Alliance ch 29: Beyond Danger’s Reach

Anger was rain to Mind Talents, its many flavors as unique as each storm: sometimes a mist, others a torrent. Sometimes tepid, others frozen slivers slicing beneath the skin.

This was the latter and ironic since the city’s shield was supposed to keep it temperate while snow fell outside. That same snow had erased Sažka’s trail. Ject had come here on a hunch—not that he expected her to try to go anywhere else. If she had any hope of rescue, she had to meet up with other Adjuvants, and she knew they would come to Kaitaetha’s capitol building.

No, the guess was that she would make it past the city’s shield and checkpoints without him.

Something pinched deep in his chest, but he wouldn’t admit it was anything close to amazement. How could a Zalerit amaze him? It was disappointment, he told himself as he weaved against the current of the panicking crowd. She had come so far only to get scooped up in the jowls of an irrationally angry mykuro.

He preferred mykuro in bite-sized pieces on a plate. Those ones didn’t swing their tail and knock masonry off state buildings. Protector Zundi would have quite the mess.

That twinge in his chest twisted tighter. He was an idiot. Mykuro hated Magni. Once it saw him, it would stop at nothing to destroy him. Yet, it would have to see him if he would snare its gaze.

The beast’s jaw worked, and its head thrashed. Spicy frustration burned in the anger’s icy rain. Sažka must have been dodging the teeth. He had been in her position once. Three to four extra points protruded from the inner side of each tooth, crisscrossing in rows of lethal X’s. He had fought to stay equidistant from them and an eager esophagus, all while wrestling with a tongue that was larger than him and had the texture of a desert plant.

Unnoticed, he caught a scale on its front foot and climbed. It creaked like a brittle tree limb, thick and rough like bark. The softer scales above offered less traction. His feet slipped once, twice. He wouldn’t reach the creature’s head in time.

He closed his eyes—anger’s blizzard clouded his vision anyway, unaffected by his blinks. A kanaber’s hilt fit into his palm, thumb swiping the laser blade on. It stabbed into the mykuro’s leg.

“Notice me, you overgrown lump of lard!”

To it, he was less than an insect. The kanaber cut, but it drew no blood. It wasn’t long enough to penetrate the beast’s thick scales. He kept stabbing, kept shouting, and spread his Mental fingers into the snow. The ice speared his bones, but he ignored it, catching flakes and piecing them together.

This wasn’t sapient thought. Every edge glistened like a blade, simple but strong, predictable but wild, with the arms of an ocean that wished to embrace him forever.

He let it. That was how one defeated a larger enemy. That was what he had learned from the winged vulpine felere, the Mind Talent master hunters. Don’t fight the tide. Join it, become it, then turn it into something unexpected.

The anger, the frustration, the tiny pricks of pain—all were still ice, but they no longer swirled freely. They formed chains connecting his every bone to this beast.

He yanked, and the mykuro’s head swiveled toward him. He leapt onto its snout. His hand fit between two of the sensitive ear holes atop the animal’s muzzle, and velvet skin wrinkled beneath his fingers.

“Open.”

Boiling air geysered from nostril slits beside his knees, smelling of brimstone.

He locked his teeth and dug his nails into the velvet. “Open!”

The beast’s jaw hinged, and its tongue flopped. Foamy drool oozed between its incisors and drenched the gravel street. Sažka fell amid one of these streams, and the luminous fog rippled away from her. Several seconds passed before she rolled into her hands and knees, coughed, and wretched.

A glance revealed torn clothes and plenty of abrasions but nothing too serious. Ject couldn’t spare a longer look. The full weight of this beast’s will careened down a single track, and if he had any chance of reining it in, his whole self had to stand within that narrow focus. Every distraction stole a piece of him, lightening him and uprooting him a little more. He was a tree facing down a tempest and surrounded by a flock of woodgnawer birds.

Silky awe wrapped his limbs, and adulation popped on his tongue like juicy berries. The crowd had returned to watch this Aylata save them.

He shied from the press of their gazes. They knew he was Aylata, but had any of them recognized him?

One of the chains unraveled, and the others snapped taut with an awful keen. The sound poured from his throat in a ragged, distant way. He planted his inner feet, wincing from the strain, and sunk.

The outside world vanished, then returned.

Something stood on his nose—a too-large nose whose sniffs birthed gales. Crouched boots came into focus, topped by a cloaked and masked figure. The darkness of its stone-chiseled eyes captured all light.

