Spellbound: Book II of the Grimnoir Chronicles

I speak to the just people of the south. You charge that we stir up insurrection among your slaves, and more insidiously, amongst your slaves with dangerous magics. We deny it. Where is your proof? Harper’s Ferry! The mad wizard John Brown was no Republican. Despite this slander, we will strive to keep harmony in the Republic. Yet if our sense of duty forbids this, then let us stand firm. Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith, let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it.

—Abraham Lincoln,

Speech at the Cooper Institute,1860

Mason Island

Faye could hear the gunfire and see the occasional flash through the trees. She checked her head map for the fiftieth time and found that her magic still wouldn’t work against the island’s defenses. Faye, Whisper, and Hammer were sitting in a car parked just north of where the bridge reached land, watching the island.

“We’d best get ready,” Whisper said as she glanced up and down the Washington side of the shore. Lights were now on in many windows and people were coming outside to see what the commotion was. Soon the police would arrive, so Whisper would set the bridge on fire to make a mess of things and then they’d have to skulk away.

That was really making Faye mad. Somewhere on that island, Francis and a bunch of her friends were in danger, and she couldn’t do a darn thing about it. Here she was, one of the most powerful Actives anybody knew of, with a perfectly good automatic shotgun, bandoleers full of buckshot, a .45, and a great big stag-handled stabbing knife, but with nobody to use any of this useful stuff on. Since Sullivan had said the island was muddy, she’d even worn pants. Faye was ready to get to work.

Suddenly there was a huge flash of light on the island. It was so bright that it was almost like looking into a photographer’s pan of flash powder when it went off. It took a second before they heard the loud whump that was then followed by an ominous rumble. An orange glow began to grow behind the trees, obviously a fire, and Faye could see the smoke curling slowly in front of it.

“What in the world was that?” Hammer exclaimed.

“I don’t know.” Faye checked for the fifty-first time . . . only this time her map could actually reach the island. There were a few smaller bits that were all blurry on the periphery where some of the other little Dymaxions were still working, but the great big one was off. There was something else really weird going on, a confusing circle that seemed to poke a hole in her head map, but other than that, she was good to go. “All right!”

“Faye, can you—” Whisper turned, but Faye was already gone.

Crow was thoroughly enjoying himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun. The Grimnoir had shot him hundreds of times, but it didn’t matter. A Summoned was given form in this world by gathering up stray matter and coalescing it into a physical body. The smoking substance that most referred to as Demon’s ink bound the creature’s essence to this world, and in order to banish the creature, the created body had to be battered to the point until most of that essence had escaped. On a form as resilient as this one, that was very difficult task.

Sure, this wasn’t exactly what the Summoned had looked like back when it had been a real, living, breathing being on its own world. With some effort he could make the bodies appear completely human, or he could set them free, to take on a more familiar form. Crow knew that the Summoner’s subconscious played a role in how the creatures appeared here. He didn’t want to think too hard about why his always tended to look so evil. He figured it had something to do with all those hellfire and brimstone sermons he’d had to endure as a child.

The bullets felt like bee stings. The Grimnoir were falling back through the trees, each one pausing in turn to stop and futilely shoot at him as their friends ran by. Let them run. It made the chase more rewarding.

However, one of them wasn’t the running type. “Get to the boats,” Sullivan ordered the others. The Heavy stood in the middle of a path, slamming another magazine into a funny looking rifle. “I’ll slow him down.”

“How do you figure you’re going to do that?” Crow laughed. The monster in the back of his shared mind was screaming for blood, but he told it to shut up. This stupid Heavy had embarrassed him, made his life difficult, and was one of the backbone members of his enemy’s Society. He had a reputation for being especially tough, so Sullivan’s death would demoralize the rest. Crow wanted to enjoy this.

Sullivan didn’t waste time with talking, he just shouldered the machinegun and fired. Crow felt the pulsing impacts as the bullets tracked up his torso and into his face. There were no organs inside a Summoned, no bones to break, no weak spots to exploit, just a shell filled with hate, but Sullivan’s bullets were spilling precious ink. The flaming blood set the brush on fire and Crow’s body was wreathed in smoke. Every drop spilled made the body weaker, and though he still had plenty to spare, it was time to end this nonsense before any of them escaped. So Crow covered the ground in a few huge steps, swung a claw, and knocked the gun away. Sullivan jumped back and scrambled to draw his sidearm. Pathetic. It was like human beings moved in slow motion. Crow simply lifted one gigantic foot, placed it on Sullivan’s chest, and shoved him back. Crow didn’t even push hard, but the mortal still flew ten feet through the air to splash into a puddle.

