Wormwood Echoes (15 page)

Fire ate her.

Ate her, boiled her flesh away, left clean, white bone, and finally, spit her out on the other side.

But before the fire there was ice, and images, and a path marked by skulls and tortured, reaching hands and begging souls.

Before the fire there was darkness and silence and nothingness so complete she knew she was dead.

And wind.

Wind that held every voice that ever was, every life that ever formed.

There were screams so bone-chilling she almost, at first, didn’t feel the fire.

But the fire. Oh, God.

The fire.

There would never be words to describe the fire. To explain how it consumed her. How it changed her.

Blood and Fire didn’t protect her from that—they couldn’t. They could only guide her, the spirit dogs, to where she needed to go.

When she was spewed out into the world of Skyll, her first thought was of Gunnar.

Gunnar the Ghoul, who’d traipsed that very path, that very horrifying and agonizing path, for her.

She lay upon the alien but strangely familiar ground, and was unable to move.

She remained clothed but felt as though the garments had forged themselves into her skin. She was too weak to feel for her weapons.

Fie cried, somewhere in the distance, but Rune couldn’t comfort the child. She lay stunned and disassembled, broken and shattered.

She was frozen, and she was scorched.

And images, teasing and not quite there, like forgotten words on the tip of her tongue.

What had she seen?

Something. Something important.

But the images had floated away.

She didn’t care.

Maybe five minutes later, or five years later, she opened her mouth, amazed that she could do so. “Fie,” she said, her voice cracking.

She had to get the crying to stop.

She slid her hand across the hard, dusty ground and sharp rocks scratched eagerly at her palm—it felt good. Anything would have felt good after the agony she’d just endured.

At last, she dragged herself to a sitting position and lifted her hands to shove her hair out of her face.

She was moving, feeling, alive.

Stronger.

And she got her first look at Skyll.

Barren, charred earth stretched out before her, brown and red and bleached white.

The sky was so blue it hurt her to look at it.

She could smell everything—water and heat and plants and animals. Smoke, meat, air polluted by chemicals. Exhaust and shit and sweat.

And Fie continued to cry, long, plaintive cries that had no end.

Rune put her hands over her ears, but it did no good. The crying went on and on and on…

She stood. Somehow, she stood.

She felt, for at least two minutes, as though she were looking through a tunnel. And she couldn’t see Fie anywhere.

The cries had no direction.

Slowly, her vision cleared.

The dogs were gone.

Fie was gone.

She was alone.

“Oh,” she said. There was no crying. Not really. Just inside her head.

And when she acknowledged it, the crying stopped.

She stood on a small, rocky hill. In front of her was desert, but when she turned, she was happy to see trees. A cool, serene forest.

She shaded her eyes. “Fie,” she yelled. Her voice was rusty and harsh, but it was loud. “Fie!”

Fie wasn’t there. She could only hope Blood and Fire had carried the child to safety. She felt little fear for the necromancer. She knew, as well as Fie had, that the little girl belonged in Skyll.

Whatever part of Skyll she’d landed in appeared unoccupied. There were no birds singing, no small animals darting, no—

An unfamiliar noise behind her broke the silence and she spun, crouching. She shot out her claws, not realizing until that second how afraid she’d been that her monster would not come.

It came, bringing claws and fangs and speed. She didn’t feel as sick, but the rotting disease continued to flow through her like a brown, polluted river.

Probably its progress would be slowed because that world was created of magic, just as she was. Whatever the reason, she felt a little less sick.

Maybe that would give her more time. More time to deal with the horrors sure to come. More time to find the cure.

It would not, however, give Lex more time. Or any of the Others.

Her monster had not deserted her, and if there was any little spark of light to cling to, it was that.

But the thing in front of her…

She gasped and stumbled backward, her brain unable to comprehend what her eyes were seeing.

It did not belong in that world of magic and silence and heat.

It was a huge, mechanical, man-shaped piece of equipment, rusty in parts and shiny in others. Its head squeaked as it turned it to survey her.

It may have been there all along, but her mind had been delayed from the trip over and had taken its time catching up with her body.

A sudden black cloud appeared in the distant burning sky, and it was only when she began to hear the raucous cries that she understood the black cloud was actually a huge formation of crows.

A murder of crows.

Their calls were strident and mocking, and as she watched, they dive-bombed the metal apparition.

All she could do was stand and gape.

The thing opened its jaws, and a sound like twisting metal emerged. Loud and excruciating.

She put her hands over her ears again and backed away, then turned and ran for the woods.

How did one fight a machine as tall as the trees and made up of metal? There was nothing to do but run. And hide.

The machine did not follow.

Neither did the crows.

She stumbled farther into the woods, and when she was sure the thing wasn’t coming, she stopped to take stock of her body and her belongings.

One of her ammunition belts flapped, broken and ragged and empty, and she tossed it to the ground. Her clothes were tattered, but clung to her body stubbornly. One of her blades had dropped into her left boot, and she caressed the sharp silver for a second before sliding it into a remaining sheath.

