Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(125)

The redhead scurried over, tapping feverishly on a tablet, and leaned over where Miles lay on the floor, displaying it to him.

It had a split screen. Two images. The first was Davy’s hospital room. Davy lay there, looking limp and gray, tubes in his nose. Margot was beside him. Aaro leaned against the wall by the bed, glaring around the room as if challenging the air itself.

The other screen showed Miles’ childhood home, from across the street, the window of a car. The rhododendrons and hydrangea bushes tossed in the blustery wind of early morning.

“I’ve spoken to my man in Endicott Falls,” Greaves said. “He’s both telepathic and telekinetic. Your folks are having breakfast. My man can walk up to your parents’ house and stop your father’s pacemaker halfway through his poached eggs. He’s awaiting my word.”

Miles tried to swallow again, but the mechanism seemed frozen.

“I want that shield, Mr. Davenport. I’ve tried with reason, with politeness, with bribes. I’ve offered you the world,” Greaves’ voice was petulant. “And yet we’ve come to this. Silva, Levine, get Lara out of the vault. And get the ax out of the toolshed. I want results. Now.”

Miles fought for breath for the next few minutes, still almost immobilized, but Greaves was evidently punishing him by ignoring him.

Then the doors were flung open. The pressure on him lifted. Miles rose to his feet, shaking the chunk of chair free. One sharp wrench and the splintered chair back broke into two pieces, leaving his hands separated if still taped to bulky, awkward chunks of splintered furniture. He locked eyes with Lara as Silva dragged her into the room, the point of the knife to her throat. The red-haired woman held an ax.

“Bring her over to the sculpture,” Greaves directed.

As they approached, Greaves’ telekinesis clamped down again, so tightly, he could barely make his lungs expand. They pulled Lara over to a black marble stand that had the huge glazed pottery vase on it, not far from him. Greaves approached them slowly. Savoring the moment.

“Put her right hand up on it,” he said.

The dark guy grabbed Lara’s pale, slender hand and placed it on top. Lara held her head high, and looked resolutely away from it.

“This is the last time you’ll use that hand, Lara,” Greaves said. “I genuinely regret that. You were so talented. Silva, do it.”

Silva looked pale, his lips tight, but he took the ax that the woman proffered. Lara was evidently immobilized by Greaves as well, except for her eyes. Like Persephone. Tall and straight. Regal.

She did not deserve this shit. This was f*cking unacceptable.

Silva lifted the axe. It came flashing down—

Energy flashed out of his suddenly gaping shield, to counter the laws of physics. Hundredths of seconds crawled by. The ax blade hung in the air, frozen. Inches above Lara’s slender wrist.

Silva’s face was a hideous grimace, morphing into shock. The red-haired woman’s mouth was open too, but the sound was stretched out, distorted and unintelligible. The ax was torn out of Silva’s hand. It hit the wall, bounced off, fell, leaving an ugly mark.

A flash of pain, like an explosion in his head, and . . . oh, God . . .

The bastard was inside.

Miles crushed in the grip of a gigantic strangling shadow octopus, tentacles choking, probing, squeezing . . . oh Christ, that hurt ...

He fought back faintness. Fought for enough motor control to breathe, stay on his feet. When he managed to focus his eyes, Lara was on the ground, halfway across the room. Hand to her face, nose bleeding copiously. Greaves’ invasion had hurt her, too.

The red-haired woman and Silva were backing away, very slowly and nervously. Hoping not to be noticed.

Greaves stood there, a manic grin of pure gloating delight on his face. “So strong! Amazing! It’s not just a shield, it’s a fortress!”

Miles clutched his temples, body rigid. SHOW ME. The blast of coercion was monstrous.

He didn’t just obey. He was laid bare, X-rayed, dissected, eviscerated. He showed Greaves things he hadn’t known he knew, things he’d never even articulated, things there were no words for, just images, analogs. Flows of braided energy, intricate webs, feeds from the energy centers in his body he’d only been faintly aware of.

Greaves was making his own citadel now, copying the information that Miles had given him with incredible speed.

“Yes,” Greaves mumbled, eyes dilated, with intense concentration. “Yes, of course. That’s wonderful. Absolutely brilliant.”

Miles could still barely breathe, but something was happening, spaces opening up. Dark places filling with light. Cramped places loosening. The pressure was shaking something loose. Something new and big and raw. Powerful. It gave him traction, to counter that crushing energy, and . . .

push back.

Greaves let out a shocked cry and jerked, his hand going up to his head. “What . . . what the hell?” he gasped.

Miles jabbed again, with everything he had.

Greaves redoubled his own pressure, his face darkening. “You arrogant little piece of shit!” he snarled. “I was training my mind for combat when you were a baby playing with f*cking alphabet blocks!”

He managed to make his vocal apparatus function. The words came out in a thick, rasping croak. “So hit me . . . Grandpa.”

Greaves lifted his arms, and brought them sharply down with a roar that echoed like a thunderclap. The windows of the room exploded outward, a shattering crash. The light bulbs all exploded. The sculpture on the marble stand cracked, the entire top and part of one side tumbling to the ground with a majestic crash. Twisted stalactites from the fallen section skittered across the room. The remaining ones stuck up from the base of the inside of the sculpture like ragged teeth.