It was like looking in a mirror, except in this version, unknown colors waltzed over him. One tinted the sky and cast its pallor onto everything.

He flinched, and both bodies responded. Weight pressed against his haunches, and stone cracked. No, not just his haunches, his tail. He lowered it safely, folded his forelegs beneath his ribs, and brought his belly to the ground.

The crowd cheered, and warmth bubbled in his chest. It raced up his throat—both throats—head thrown back as a roar smashed the air. Ject’s smaller body fell between his brows, barely hanging on.

As the cry faded into the rumble of the crowd, one voice cut above all others. “You did it, Ravi Sirvette!”

A hundred mouths repeated the name, and it spread like dye in a clear pond. Hope and curiosity tinted the reverence already pounding at him from all sides. The club had grown thorns, and they leaked a thousand whispers.

“Ravi Sirvette? Did Ravi Sirvette save us? Did he save that para-lightcurver?”

Ateki, you idiot.

How could he stop it? How many memories would he have to wipe?

The chains tore from his hands. The mykuro’s head swung, and Ject flew. This body was so light, so tiny. How could it be all he had?

Gravity pulled on it anyway, and an open maw waited below.

He spread his arms and directed his dive, tucking between the beat’s nostrils. He hit its stubby, plated neck with a crunch, breath gone.

He hoped everyone—Ateki especially—had the sense to get as far from here as possible.

Protector Zundi leapt out of the sky, sparking trident in hand. With the sound of thunder, the electromass stabbed into the mykuro’s withers. Plains of muscle seized beneath Ject, then softened, threatening to engulf him like a well-used mattress.

He stood, unsure if the word on his tongue was one of gratitude or rebuke. It evaporated anyway as the crowd rippled and parted to allow High Defender Qem Sirvette into the square.

His Messenger subordinate grabbed Ateki. “This must be the para-lightcurver they reported.”

“Nah, pretty sure it’s this one,” a second Messenger called. He dragged Sažka toward the others.

Zundi scowled at the crumbled building fronts. “Sure did cause a lot of damage.” He slid down the mykuro’s side and tossed the electromass at an official. As he stomped toward Ateki, the platinum tendrils of his Ier stretched and curved, filling in an invisible mold. He raised the weapon, cutting the air with the cry of a forlorn gale.

“Don’t.” A whisper. Not loud enough. Not good enough. Ject tumbled off the beast, feet lost in the street’s swirling fog and barely holding him.

This wasn’t Ateki’s fault. Not even Sažka was to blame, or the mykuro. Ject shouldn’t have brought them here.

He ripped the electromass from the official and hurled it end-over-end at Zundi. “I said don’t.”

He immediately knew the mistake. The vague instruction sank into the minds around him, each taking a piece of him with it. He couldn’t breathe. Blood filled his mouth, hot and metallic.

His teachers always warned of the inherent danger of shout suggestions.

Never attempt one unless your will is stronger than the sum of all those present.

On top of that, the nature of this cast was inside-out, an intention to not do the thing commanded, and he left it in its most vague form. All the interpretations flooded back at him.

Don't breathe. Don't run. Don’t speak. Don't stand.

His next sprinting stride didn't hold, and he fell as if all ground had vanished. Distant arms caught him, spindly but unbreakable.

Why would he want to fight them?

Oh, right, they would carry him to his father and back into the role everyone else chose for him. He dug his toes into the gravel, but they dragged him along undeterred.

The High Defender’s short, middling-gray waves of hair shone like tin in the slanted sunbeams through the city’s shield. His small eyes widened as they took in the sight of his oldest son—the Ravi, the one saddled with all the grandest expectations, the one that never looked anything his father.

As Ject opened his mouth, blood leaked down the side of his chin. “Don’t touch the Zalerits. They’re mine.”

* * *

Mine.

The thought buzzed, squealed, and droned on overlapping repeat as vulpine figures converged on Ekymé. Wings flapped, pushing others aside. Claws slashed, and slender jaws snapped.

Twi joined in, throwing herself over his limp body.

Mine.

Was he hers, though? She elbowed and kneed her competitors, the memory of his kisses burning across her skin. She had pushed him away.

My fault. To want me is to invite danger’s attention.

A ghostly, sideways glow fought solid pools of shadow as bare fangs dropped to Ekymé’s neck. Twi kicked the creature, and it clung to her boot. She slammed it against the wall, and it stuck, wings unfurling as it scrambled higher, then dove over her.

