Burn(50)

“Who are you?” he said, fear in his voice.

She lowered her head, looked at the ground, letting out a sigh. The gun lowered, slightly, too. She felt him relax a little, she felt hope reach from him.

As she had intended.

“Time’s up,” she said, raised the gun and fired.

But Malcolm knew a defensive deception when he saw one. By the time her gun was level with his head, he already had a blade out of his sleeve, slashing at her hand.

The gun went off as he cut her, sending the shot astray, his blade going so deep he severed her forefinger altogether. She cried out and dropped the gun, right next to her lost finger.

The fight was on.

He leapt at her, was surprised that—despite her obvious injury—she was already leaping back at him. The fist at the end of her uncut arm struck him hard on the temple. He absorbed it, stayed standing, and slashed at her again. She jumped to avoid it, and he took his advantage, slashing more and more.

She got back out of his reach, then looked up at him with a smile. “You let go of the Spur.”

She tumbled to the road, nearly somersaulting to avoid another swing, but getting past him and almost reaching the Spur. He made to jump on her back, trying to break her spine with both his feet, a bit of brutality she had taught him herself—

Which made her know just when to roll to avoid it. He swung his hand down in another slash, but with surprising strength, she caught his wrist, holding it there, sweat now covering both their faces.

“You made me kill,” he hissed at her.

“The cause was just,” she hissed back.

“What was the cause?”

She kicked at his knee, giving it a painful crack that made him stumble. She scrambled up toward the claw, but he threw himself at her, shifting his weight until she fell. He knelt on her arms, her face below him. “What did I kill for?” he demanded.

“You killed,” she panted, “to save the dragons forever.”

With a powerful kick of her legs, she bucked him off, catching him a blow across the face as he fell. Now she stood over him, the claw directly behind him, the aura still growing, pulsating, reaching out across the road.

He rose and she struck him again. He felt a tooth knocked from its root and spit it out onto the road. She grabbed him, the bloodied four-finger fist around his throat, the other holding her gun, which she had picked up with terrifying speed.

“Who are you?” he gasped again.

“I’ve told you,” she said, putting the barrel of the gun against his forehead. “I am your Mitera Thea.”

“What happened to my real mother?”

She paused, clearly not expecting this. “You were an orphan. Like all the others.”

“A lot of orphans in the Believers,” he said. “If you think about it.”

“Now? You ask this now?”

“It’s because I can see Nelson sneaking up behind you with a rock.”

She spun. She knew she shouldn’t spin, but she did. She had him in her grip, she had the gun against his forehead, she could pull the trigger at any second, but turning away from him, even for an instant was a risk. And he was probably lying—

Nelson struck her in the face with a stone.

She felt her nose break, along possibly with her cheekbone, but the worse outcome was that it knocked her off-balance, the gun sliding up—

She could feel Malcolm on her even before she reached the ground, felt him break the forearm that held the gun, felt him wrench it from her grip and fling it away. She shunted aside the pain as best she could, but only looked up in time to see him over her, the blades in both his hands, ready to strike.

“I believed in you,” he said, and she could see tears in his eyes. He drew back his hands.

“No,” the other boy, Nelson, said. “Don’t do it.”

To her surprise, Malcolm immediately stopped.

“She’ll kill you,” Malcolm said to the boy. “She killed the two men here today. She killed the man in our motel room—”

“Isn’t that enough?” Nelson said. “Haven’t enough people died? The boy over there, too. And what happened to the girl and the dragon? They’re just . . . gone, Malcolm. Somebody has to say, stop.”

She saw Malcolm swallow. She wondered if she could back away from him while he was distracted—

He put a foot on her hip to keep her from moving.

“And you’re saying it?” Malcolm said.

“Whatever that claw thing is doing,” Nelson said, looking beyond them, “it’s getting bigger.”

Malcolm turned to look, too, and Agent Woolf found herself unable not to look as well, though forever keeping her mind on any chance to escape.

The aura was increasing. Malcolm had clearly got a large quantity of blood from that blue. She’d have to stop it soon; the other boy was right to be afraid of it. She would find an opening to make it so. She would or there would have been no point to any of this.

“It will swallow this world,” she said, “and everything in it, including this boy here—”

Malcolm didn’t even look at her, just pressed with his foot to cause her enough pain to stop talking.

“You saved me,” Malcolm said to Nelson, marveling at the fact. “She was going to shoot me.”

“I told you. I want it all to stop.”