“This isn’t even fair,” Crow said. “You know, some of my men are taking your buddies over to the capitol for a little show right now. Maybe I should keep you in one piece? Use you the same way? What do you think?” Sullivan got to his knees, lifted his pistol, and shot Crow in the mouth. “Ah, never mind then.” Crow leaned over and backhanded him.

Sullivan slid through the mud until he hit a tree. That stopped him solid and the Heavy cried out as something broke inside of him. Play time was over. Crow reached down, stuck a claw through Sullivan’s bandoleers and hoisted him into the air. He had never tasted the blood of a Heavy before, and as he pulled Sullivan’s throat toward his mouth, he wondered idly what it would taste like.

THWACK!

One of Crow’s legs went out from under him and he was falling. Something had hit him on the back of the knee and levered him right down. Sullivan went rolling away as Crow tore through the branches and landed in the mud.

A man was standing there, holding some sort of metal club. He raised it overhead and shouted a war cry in a foreign language. Japanese? Crow lifted one gigantic forearm and easily blocked the club, but the spikes ripped holes in his shell to let out the precious smoke. He was fast, but no normal human was as fast as a greater Summoned, and Crow easily knocked the man across the trail. “You Grimnoir don’t know when to quit.”

The Oriental hit the ground hard, but he got right back up. Crow could admire the tenacity. “I am no Grimnoir!” He lifted the club, roared “TOKUGAWA!” and charged.

Imperium? Sullivan was making all sorts of strange new friends. No matter. This guy could be First Iron Guard, but he wasn’t shit without magic against a demon of this caliber. Crow spread his claws wide and prepared to eviscerate the Jap, and then for a split second, it was as bright as day.

The explosion startled him as it seemed to rock the whole island. Crow instinctively turned in time to see orange flames boiling up over the OCI compound. The air pressure seemed to change and he felt his own connection to the Summoned’s body strengthen. The Dymaxion!

Crow turned to finish the Jap, but he wasn’t there. Instead, the Jap had leapt high into the air and was on the way back down. Brute! Crow tried to get out of the way, but it was too late. The spiked club slammed into his shoulder with a blow that would have pulverized bones if he’d had any. He managed to slash his claws across the Jap’s chest as the club came back around. The spikes pierced Crow’s chest and sent him reeling, but the Jap spun away in a spray of blood. Crow went after him. A Brute could not be underestimated. He had to eliminate the Jap quickly.

Only Crow couldn’t move. It was like trying to walk into a tidal wave. He couldn’t lift his arms. His feet sunk into the soft ground. The smoke pouring from his wounds suddenly came shooting out in pressurized jets and for the first time Crow felt the demon’s pain.

Sullivan! The Heavy appeared before him, covered in dirt, a grimace of concentration on his face as he hammered Crow with a multitude of extra gravities. The other Grimnoir were coming out of the trees behind Sullivan, guns blazing. Crow was frozen in a storm of lead. He realized they had a Mover as well, as rocks turned into missiles and tree branches struck like spears. A multitude of lacerations ripped through the demon’s skin, showering flaming ink everywhere. Crow tried to roar, but smoke came poured from his mouth instead of sound.

The demon was screaming inside of their head, furious and confused at the treatment. Crow tried to force it back, but it was much harder that time, and he started to panic. What would happen if the demon took over while he was still inside? No. Focus. Get back! Luckily, the demon retreated before Crow’s Power.

The waves of gravity kept on crashing. The Heavy couldn’t possibly keep that level of Power up for long, and the second it let off, Crow would kill them all. Sullivan was wobbling. He’d been hit hard earlier and was feeling the injury now. Crow could sense the gravity weakening, and he managed to take a step forward.

Another Grimnoir rushed to Sullivan’s side and laid a glowing hand on him. Sullivan stood a little straighter and the pressure coming down on Crow increased. The Grimnoir had a Healer!

“On my mark, cut your Power!” The Jap was back. His shirt was hanging open and several deep lacerations were dripping blood, but a few of the Imperium kanji spells were visible on his skin, burning bright. The Jap hoisted the ink-soaked club as he gathered all of this awful Brute magic for a single shot. He closed his eyes and waited as the magic forces built until Crow could see the Power.

NO! Crow and the Summoned shrieked at the same time.

The Brute opened his eyes. “Now.” He bellowed as he swung, the steel club moving through the air with an inhuman speed. The crushing gravities fell away and Crow could move, but only for an instant before the impact.

Crow’s torso exploded into a black mist.

