“Tell her who you are,” said Gidri.
I am the one who loves you more than anything in the world, I thought, and I will protect you with my life. I closed my eyes and leaned back against Ihsan, resting my head against his face. He shifted uncomfortably, not knowing how to react.
And then I began to drink.
I drew his memories through his skin like sweat, draining his mind in a rush that froze him in place, motionless and helpless. He forgot where he came from, what he was doing, and he let go of me. Thoughtless. He forgot where he was, and who. Selfless. He forgot how to stand, how to swallow, how to breathe, and collapsed on the floor in a heap.
“Holy Mother,” said Gidri, and I leapt at him, grabbing him by the arm, and I wasn’t just me but the tall man as well, an ancient warrior named Ihsan, a paragon of power too perfect for the world to endure, and I was great and I was glorious, and I was proud and scared and lost and tormented. Ihsan knew Gidri’s plan, knew that he had a knife in his boot, and so when he reached for it I was ready, and I laid my hands upon his head and drained it like a bottle, and Gidri ceased to be anything but a twitching vegetable, and abruptly I remembered a hatred so powerful I dropped to my knees—hate for me, for himself, for the entire world. Gidri’s memories squirmed through my mind like maggots, wriggling and biting and turning everything to filth, and then they sunk below the surface and were gone, lost in the fathomless depths of my mind.
The sharp-faced man rose up, erupting in a forest of angles and blades, slashing at me with a slick brown thorn that opened my chest like a razor. I fell back, reaching in vain to stop him, and I thought I heard voices in the hall. The sharp man turned, listening, and bounded suddenly through the door like a hound of hell. An abrupt thunder of gunfire stopped him in his tracks and shook him like a leaf, and as he fell, a man in black rushed into view to finish him off with a machete. Rosie was screaming, and I managed to pull myself to my feet, oozing ash and blood, and pull her into the corner behind me. Another figure in black, a woman with dark brown skin, rushed past the frenzied blade fight in the hallway and charged into the office, firing at me with a large caliber handgun. The bullets ripped past me, destroying the wall in a shower of wood and plaster. Rosie screamed again, and the woman with the gun stopped, holding the gun on us with unswerving aim, and spoke into the radio strapped to her shoulder.
“I have one still alive in here, but I can’t hit him without hurting the woman.”
“So try harder,” said a voice on the radio, and I thought that I recognized it, but I couldn’t tell from where.
“I need backup,” the woman insisted. “He’s healing.”
I looked down at my chest, watching as the long, bloody gash slowly sealed itself closed. Thick black grime dripped from the wound and sizzled on the floor: soulstuff, withered and dark. I tried to speak, but my lungs were still reforming; I felt the bitter sear of ash in my throat.
“Please don’t shoot us,” said Rosie. She had no special reason to trust me, but she knew me better than these sudden invaders with guns and knives, so she stayed in the corner behind me.
The fight in the hall had drifted outside, but I could tell from shouts and roars and impacts that it was still raging. I wondered what kind of man could stand that long against a Withered. I looked back at the woman with the gun, knowing she could kill me if she tried, and praying that my lungs healed closed in time to defend myself.
And then the boy from the rest home appeared in the door, dressed in black like the others, and suddenly I knew why I had recognized the voice on the radio. Why was he here? What was going on? His eyes were alert and clever and dead all at once. He walked with a strange, almost trembling gait, as if restraining himself with every step, but I couldn’t guess from what. His eyes roved over the bodies on the floor, the bloody mess of my chest, Rosie cowering in the corner, all with the same predatory detachment. He looked at me for a moment, silent, then slowly lowered himself to crouch over Gidri’s body.
“You drained them?” he asked.
I frowned, confused. How could he possibly—
“He can only drain dead bodies,” said the woman with the gun.
“Obviously not,” said the boy, and touched Gidri’s throat with a pale finger. “If they were dead, they’d turn to ash. That means he incapacitated them, and draining their minds is the only weapon he has.”
The man with the machete reappeared in the hall, covered with greasy ash and bloody splinters. The fight was over, and he’d won. I felt a new wave of fear. These were the ones Gidri had talked about, the other side of our shadow war, and they were far more capable than I’d imagined.
“What are you talking about?” asked Rosie.