Her jacket tore under the frenzied swipes of a dozen paws as her arms wrapped Ekymé. Her skin split even easier, blood hot and sticky inside her sleeves as she stood. She screamed at the felere, though she didn’t understand her own words.

Perked ears, skinny snouts, curved tails—all covered in chrysolite feathers. These vulpines had once been high on Magni’s food chain, though legends claimed they were large enough to ride, unlike these knee-high pipsqueaks.

They breathe invisible flame that incites madness, those same legends said. She never thought they meant Mind Talents.

Tepid breath filled her ear. “Tell me you missed me.”

She whirled, and the cruel, sunken set of Lorm Spycykle’s features filled her view no matter how many steps she scrambled back. Her spine hit the wall, Ekymé held to her front like a ragdoll, his heels moaning against the stone and glass floor.

Nothing had a signature—not the walls, not the body in her embrace, not the supposedly extinct predators, and not the monster panting her name.

“Navaria Twi, this couldn’t be more perfect.”

We have very different versions of perfect.

It had to be an illusion, a nightmare conjured by the felere. Still no signature registered, but fingers squeezed her throat. If it was an illusion, what trapped the air in her shriveling lungs? Forced nightmares always had some tell, some thread that could be pulled to unravel the whole.

She couldn’t find it. Her chest burned, and needles threaded her back, expanding into daggers—a warning of the Ier in Spycykle’s hand and exactly what it could do.

“Let’s not allow him to get between us.” Spycykle swept Ekymé out of her arms.

The smack of flesh on stone echoed, fading beneath yips, hisses, and the whoosh of wings as the felere resumed their scuffle for the biggest piece of the prey. Twi fought the urge to cover her ears.

Don’t acknowledge it. Interacting with an illusion lets it deeper in your mind.

She couldn’t sit here either. The felere were real, as were the cuts on her skin. She couldn’t see the seams between reality and illusion, but she could try to turn it on its creators. She pulled on the image of Spycykle, folded its edges in jagged creases, and threw it at every nudge on her mind.

‘Danger. Great danger. Flee while you can.’

A few vulpine heads turned to her, and warm amusement seeped through the cracked mortar of her defenses.

“Trying to tell my felere something?” Spycykle cackled. “They’re my minions, well-trained residents of my palace.”

The truth of that floated like oil on the surface of their shallow minds. He was dangerous, but that made him a good leader. His presence always meant the possibility of food for the strongest.

He was no illusion. So, why the lack of signatures?

The felere know my ’netics are an advantage. They’re blocking my senses. That’s the illusion.

Spycykle lined her cheek with his, the Ier’s light drowning her other side. “I hoped for a rematch, but you’re making this too easy, Navaria.”

She gripped his wrist and twisted it as she dropped. “You don’t get to call me by my first name.” Her good ankle hooked into the back of his knee and launched her to the edge of the stair.

Faceplant into the wall. That would be perfect.

His stumble proved too brief, righting in a pivot. He hummed. “That’s more like it. I planned to fight Ekymé while he protected you from the felere, but I’m happier it worked out this way.” He leveled a pistol at the center of the writhing mass of feathers. “How much will you protect him?”

His finger curled around the trigger, and Twi flew. The shot’s ping filled her ears, impossibly louder than the thwack of her weapon’s red strands slicing through the darkness. Dull gray tendrils laced through her ju’wack and turned it aside, but she captured his arm again, shoving the pistol’s aim into the void above.

The weapon heeded her call, meeting her palm as she sent her ju’wack arcing into the stone behind him. It took the tangled Ier with it, sizzling and roaring. When all fell still, Spycykle stood spine against the wall, arms spread, the pistol’s barrel pressed into the underside of his chin.

“Tell the felere to retreat.”

He laughed. “You’ll have to show off for me a little more. Let’s see that Aberrant blood in you.”

She flinched, and the ju’wack fell. “What do you know about that?”

“A lot.” Spycykle swung the knotted weapons, and she ducked.

No, focus. I don’t have time to wheedle curiosities out of him.

She rolled to her feet and danced around his swipes, calling her ju’wack, though it didn’t come. Her ankle screamed with every change in direction. The pistol blazed against her palm, daring her to use it. An Aberrant would.

She was Adjuvant, no matter what her mother was.

The Ier spun. She dove under one end, then sprang into a backflip over his shoulder, pointed toes parting the pack of felere and landing on either side of Ekymé’s hips.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

The pistol clattered on the floor as she scooped up Ekymé and ran, but the felere wouldn’t relinquish their prey. Bodies, claws, and teeth slammed into her from all directions. Her heel landed only halfway on the stair, and another shove toppled her into open air. She grabbed tails and feathers, legs wrapping torsos, and somehow all the flapping wings slowed their fall.