There was no brain inside the Summoned’s form, its intelligence was spread throughout the entire being. Crow’s consciousness was ripped into multiple pieces, but for a brief moment he could still see through the demon’s eyes as the horned head went flipping through the air. Then the Summoned’s connection to this world was broken and its spirit was sent hurtling back into the ether from which it had come.

Several miles away, Crow slammed back into his real body, pieces at a time. It was like a brilliant, jagged, shaft of lightning was driven through his skull and twisted. Crow screamed and convulsed, having a seizure as he fell from his chair to lay twitching on the floor.

Crow was delirious with pain, but it was almost as if some of the savagery of the demon had returned with him. He wanted to kill these Grimnoir. He needed to taste their blood and snap their bones. His Power was burnt and scattered. It would take a minute to gather up enough to Summon again, but he’d destroy them if it was the last thing he did.

Desperate and delusional, Crow reached out for the greatest Summoned he had ever discovered.

The smoke gradually cleared. The forest was on fire, everybody had been splattered with burning demon bits, but Crow was gone.

Sullivan thanked the new Healer and pushed him away. Crow had pulverized him, but Dianatkhah had got him stabilized enough for the spells carved on Sullivan’s chest to handle the rest. “I’m fine. Save your Power for somebody who needs it more.” Toru was looking rough. He too had kanji engraved on him, and they were emitting heat and light as they pulled in Power to keep him alive. Crow had tagged him good, and the Iron Guard’s chest looked like somebody had slashed him with a pair of butcher knives. “Fix him,” Sullivan said, gesturing at Toru.

To his credit, Dianatkhah only hesitated for a second before moving over to put his hands on the Iron Guard. They might not like him, nor trust him, but Toru had just proved that he was mighty useful in a fight.

Diamond came running up. At some point one lens of his glasses had been cracked. “The compound’s burning. I sent Simmons and Mottl forward to secure the breach.”

“Good.” Sullivan did a quick headcount. The rest of the knights were present. Ian wasn’t looking so good, but that was probably from the drain of having one of his Summoned destroyed rather than from any physical injuries. With the Dymaxion down, the tables had just turned in their favor. Dan Garrett had found Sullivan’s BAR and tossed it over. Sullivan caught the massive gun in one hand. “Let’s go.”

The knights moved forward. Sullivan paused long enough to pick up one bent half of Toru’s spiked club. He’d broken the solid steel bar against the demon. The one piece in Sullivan’s hand weighed twenty pounds. He held it up to show the Iron Guard. “Nice shot.”

The Iron Guard gave him a small nod. He seemed a little misty eyed. “That was my favorite tetsubo. They will pay for that. Come. Let us kill these dogs.”

The broken chunk of steel landed in the puddle with a splash. Sullivan turned toward the burning compound. He figured that if the OCI knew what was good for them, they’d surrender now.

Francis had been dragged, kicking and fighting, up the stairs, down a corridor, to where someone else had pulled a burlap sack over his head, and then he’d been carried outside. He could tell it was outside because it was colder, stunk of smoke, and the gunfire was louder. There’d been some shouting between the OCI men to not wait for Heinrich, and then he was tossed onto something, that from the rocking and the sound of the water, could only be a small boat. An outboard motor had started, and then they were heading across the river. Francis didn’t even know which direction they were going.

He had struggled against the cords on his wrist, but an OCI man sitting right across from him had growled at him to stop. They probably didn’t want any rope burns to show up during the autopsy. Francis had tried to be more discrete when he went back to struggling. That had earned him a smack over the top of his head. “I got a .38 on you. Try anything stupid and I’ll gut shoot you and roll you over the side.”

They’d been on the river for only a few seconds when a horrendous noise came from behind. Francis could even see the flash of light through the rough fibers of the hood. The boat rocked wildly as somebody fell against the motor.

“What was that?”

“Headquarters blew up! Look out.”

There were slaps and splashes as debris fell out of the sky. Francis unconsciously scrunched lower against the wooden seat.

“Hell. That had to have taken out the big Dymaxion. We should head back.”

Francis hurried and checked his Power, but there was still nothing.

“Proceed with the plan. They’ve still got the portable units, same as I d—”

CRACK

This explosion was much closer. So close in fact that the impact knocked Francis off his seat and pelted him with stinging bits. The boat shuddered and lurched. Cold water came washing over the side. Francis felt a moment of terrible panic about going in the water with his hands tied behind him, but the boat stayed upright.

His ears were ringing, but somewhere behind that he could hear screaming, then there was a loud splash as that man fell overboard.