She tied her boots. One of the strings broke when she pulled it and she cursed, as though a broken bootlace really mattered.

There was nothing else, but she didn’t need her weapons. She had her monster.

And she appreciated the hell out of it.

She pushed sweat-drenched strands of hair out of her face and continued on, slowly. The forest was watching her, its breath held.

She could feel it like a heavy weight across her back.

Paths, long and white, stretched out before her, twisting between trees until they were out of sight. The light from the bright sun had trouble penetrating more deeply into the woods, and she was hesitant as she wandered farther into the gloom.

But she went on, more comfortable with the woods than the scorching sun and the…metal man.

There had to be people somewhere—Gunnar had assured her of that. There would be towns. Cities.

Allies.

She just had to find them.

Shivers overtook her as the reality of her situation began to sink in.

A sudden screech sounded, reverberating through the woods. She ducked behind a tree and peered around it grimly, shuddering like a little girl watching a horror movie.

And when she realized that fact, she straightened her spine.

She was Rune Alexander.

She wasn’t going to cower behind a tree in
any
world.

Not even if that world belonged to Damascus.

She strode back to the path, her fists clenched. “Fuck you,” she screamed.

The screech came again, closer, and she saw movement high in the treetops.

“Fucking bird,” she muttered.

She hoped.

She walked on.

As she walked, the woods woke up—creatures began to scurry, leaves began to wave, and finally, birds began to sing.

Still, the woods were eerie.

Strange.

She picked a path and stuck with it, following it faithfully.

And when the screech came again, she shot out her claws. She could handle anything that bled.

She wished
something
would show itself, because she’d rather fight than face nothing.

But she was not to fight in the forest that day.

The path ended, the trees parted, and she stepped out into the world of her nightmares.

The other side of the woods was dark.

Nighttime.

The sun no longer baked the world with blistering heat. The moon, a cold, silver sickle, ruled the sky.

Fire and explosions lit up the darkness, the blasts miles away, and she stared down on thousands of tiny, yellow lights.

A city.

Something huge and even darker than the sky streaked through the air above, releasing golden flames with a roaring rush she could almost feel.

Not a plane, though.

A demon.

Air from its flapping, swooshing wings fanned her cheeks with a hot wind that smelled of wood smoke. It was the scent of Lex’s breath after she’d had her Damascus-induced seizure.

She wanted to fall to ground and hide her face. To sleep and wake up in the berserker’s arms. To see her crew.

But she started down the hill.

Not slowly. With her claws out and ready, she ran, taking horror and death to a city that seemed to already have more than its share.

She became…herself.

The trip had stripped more than her weapons from her—it’d stripped something inside her that made her Rune Alexander.

Stripped something that made her remember she was immortal, and even had she not been, she was not afraid to die.

And at that moment, she took it the fuck back.

She ran, elation deep and dark inside her as she streaked through the night, hoping an innocent didn’t suddenly appear in her path—she’d have killed it.

She was death.

There was no other way to be. Not there.

You were born of blood and magic.

And you were born of death.

The words came sliding into her mind, then crept teasingly into a corner to crouch quietly until she was ready to examine them.

At that moment, she was home.

When she embraced it, when she accepted it, she felt the world open its arms.

It had been waiting for her.

There were so many sounds. So many sights.

The dark sky was constantly brightened by explosions as colorful and quick as fireworks. Screams began to trickle to her ears the closer she drew to the city.

Other instruments played in that horror of an orchestra—unfamiliar and grating and out of sync. Roars that came from no human, groans that split the night, high-pitched shrieks that could have shattered glass.

Before she reached the city she began to see shapes streaking across the ground—wolves, yes, wolves—and shadows that were as flat and insubstantial and fleeting as spirits.

Vampires.

Oh, God, vampires.

Hers.

She screamed with joy.

Fighting and killing she understood.

An ephemeral hand, fingers like long, purple smears, appeared in the sky. She was near enough to the city to hear screams of terror and the occasional shout of, “the hand, the hand!” before the fingers disappeared.

She had no idea what retribution the hand had brought or would bring, but she was sure it was harsh.

Harsh, horrible magic.

She climbed the huge stone wall surrounding the city, the useless wall that couldn’t keep magic or fire or bombs out, and it couldn’t keep Rune Alexander out.

She crouched for a second atop it, surveying the pandemonium below.

Tall streetlights and moving spotlights lit the area, along with the moon and the near constant explosions, fires, and flame-breathing creatures.

People ran, animals scampered, and fighters armed with bows and arrows, blades, axes, and blowguns fought like people possessed.

When she stood and prepared to leap into the noisy crowds below, she saw more people rushing through a crumbled section of stone wall.

The city had been infiltrated and was under attack. It was being destroyed.

An image of River County flashed into her mind, and a stab of homesickness hit her so hard she bent double, trying to breathe through the pain.

For that world, too, was her home.

She grabbed onto her thirst for blood. Once again in control, she held up her claws and leaped into the chaos.

