A lance crunches into my upper chest, bending the metal of my frame into a deformed valley. I feel the dull crushing pressure, the tremor of the bandit’s hand on the wooden shaft. I hear my innards tearing as the horse gallops by overhead. The lance is wrenched from my chest, yanking me off the ground before dropping me sprawling onto my side. The spear has missed the cradle inside me, and the anima that rests in it.
Somewhere nearby, Elena makes a small hurt sound. She no longer shouts for mercy. She knows there is none to be found.
And though I was never born of a woman, I am in fetal position now. Wounded. Cowering in the way of a mortal man.
Bloodstained hooves trample the mud all around me. The stabbing weight of a hoof snaps a strut inside my right thigh. My leg nearly comes loose from the hip socket, and my body is tossed again through the grass. I land on my stomach this time, one brass cheekbone pushing through my leather skin and into damp earth.
Again, I am still.
Now, a gentle rain is drumming the empty waste of the steppe. There is no more thunder. Gathered in a circle a little ways off, the surviving bandits are speaking to one another in confused tones that sound distant and hollow.
Blood, they are saying. Where is the blood?
They marvel that I do not bleed. They are examining the blunted lance tip, noting how clean it is. What armor does this man wear? they wonder. He is mortally wounded, yet he doesn’t cry out.
Elena bursts into a run. She is staying low, legs scissoring under her flowing cloak. This is her best chance of escape, and it is not much of a chance at all. Like predators, the riders spark to the movement. The three of them canter away from me, moving as one to surround her. Lying here in bloodstained mud, stalks of grass caressing my face like damp tentacles, I can only pretend to be a corpse.
It is not so far-fetched. In many ways, I have never been alive.
It took three death blows, enough to kill three men, to fell me.
Te Deum. Thanks to God. I am still functioning.
With one eye open, helpless, I watch through rain-blurred grass as Elena is snatched up by her cloak and thrown over the broad, sweaty back of a warhorse. She does not shout. There is no reason for it. By her Word, Elena never acts without a reason. Bless her. On the horse, her body flops loosely, about the weight of a little girl, and wearing too many clothes for the riders to think any different. For now.
Patience, Elena. Strength.
I leave my eye open and unblinking, letting it appear sightless in death. I do not even allow the pupil to dilate as I observe whatever crosses my field of view. The riders circle close to one another, conferring.
“Koldun,” comes the whisper.
Warlock. Monster. Man with no blood.
The leader wearing the silver cuirass is a superstitious one. “Best not to disturb the corpse,” he advises. “Let us leave quickly with our prisoner.”
Wise advice.
“Clean the field,” he orders. “Leave the dead.”
Moving quickly, a dirty-faced bandit dismounts and loots the corpses of his two fallen comrades. Cursing, he tugs at the bloodstained saddle trapped under the disemboweled horse. He slips in the mud and falls, staining his outer jacket.
“Leave it,” orders the leader. His eyes are dark and scared over a thick brown mustache. His breath is visible in the moist air.
With a last wary look in my direction, the three surviving riders lead their dead comrade’s horse away and gallop for the horizon. I wait until the vibrations in the dirt fade before I so much as blink. Wait until the sight of them has receded into tiny blurred specks before I dare to stir.
Now I am alone in the grass with silent corpses. The sun has finished easing itself over the flat horizon. The great blue-gray orb of the moon has appeared, jovial, its faint light sending my jagged shadow reaching out across the grass. In the sudden chill of night, I can feel I am badly broken. Alone, I am beyond repair.
But Elena may still be alive. I must protect her. I promised.
I take a handful of grass with my thumb and two remaining fingers. With a violent yank, I drag myself an arm’s length forward. Part of my hip and my right leg stay in the grass behind me. My left leg is still attached but mostly useless. I pull again with my one good arm, leaving a slug’s trail of broken machinery glinting darkly under moonlight.
But the grass is plentiful and my grip strong.
Stars fade into view through evaporating purple skies as I leave the wreck of my body behind, one arm’s length at a time. Night engulfs the vast undulating plains. And hidden here among the blades of grass, I am reduced to a crooked head and part of a torso, cloaked in black wool and broken armor, relentlessly slithering forward. Without pause or thought, I pull myself toward Elena, my sister—through the muddy footsteps of three riders who know nothing of the horror they’ve left for dead.
13
OREGON, PRESENT
The two strange men are facing off in the middle of the empty two-lane highway, jackets glistening under a light coating of rain.
“Leave her to me,” is what the tall one said.
Yeah, I don’t think so.
The violence of the last hour has passed through me like a shock wave. Blinking away the flashes of brutality, I force myself to think only of survival.
I crawl to my feet and head toward the hulk of the police cruiser. It rests half off the road, cockeyed on blown tires, the driver’s-side door hanging open. Inside, I can see the silhouette of a shotgun, standing at attention on a vertical mount. The radio must be broken, sputtering to itself in tones of gray fuzz.
My side is aching. Elbows skinned, my hair is streaked with blood and tears. My cell phone is still in the hotel room, but a stolen police car will be attracting attention. And when the police arrive this time, it won’t be an ambush. All I need to do is wait—to stay alive long enough for the cavalry to show up.
The two men ignore me as I hobble away, both of them strafed in the glaring headlights of the muscle car. They are speaking to each other over the hiss of wind through trees, though I can barely make sense of their words.
“Old friend,” says the silver-haired man, “the Worm Mother will be pleased to hear of your survival. Wrong decisions can be made right.”
“We have bigger concerns,” says the tall one. “The clockwork is slowing. Too many have died. We need this woman—”
“She is short-lived. By first axiom, her life is forfeit to forbidden knowledge.”
“Your secrets mean nothing if you have passed from this world.”
The two stare at each other for a long, tense moment.
“Then you will join the rest,” says the silver-haired man, quietly. He advances, hands at his sides like a gunslinger. He takes a swing and the tall man dodges, boots scraping wet pavement. “You will become food for the strong.”
Reaching the cruiser, I rest my palms on the warm hood.
Down the road, the two men lock arms and smash into each other with complicated-looking punches and blocks. They move like shadows, silent, unnaturally fast. Their fighting happens in vicious bursts of movement, and I hear only the dull smack when a punch connects.