“What the hell!” There was creaking and banging as the men tried to take cover. “Where’d that come from? Are we under fire?”

“No. Griffin’s chest just popped! What was that?”

“I don’t know. What are you waiting for?” the man closest to Francis shouted. “Get us out of here!”

“Shouldn’t we pull him out?”

“Water that red! He’s dead. Go already!” The motor roared and they were moving, bouncing against the current.

Fuller had said that when that spell hit them, the Dymaxions would blow up. Francis checked again, and almost couldn’t believe it. His magic was back. Yes! Buckminster Fuller, whatever Ray paid you wasn’t near enough.

First things first. He was sick of being tied up. Francis focused on the cords around his wrist. He didn’t even need to see them. Being a Mover was like having a bunch of invisible extra hands, and he could feel the shape of the knot in his mind. It had been tied fast, simple, and sloppy. Francis started picking it apart. A few seconds later the ropes fell away.

He’d only heard three voices, and one of those had the misfortune of having a Dymaxion in his pocket. That left two. Piece of cake, but for this, he’d need to be able to see. Francis concentrated on the burlap sack and it flew off.

The OCI man sitting across from him had a revolver in his hand. He saw the bag go flying and realized what was happening. The muzzle moved toward Francis as the trigger was pulled, but Francis was already concentrating on stopping the cylinder from turning. Just like using your hands, you want to stop a revolver that hasn’t been cocked, just grab the cylinder.

The G-man’s eyes widened as Francis threw a bunch of extra Power against the gun. Might as well, he’d been saving it up for days and felt like he had plenty to spare. The man fought, but the revolver gradually turned in his sweaty hands until the muzzle was pointing back at his face, then Francis let go of the cylinder and concentrated on the trigger. “No! No!” BLAM.

One down.

Francis turned just as the man at the motor realized what was going on and went for his gun, but it was too late for him too. The first agent’s revolver leapt into Francis outstretched hand, and he managed to fire twice before the last OCI goon tumbled over the side to disappear into the Potomac.

The shore was near and the lights of Washington were behind it. The boat had been pointed at this particular patch of shoreline for a reason. A big delivery truck was parked there, and he saw a shape pass in front of the headlights. Francis concentrated his Power on the motor, grabbed the stick, and kept them on course. That truck was probably OCI and related to Carr’s mystery attack. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let that happen on his watch. There were certainly going to be more gunmen there, but Francis had three bullets and a whole lot of Power. This was about to get ugly.

Faye’s job was simple. Mr. Sullivan had told her to be herself.

So that meant causing lots of trouble.

Unable to spot Francis or Heinrich amidst the confusion and the swirling magical oddity at the bottom of the main building, she picked the room that had the most people in it. From the way Lance had described the place, this was the OCI’s command center. That seemed like a relatively safe place to raise a ruckus. Sure, there were a bunch of folks in it who wanted to shoot her or send her to prison, but none of them were actively launching bullets at the moment.

Travelling to the back of the command center, Faye found herself in a confused scene. The room was filled with so much smoke and dust it was hard to breathe. There was a bank of radios on one wall, but they were wrecked and dripping sparks, and a big piece of the roof had caved in. They were a couple floors under where the big Dymaxion had been, but Faye could smell it burning with a sort of noxious chemical stink.

A few of the people in this room had been injured in the blast, but several of them were still up and scurrying about. Some were shouting orders, others had guns and were watching out the broken windows or guarding the door, a few were pulling papers out of some filing cabinets and throwing them into a fire that had been started inside a garbage can.

“Grims are in the courtyard, sir.”

“What happened to that fool, Crow?” asked a fat old man who was holding a handkerchief over his face. “I swear he’s failed me for the last time. The robots are prepped? Very well. Send them in.” One of the men picked up a phone, cranked a charge handle, and started giving orders. The fat man turned to the ones at the burn barrel. “Make it snappy. I’m going to sue Dymaxion into the poorhouse for their faulty workmanship! Years of work ruined . . . I was mad to ever listen to Crow’s ideas, luring these damned wizards here. I want everything sensitive eliminated, including the experiments in building two.”

That made one of the burners pause from his shoveling of papers. “But . . . those are—”

“People?” The fat man strode over to loom over his subordinate. “They’re science projects! Nothing more!”

“Sorry, Dr. Carr.” The OCI man bowed his head and went back to throwing papers in the fire.

Science projects? Lance had said there were other prisoners. Were they doing things to them like they did in the Imperium? The possibility made Faye extra mad.

