Borderline (The Arcadia Project, #1)(98)

Even with all things considered, Caryl managed to pull together enough focus to rot the wood around the door latch, allowing her to force it open with a well-placed shoulder. I immediately tore off my fey glasses; the golden radiance of Seelie magic that spilled from inside the soundstage was like staring directly into the sun.

Something powerful took hold of us both, compelling us to cross the threshold and shut the door behind us. By the time I processed that it was yet another ward, it was too late to do anything about it. We both looked around, blinking, and then swore in unison.

The pair of us stood holding hands in the middle of a broiling desert, white sun beating down on us at the apex of a faded sky. Behind and beside us was nothing but jagged horizon; ahead of us stood the remains of a classic Western ghost town, bleak and picturesque.

“I know what this is,” I said. I tried putting on my glasses again and nearly burned out my retinas for my pains. I slid them on top of my head, since the dress Foxfeather had given me had no pockets. “Bottom dollar says David painted the walls in here; this is a location from Black Powder. I just have to touch the—”

A sound behind me, like approaching thunder, made me turn. Caryl crowded me, hanging on my arm, as we spotted a posse of a dozen men on horseback riding straight toward us. Black-and-white Appaloosas, skewbald pintos, bay mustangs, all gleaming with sweat under the desert sun and kicking up great clouds of dust as their riders spurred them into a frenzy.

“They’re not real,” I said, backing up slowly. “I’m eighty percent sure they’re just painted on the wall behind us.” But I was already adjusting the valve on my hydraulic knee.

“Millie . . . ,” Caryl said, tugging my hand as the posse continued toward us. They clearly intended to ride us down. “Even if it’s psychic spellwork,” she said, “it will still feel like being trampled.”

“Gotcha,” I said. “Keep hold of my hand, don’t pull ahead, and don’t talk to me. Running is hard, so don’t distract me.”

“Millie . . .” A panicked note crept into her voice as we began to feel the ground tremble under us. One of the riders reached behind him to free the rifle that was slung across his back.

We took off, and I threw all my focus into movement. I hadn’t gotten the valve setting quite right. The knee didn’t bend fast enough, forcing me to sweep the leg around in an arc with each panicked stride. I focused my fear into the desperate energy it took to keep myself upright. With clumsy control I managed to gather some acceleration, but Caryl was trying to run faster still, starting to drag me forward in a way that promised to topple us both. I could actually smell the horses behind us now.

Caryl looked over her shoulder, which slowed us abruptly. I couldn’t yell at her to keep steady; even taking the trouble to find words would have broken my rhythm. I just kept blindly flailing forward. Caryl was an idiot without her construct; when she saw how close the horses were, she tried to pull me along faster, as though she could help, as though she could give me back my body whole. I cursed fluently as my steps stuttered.

At last Caryl seemed to see the problem, and she tried to release my hand. But then she’d be dead for real, so I crushed her hand in my grip, refusing to let it slip away. The effort broke my rhythm, and I stumbled.

We both fell to the hard, hot ground in a tangle of bones and titanium, and the posse rode us down.

I heard Caryl screaming in my ear, smelled blood. I felt my bones snap, the hot, bright pain of muscle tearing like raw chicken. I entered a slow-motion adrenaline dream, flashed back to falling, catching in a tree, things tearing and snapping and piercing, not knowing what was wood and what was bone. I thought I’d forgotten the fall, but there it was, fresh as new bread, and I was screaming, and my heart beat so hard it made a sound like a chair scraping over tile; I could feel it almost exploding in my chest.

Then the riders were gone, and I was alive.

I could feel my broken and bleeding body, but I looked down and saw that I was fine, except that my thigh had been jarred loose from the socket of my AK. Once I saw that I wasn’t hurt, the pain faded. Caryl was curled in the fetal position on the ground next to me, gasping; her hand had slipped away during the fall. I reached over quickly to recapture it.

“Caryl,” I said. “You’re okay. Look at yourself. You’re not hurt.”

Her breathing slowed and she carefully sat up, wiping blood from her mouth and then feeling her own limbs experimentally. Dazed, she sat patiently and kept a hand on my arm while I forced my thigh back into the suction suspension. Without my powder, I couldn’t get a comfortable fit. I settled for “not going to fall off in the immediate future,” readjusted the hydraulic valve for walking, and then let Caryl help me to my feet.

“Shit,” I said. “I have no idea where the wall is now, much less the door.”

“I imagine that’s the point of the horses,” said Caryl. I still couldn’t get over the unsteadiness in her voice, the expressive way her syllables rode the currents of her emotion.

“How are you feeling?” I asked her.

“Perfectly fine,” she said, squeezing my hand.

“Well, I don’t see a Gate standing around, do you? So if it’s in here, it must be in one of those buildings.” I pointed to the little town.

“Do you hear something?”

I did hear it. The white noise of ragged breathing and feet pounding on sand. We both turned to see Teo sprinting toward us, followed by a wild-eyed Tjuan, who had thrown Gloria over his shoulder. They were being chased by nothing we could see, other than their own dust clouds.