She couldn’t differentiate the bad guys from the good guys—if it came at her, she killed it.

Slicing through shifters, vampires, and other creatures she was unfamiliar with. Men, women…

Others.

They were
all
Others.

She fought her way through the city, ducking into alleyways exactly like the ones back home, smashing through shop windows, chasing down beings that appeared to be foul-smelling trolls.

Strange creatures that resembled mountainous men with bodies of enormous dogs streaked by her. They were ridden by men.

And she realized she’d chosen a side, even though she hadn’t been aware of it.

It became obvious that the interlopers, the city destroyers, were not the vampires or shifters or wolves. They were not the men and women valiantly and skillfully wielding sharp silver and deadly arrows.

The interlopers were the strange creatures she didn’t recognize—and the men who rode them.

Those men carried whips. Whips of fire, magic, and poison. She saw victims of the whips fall, froth spilling from their mouths, eyes rolling back into their heads.

She saw the whips carve out sections of brick buildings and create craters in the pavement upon which they landed.

The whips cut bodies in half, neatly and quickly.

One of the creatures grabbed a man who brandished a sword nearly as long as he was tall and batted away the blade.

Even as he galloped through the crowds, he held his victim beneath him, thrusting, grunting like a thousand pigs. He raped the man as the man who rode
him
continued to sling his whip against the fighters of the city.

She went after the intruders, rage boiling inside her.

They were, surely, that world’s COS.

She chose a side.

And gradually, those she fought with began to notice her.

As did their enemies.

Three fighters—a man and two women—paused to watch her for a second before running to fight beside her.

There was no time to talk.

Much.

“Nice,” the man said. “Those are some claws, lady.”

She pulled her claws free of a charging beast’s belly and grinned.

Then she noticed that her claws, which had faded to muted silver in her world, had grown brighter. The longer she fought, the brighter they became until finally, they radiated a shining silver too bright to stare at for long.

And that drew a lot of attention.

People began to move closer to her, fighting with her as though they accepted her as one of them.

And those people were hardcore.

She’d thought she’d witnessed every atrocity possible, but she’d been wrong.

Shiv Crew fought hard, but there was always a sort of humanity to their fighting. They killed, but always protected. They’d have done anything to protect each other.

The ones she fought with and against in Skyll were…monsters. She felt it. Maybe they knew nothing else.

Or maybe they knew something she didn’t.

But damned if they didn’t shock the hell out of her.

“Tiff,” one of the men beside her shouted, and as Rune turned at his voice, she watched him shove his sword through the girl who fought with him just so he could pin the enemy who was trying to kill her.

He hadn’t hesitated or tried to find a way to save her and kill the enemy. Just killed them both and then went back to fighting.

And slowly, the city began to push the attackers out.

The moon was red. When she caught a glimpse of it through the haze of blood that misted the air, it was red.

She shivered.

One of the beasts galloped by Rune, his rider unfurling his whip to fling at a red-haired girl with a slingshot. A fucking slingshot.

Rune growled, but before she could jump on top of the beast and send the whip-wielder to hell, the girl turned, grinned, and shot the beast between its eyes.

It fell.

Not slowly, not gradually, but immediately.

Just dropped like a boulder and didn’t move again.

“Showing off, Roma?” a man yelled, his voice full of laughter.

The sudden stop propelled the rider off its back and sent him tumbling violently toward the girl.

Rune caught him with her claws, decapitating him as he flew through the air.

The girl met Rune’s stare for a moment, then shrugged and went back to the fight.

Rune shook her head as she fought. A fucking
slingshot
.

But the girl was good with it. And fast.

Shiv Crew material.

She shook off the pain that screamed through her when she thought of her crew and lost herself in the battle.

A battle that would soon be over.

The enemy was retreating. Slowly, but they were retreating.

Those that refused to withdraw were dying.

The blood ran freely, thick and hot, and she didn’t pause to consider what feasting in Skyll might mean. She drank.

She needed to feed—it was as simple as that.

At least, it was that simple to her.

She sliced open one of the beast’s throats, ran her claws through his master’s chest, then fell to her knees to drink of the blood spurting from the ugly, dying beast.

The blood spread through her veins like cold water, and she frowned. He wasn’t a tasty enemy. As a matter of fact, he tasted of…

Damascus.

“Fuck me,” she said. “That sucks.”

People were staring at her.

They stopped fighting to watch her.

Some with doubt, some with horror, some with interest.

All of them with fear.

And awe.

Word spread like a terrible disease, swiftly and surely, touching everyone who stood there.

Every one of them reacted to that one feeding.

The enemy turned and fled.

The ones whose city she’d defended fell to their knees before her.

They held their fists to their chests, over their hearts.

They knelt on the ground, bleeding and wounded and agonized, but their eyes were shining.

She couldn’t at first make out what they’d begun to mutter, until they lifted their voices in unison, joyful and strong.

“Our princess,” they shouted, “has come.”