Nobody had seen her yet, but she was fed up with listening to these jerks, so Faye lifted her shotgun and pointed it at the nearest enemy. She hadn’t really thought this part through. She was extremely good at killing folks, but these had information that could clear her friend’s names, so just shooting them, especially the fat one, was out of the question. “Reach for the sky!” Faye shouted, because that was what they said on the cowboy radio serials when they captured outlaws, and it seemed as reasonable as anything else.

It didn’t work nearly as well for her as it did on the radio, though.

“Traveler!” Carr shouted, and ten men all decided to shoot her. Faye pulled the trigger. She was so close that the buckshot didn’t even separate. She simply blasted a big hole through the first man, then she Travelled to the opposite side of the room. She’d killed a second one before any of them managed to get a shot off, and that was aimed at the spot she’d just left. Faye ran to the side, jerking the trigger on her automatic shotgun, and as soon as they focused on her and her head map screamed danger incoming, she instinctively Travelled away before bullets filled the air where she’d been standing. Glass shattered and lead ricocheted off metal.

Faye hit the ground and rolled under a desk. She waited a moment and let the bad guys do her job for her. Panicked, confused by the smoke and the flickering lights, with their imaginations filling in grey-eyed killers popping into existence everywhere, they began to shoot at anything moving, which was mostly their friends. Faye grinned as she pulled shells off her bandoleer and stuffed them into her shotgun. She loved her job.

Seeing a pair of legs coming close, she blew his knees off, and then she shot him in the chest when he got to her level. Then she Travelled out from under the desk to the far wall, where she shot another man in the back, jumped to the other corner and had to fire several times to finally get enough lead to go through a filing cabinet to hit a fellow that thought he could hide from her. Shotgun empty, she pulled her .45 with one hand while stepping through space, appeared behind somebody that was shouting profanities and put a single bullet in the back of his neck. His buddy turned toward her and she shot him in the chest four times before he could even lift his pistol.

Faye paused to check her head map. There were bodies strewn everywhere. That’s what they got for not reaching for the sky like she’d told them to! Except for the crackling flames, the room was deathly quiet. Did I kill everybody already? So much for confessions. But happily, her head map told her that the fat doctor in charge was limping down the stairs. Her head map also said that whatever the oddness was below, it was getting bigger, right quick, and it wasn’t like anything she’d ever felt before. Instinct told her that if she Travelled next to that thing, there would be no coming back.

She’d deal with the doctor in a minute. It wasn’t like anybody could outrun her. Faye went over to the filing cabinet and pulled out some of the papers that they’d been trying to destroy. There was lots of writing and it seemed to be in code, which meant it must be super important, so Faye gathered up as much as she could possibly carry in both arms and Travelled away.

“What the hell are those?” Dan asked as he risked a glance around Sullivan’s shoulder.

Grey metal forms were marching out of the main building and across the hard-packed dirt of the OCI compound. These machines were similar to the one that Sullivan had met at the EGE factory, with rounded bodies and ungainly limbs, only these were slightly bigger and each one had a single glowing blue eye in the center of their rectangular heads. It reminded him of an illustration from a Popular Mechanics’ article about the future of warfare, only this was right now, and these things belonged to the secret police rather than the Army.

“Mechanical men,” he muttered, then he raised his voice so the rest could hear. “Take cover!”

The knights had come through the hole in the wall and used the outbuildings and parked vehicles to cover their approach, but the robots were blocking their way. The roof of the main building was on fire, and it provided enough illumination to see at least half a dozen of the things. The automatons all froze in place at the same time. A beam of light, bright as the headlamp on a car, erupted from each mechanical man’s eye, and the heads slowly began to turn side to side like a search light.

Toru crouched off to the side. “So you Americans have gakutensoku of your own? I was not aware of this.” Before Sullivan could respond, Toru stepped out from behind cover, held his machine gun at his hip, and fired as he ran to the side. Bullets sparked against one of the robots. Three of the blue headlights locked onto the Iron Guard and three arms rose simultaneously, returning fire just as Toru dove behind the corner of another building. “Ours our faster,” Toru shouted as a bullet punctured the wall next to his face. “And more accurate.”

The robots let loose a torrent of machinegun fire, working their flashing arms back and forth, piercing the knight’s meager cover. A bullet went through a car door and Simmons’s leg went out from under him. The Torch seemed surprised as he hit the ground and a torrent of blood spilled from the jagged exit wound. Heedless of the danger, Dianatkhah low crawled to Simmons and went about trying to save his friend’s life.

