air, acrid in his sensitive nose. The first shots rang out, and he launched himself at a bearded sentry in battle fatigues. The general still outfitted his men as if this were some guerrilla war. Tru’s full weight took the man down, and he didn’t waste time on finesse. With powerful jaws, he clamped the enemy’s throat and crunched. He spat blood and shook his head, crouched low to avoid gunfire.
Some men wandered about in confusion, dazed by something his mate was doing. Animals swarmed over the grounds, some skinwalkers, others sent by those gifted with magnetism. Some of the enemy were sick from tainted food and water. Yet the blast of the mines had provoked others to action, and they fumbled for their guns. Too slow. It would cost them.
Movement. Noise. Tru sprang away into the shadows as a spray of bullets spattered the ground where he’d been standing.
That’s right. Shoot at me.
Mouth open in a feline laugh, he circled the perimeter. The smaller mammals went after ammunition and ankles, scurrying the moment a thug wheeled to aim. Larger ones fought with raw savagery. Screeches, growls, and howls split the night.
That’s right. Shoot at me.
Mouth open in a feline laugh, he circled the perimeter. The smaller mammals went after ammunition and ankles, scurrying the moment a thug wheeled to aim. Larger ones fought with raw savagery. Screeches, growls, and howls split the night.
O’Malley’s men shot wildly, but most of them carried big guns, which didn’t perform well in up-close-and-personal combat. Only a few possessed pistols or knives, but they lacked skinwalker speed.
We have magic in our veins. Just try and stop us.
We have magic in our veins. Just try and stop us.
After the first wave concluded, Tru made another run. Tall man, hat. Smelled of old meat and strong liquor. The lion rumbled in disgust.
He tracked his prey for long moments as the male tried to rally his people. “What are you doing, morons? Fight! There can’t be too many. They’re not soldiers. They’re not
trained
. O’Malley will have our asses!”
trained
. O’Malley will have our asses!”
The others responded to his commands. Their aim improved, and Miranda took a bullet to the chest. She went down in a spray of blood, dwindling back to a human female as she died. Tru’s anger sparked bright as fire. The tall man kept shouting, but Tru had stopped listening to the words.
That’s the dominant,
the big cat thought.
Time to take him down.
the big cat thought.
Time to take him down.
He stalked closer, using crates as cover. Arturi’s second wave of soldiers, all equipped with rifles, fired from various positions around the camp. Copper scented the air as more guards fell. Campfires blinded the defenders, making it difficult for them to see targets in the dark. None of Arturi’s allies ventured so near the mêlée, leaving the close fighting to the skinwalkers.
Smart.
The enemy wasn’t.
A man lurched into his path. Tru hamstringed him with a swipe of one paw. The gun dropped from his hand, and the lion pounced. Digging with both front and back claws made for a gruesome death. The screaming startled some of the men so badly that they broke and ran. More shots rang out, dropping the deserters as they tried to find safety in a landscape teeming with Arturi’s second wave.
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