It took an eternity, but the ground reclaimed them with an unforgiving fist. Felere squealed beneath her, their pain a thousand swords through her skull. Another pounced on her chest, not that she had any breath the landing hadn’t already taken. She rolled and kicked over and over. This was making too much noise. Spycykle would find them despite the darkness.

Her foot grazed a snout, and jaws clamped down on it, parting boot and flesh like gourmet cheese. A hoarse cry tore through her, and her free leg desperately hammered her captor. It let go with a yelp, but others took its place. She cradled her injured ankle just as she had six months ago when the fire door shattered it.

She tried to conjure images of easier prey, to believe these quick meals were nearby and shove the thought at the felere, but these half-woven suggestions vanished in mud of disbelief.

Where was Ekymé? When had she dropped him? He lived, the raging pulse of his life-signature like an echo in a blizzard, lost among the avalanche of intrusive thoughts.

You don’t like him. You don’t want him. Sit still. Let us help you.

Lies. They were lies.

You pushed him away.

To protect him.

He doesn’t want your protection.

She found and gathered him to her, but she couldn’t rise. His forehead pressed into the crook of her neck, hair matted with drying blood, gashes still weeping as she crawled and fought. She was numb, brain issuing commands but refusing reports for fear of bad news.

Spycykle caught up, Ier in one hand, her ju’wack in the other, drenching the space in pale red. Distant walls glittered faintly, etched with scenes of long ago. A cool breeze chilled her sweat and prickled her skin, hissing against the laser staves as Spycykle swung. It was a signal. The felere backed off, huffing their disagreement.

Twi curled over Ekymé, face buried in his ashen curls, breath held as she ordered her heart to slow. No matter what the whispers said, she had to fight. They were not invincible. No one was. If she did nothing, they would die, but as long as she moved, she had a chance.

‘Calm. Think. Wait. Observe.’

When Spycykle stood over them, bundled staves roaring their disapproval of each other’s touch and aimed to stab down, Twi called her weapon. It met her hand as she propelled into the air. It batted the Ier away as her kick connected with Spycykle’s shoulder.

Her hands greeted the ground, arms folding, then uncoiling as she vaulted to her feet, ju’wack across her front. The Ier smashed into it, and she dropped into a backward crouch. Dull gray tendrils swept a finger’s breadth above her face, and she leapt after them.

Ju’wack again parried Ier as she caught his forearm and pivoted into a handstand. Her back bent over his head, heel crashing into his nape and confirming what she suspected. Morphometal armor hid beneath his jacket. Its weight slowed him, but it would keep her weapons from reaching his skin. If she aimed for his face, would it react like Adapt?

He whirled with another downward chop, and she deflected it, weapon above her head as her ankle gave out. Red tendrils sliced at Spycykle’s shins, and he jumped, Ier descending with his full weight. The ju’wack swiveled vertical, and the impact drove it into the floor like a nail.

The weapons were laced again, howling like a midnight storm. Spycykle’s reeling pulled Twi to her feet. A spin and a twist on her part separated the staves, but her ankle couldn’t hold her.

Why does it have to be like this again?

Another blow sent her staggering. Her back hit a wall, and its icy chill crawled across her skin. The breeze was stronger here, oversweet like decaying flowers. She slapped the stone, ’netics boring into it, and dust flew into a cloud. It descended on Spycykle and layered into stiff rock.

He laughed, Ier smacking ju’wack harder, pressing her against the wall. The dust fell, then rose again. She shoved at its façade on Spycykle, but he was too heavy for her to budge.

He leaned over their crossed weapons. “Too bad you ran from Aylata Tower. K’alaqk would have protected you.” He planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek.

She gagged. A stone struck his ear, leaving a bloody streak. In the ju’wack’s light, it shone red like a Zalerit’s.

“Show me more,” he crooned, pressing against her everywhere the staves weren’t.

Instinct screamed for her to fight, but the whispers were louder. They shoved everything else into a distant corner. Why did any of it matter? If she turned off the ju’wack, she could escape. The Ier would fulfill its promise to cleave her in two.

She would die. The dead didn’t worry. They didn’t fail. They didn’t constantly remember those already lost. They were beyond Danger’s reach.

‘I’m sorry, Ekymé. I think I did love you.’

She closed her weapon.

Continued in chapter 30

Thank you for reading!