“Cover the Healer!” Sullivan picked a robot and the slow thunder of his BAR began. He worked the gun across the metal body, burning just a bit of Power to make the gun heavier and more controllable. Sullivan was an artist with a machinegun and he picked different spots; legs, arms, joints, neck, the head, looking for a weakness. The light of the single eye went out just as it was able to swivel over to shoot back. Bullets ripped a line up the dirt several feet away. “The eyes are how they aim,” Sullivan shouted as he pulled back to reload. It sounded rather simple when he said it that way, but you never knew until you tried.

Off to the left, three of the blue lights went out simultaneously as Diamond used his Power to hurl debris against them. They continued shooting, but wildly, flinging bullets everywhere.

One of the blinded robots lifted its other arm. With a roar a gout of flame rolled past, forcing Sullivan to retreat to avoid being engulfed. “Flame thrower!” The robot turned, casting a wide arc of destruction, igniting vehicles and buildings.

But not men. Their wounded Torch lifted one bloody hand from his ruined leg and extended it toward the fire. It recoiled, stopped, grew, and then was forced back against the pressurized jet. The fire climbed back into the robot’s arm and ignited the fuel stored inside.

The explosion rocked the courtyard. Fire washed over several of the other mechanical men. One of them ignited, wobbled a few steps on its duck feet before it too exploded into a cloud of shrapnel and bolts. The others must not have been packing flamethrowers, since they caught fire, but didn’t burst. A flaming robot charged Sullivan, the rounds for its machinegun popping as they cooked off inside its arm. Sullivan hit it with a wave of gravity and sent it tumbling away.

Mottl used his Ice magic hit a few of the robots with a burst of extreme cold. The humid air froze and clung to them in sparkling sheen. These seemed to grow sluggish and confused. Apparently, robots weren’t that resilient against temperature extremes, but before Sullivan could yell encouragement to Mottl, their Icebox caught a bullet in the stomach. On the right, the robot that had shot him lurched as Ian’s latest Summoned collided with it, took it down, and hammered its gigantic fists against the robot’s head. A line ruptured and hydraulic fluid sprayed across the Summoned’s pale flesh.

The Summoned was knocked over by the impact of an explosive shell. Another robot had clanked its way through the drifting smoke, and this one had a recoiless rifle mounted on one shoulder. As it turned his way, Sullivan shot at it, Diamond put out its eye with a brick, but it still got off a blind shot. The wall next to Sullivan turned into an expanding cloud of shrapnel and he went rolling through the dirt. The Healing spells on his body were burning, trying to keep up with the cuts and abrasions. By the time he lifted his face out of the mud, Toru had knocked the robot down and was beating it savagely with what appeared to be a bumper torn off a car. Dianatkhah was dragging Mottl away.

It was chaos.

Dan appeared next to Sullivan and shouted between bursts from his Thompson, “Times like this . . . can make a Mouth . . . feel a little inadequate!”

“So let’s go find you some bad guys made outta meat.” Sullivan slammed in a fresh mag as he got up. “I’m heading for the command center. Cover me.” He ran for it while Dan emptied the remainder of the Thompson’s drum. Sullivan slid in behind a disabled, ice-crusted robot just as a blue targeting light swept overhead. The freezing cold of the metal could be felt through the rough fabric of his coat. He waited for the light to pass, then sprang up and continued on.

A robot lumbered out from behind a burning truck. Sullivan ripped gravity to the side, and the top heavy thing toppled onto its back, only to be immediately engulfed in magical fire. The next robot that appeared through the smoke was speared by a steel bar that Diamond had hurled across the compound, and as it stumbled back, a blast of ice struck it in the head.

Sullivan reached the mechanical man, grabbed the steel bar protruding from its chest and ripped it free in a spray of hydraulic fluid. He swung hard, and the iced over head shattered like glass.

The robots were out maneuvered, out fought, out witted, and their numbers were dwindling rapidly. They were no match for the combined Powers of the knights. They shouldn’t have sent a machine to do a man’s job. Ian’s Summoned tackled the last visible mechanical man and began to pummel it into scrap. “Diamond, see to your wounded and clear his compound. I’m going in.”

As he reached the large door the robots had filed out of, Sullivan took cover to one side and risked a peek. Inside was a wide open, pitch black space. He went around the corner and— Wham!

Tasting blood, he hit the ground hard. The robot had been just on the other side of the entrance and it had nailed him with one big metal arm. Dazed, Sullivan gathered his Power to knock the robot aside, but the machinegun arm was already coming up. A terrible blue light scalded his eyes.

The machinegun roared. Sullivan flinched, but death didn’t come. There was a horrendous racket as metal was shredded by bullets. The blue headlight turned away enough that he could see again. Partially blinded, it took Sullivan a second to realize that the robot’s gun arm had been twisted back against its own torso. A figure, dwarfed by the immense robot, was shoving it back. “Get up, Heavy!” Toru shouted.

The Brute slammed his fist against the robot’s chest, and the huge dent indicated that he was burning his Power hard. The robot crashed back into the warehouse, and Toru immediately clambered up its side and drove one hand through the narrow gap between spindly neck and armored chest. His fist came out clutching a handful of wires and a hose squirting oil. The robot’s legs collapsed and it toppled over, but Toru wasn’t finished. He grabbed the rectangular head in both hands and wrenched it around backwards. Metal tore and rivets popped, until the head was hanging loose and useless. The light flickered and went out.

Toru stepped off the dead robot. “You call this garbage a mechanical man? Cumbersome, slow, poorly balanced . . . The Tanaka Engineering Works’ gakutensoku is superior in every way. Your Cogs should be ashamed of this inferior design.” Reaching down, he took hold of the machinegun arm and pried open the metal casing. “I need this more than you do, my metal foe. Hmmm . . .” Toru tore out the Browning 1919 machinegun and a long belt of ammunition. “Though, I must admit that you Americans gave yours a bigger gun,” he admitted begrudgingly.

The Healing spells on his chest were certainly earning their keep tonight. Sullivan got to his feet. The lack of noise from the courtyard indicated that they’d gotten them all. “Thanks.”

Toru just grunted a noncommittal response as he lifted the feed tray to check the condition of his borrowed machinegun. They didn’t see the final robot inside until it turned on its eye and illuminated the Iron Guard in blue light.

Sullivan’s Spike reversed gravity, and the gigantic machine fell upward to hit the steel beams in the ceiling. Sullivan cut his Power and the robot dropped. It crashed hard into the floor where it lay twitching and kicking. The two of them riddled the mechanical man with bullets until the light died and it lay still in a spreading puddle of oil.

“Normally, this would be the part where you thank me for returning the favor and saving your life.”

“Yes. Normally . . . If we were court ladies instead of warriors,” Toru answered. “Shall we continue onward or do you wish to stop and discuss your feelings over tea?”

Sullivan looked forward to the day that the two of them would be able to finish their fight. “Let’s go.”

The only other passenger still aboard had a .38 caliber hole right between the eyes, so Francis used his mind to steer the rudder while he hid in the front of the boat. There was a tarp, so Francis covered himself, got low, and waited to hit land. The OCI on shore had more than likely heard the gunshots. If he was lucky, they would come running to investigate when they didn’t see their friends, and even luckier if they didn’t have a Dymaxion.

Behind him, Mason Island was on fire and there was so much gunfire it sounded like Fourth of July firecrackers. As he got closer to shore, he saw that to the south the Washington side of the bridge was burning. It was quite a ways off, but the sirens of the police cars stuck there could be heard. Closer now, he pulled the tarp over his head and waited.

He was terribly nervous, but his Power felt ready, which meant that there was probably no Dymaxion here, or at least if there was, they hadn’t turned it on yet. There was a crack of wood against rock, and the whole craft shuddered hard. The boat slowly turned sideways and ground against solid earth.

Footsteps. Somebody was running this way. There was swearing, and Francis could only assume that they were playing a hand torch over the boat. The boat shifted as some weight landed in the middle of it. Francis pulled down the tarp just enough to see. A man in work clothes stood over the body of the thug Francis had shot in the face. Francis hesitated, because he had no way of knowing if this man was OCI or not.

Keeping his light on the dead man, the stranger grabbed a handful of hair and lifted. He swore again, then turned and shouted back toward the truck. “It’s Pete. They shot Pete!”

That’ll do. Francis shot him through the tarp. It wasn’t like he could use the sights that way, but they were nice and close. The first bullet hit him low in the back. He grunted in surprise and stood straight up. So Francis adjusted the muzzle upwards and fired again. That one got him right between the shoulder blades, but instead of falling over, he started climbing out of the boat. This was a perfect example of why Francis preferred a .45 to a .38. The man landed on the rocks, shouting that it was an ambush while reaching into his pocket. He came out with a little pistol and popped off a couple of wild shots at the boat before turning and running. Francis sat up, and since he couldn’t see the sights in the dark, pointed and squeezed off his last shot. That time the OCI man threw his arms wide and fell on his face.

There was more shouting from the truck. He could easily hunker down here and wait for help . . . But that truck was part of a bigger plot, and the way Bradford Carr had talked about it, innocent people were going to die if he didn’t stop them. “Time to be heroic.”

Francis clambered over the side. Water splashed up to his knees, but he quickly moved up the rocks. He was out of ammo and needed to find items that could be weapons with his Power. The more something weighed, the harder it was to manipulate. The further away it was, the harder it was to control, and if something was more than forty feet away, it was pretty safe. Sure, he could throw something further than that, but good luck hitting anything.

Sadly, the truck was parked nearly twice that far away and there was absolutely nothing between him and it worth hiding behind. He concentrated on the downed man’s dropped pistol and it zipped over to him. Francis snatched it out of midair and ran for the truck. Somebody moved in front of the headlights and a gun boomed. The shot was so close that he could hear the bullet whine past his ear. Francis raised the unfamiliar pistol and fired wildly. He had to get closer.

Suddenly, Francis was falling and couldn’t figure out why. He landed hard on his face, and then he felt a searing flash of heat in his thigh. He’d been shot. The son of a bitch shot me!

He had to get up. These men were about to do something terrible and he was the only one that could stop them. Francis was far more furious than scared, and he shoved himself right back up. Pain flared through him when his foot hit the ground, but it didn’t matter. He had to get closer to use his magic. Limping forward, another bullet clipped him. This time the pain radiated up his arm, and Francis looked down, astonished, to see a hole right through his left wrist. Then it was as if somebody had taken a spear and driven it through his chest.

Shit. I’ve been shot in the chest. But he was still alive. Good thing it was too dark for proper aiming or that one might have been in his heart. He kept on limping, raised the little pistol and cranked off the rest of the magazine in the general direction of the truck. There was a clang of metal and one of the headlights went out. The shadow in front of the truck seemed to be reloading while the door of the cab opened and another person leapt out.

It was close enough. The cheap little pistol clicked when Francis pulled the trigger on an empty chamber. Francis opened his hand and let it fall, but he reached out and took hold of it with his Power. It floated in the air while he concentrated on the shadow in front of the truck, then Francis shoved it with all his might. It wasn’t nearly as aerodynamic as a serving tray, but the pistol blurred through the air, guided precisely and Francis steered it directly into the OCI man’s face. Teeth shattered and the gun hit so hard that the slide broke off and the recoil spring shot out the side.

Francis limped closer. He was having a hard time breathing. It was too dark to spot anything else to throw. The ground was just grass. Everything seemed blurry. The rocks at the shore were too big to lift. The truck driver had pulled a gun. Desperate, Francis reached out with his Power and slapped it down. It was too far to hit him very hard, but the gun discharged into the ground at his feet. Closer. They repeated the process, only this time Francis hit him a little bit harder and the next round struck the dirt. Closer. Francis was losing blood, but he’d never been this mad before. The gun came up again, and Francis surged his Power desperately. There was no subtlety, and instead of a careful invisible hand, this was a mighty fist. A wave of telekinetic force slammed into the OCI man’s hands so hard that Francis could hear bones break across the beach. He’d never done anything like that before. The gun fell from ruined hands. Closer.

His lungs ached. It was like breathing fire. The first one was getting up, spitting out mouthfuls of blood and reaching for his gun. Anger filled Francis, and this time his invisible hands reached out, took hold of the man’s eyeballs, and squeezed. He screamed, so Francis gave his Power one extra shove and was rewarded with two sickening pops.

He stumbled. He had to stop the bleeding soon or he was going to die. Closer. He was next to the truck. Both of the OCI men were screaming their heads off. One blind, one with ruined hands. Francis spotted a pistol on the ground, tugged on it, and it flew over. The driver tried to run, but Francis shot him in the back and he fell. Then he turned and shot the blind one in the head.

Blood was pumping out of his leg. He’d seen enough combat to know that that a leg wound bleeding that much was really bad, but he couldn’t stop to look at it yet. There might be more of them. Francis made it to the back of the truck. Whatever was back there was heavy, and the big truck was sitting low under its load. The bed was covered in canvas tied shut with ropes. He ripped apart the knots and flung the canvas open with his mind before spinning around the edge. There was nobody back there. He’d gotten them all.

Woozy, Francis slowly lowered the pistol. The truck was packed full of barrels and the whole thing reeked of chemicals. A length of cannon fuse led into one of the barrels.

There had to be a couple thousand pounds of explosives in the truck. It was a bomb. A really big bomb.

He found himself face down. Francis was unsure how he’d gotten there, but the grass was cool and damp against his cheek. Everything else was going numb. Good work, Francis. You saved the day, he told himself before passing out from blood loss.