Dreams and Shadows - By C. Robert Cargill Page 0,132
he’d been strung out for days on some illicit back-alley juice cut with cold medicine.
“Are you okay?”
“I am now. What did they tell you?”
Shit. Who? Who was Mallaidh talking to? “They didn’t tell me anything,” he said, trying to buy a little time, fishing for a hint with which to craft a believable story.
“What do you mean they didn’t tell you anything?” Ewan eyed Knocks up and down.
Knocks glanced around for clues, spying a massive wooden pike, its blade smeared in fresh blood, running down and pooling in a stained circle on the floor beneath it. He looked up at Ewan, who was now piecing things together.
Ewan lunged for the pike. Knocks stepped between him and the weapon, pulling a blade from his pocket, sinking it deep into Ewan’s exposed side, slipping the flat of it between two ribs.
Ewan screamed, the force of it resonating in Knocks’s bones.
Knocks smiled; finally. “You hesitated,” he gloated.
“It won’t happen again,” Ewan spat out. He swung, landing a blow that picked Knocks off his feet, throwing him across the room. He was as strong as a redcap now, perhaps stronger. Still rattled by Ewan’s blow, Knocks slammed into the wall on the opposite side of the room.
Ewan plucked the dagger from his side, tossing it away, a spray of blood following. Gritting his teeth through the pain, he picked up the pike and charged Knocks, screaming.
Knocks shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from it, darting away before he was finished, the pike swinging just inches from his neck. Caught without his knife, without the element of surprise, he had no cards left to play.
I have to get out of here.
He made a break for the door, but Ewan put a stiff leg between his running feet, sending him sprawling, shattering his cheek, putting a solid knot on his forehead.
Ewan was ready to charge again.
Knocks grabbed the doorknob and turned it, flinging the door open.
Ewan brought the pike to bear once more.
Knocks dove out the door, dragging his left arm behind for balance. The blade of the pike whistled through the air, catching Knocks’s exposed palm, cutting a gash across it from one side to the other. He winced in pain, losing his footing, crashing headfirst into the rickety railing overlooking the fetid pool.
Like a shot, Knocks jumped to his feet, springing toward the stairs. He ran as fast as his feet would carry him, down the industrial cement walkway, silently cursing himself for blowing this so badly, praying for the miracle that would buy him time to get away. This was all wrong, he chastised himself; he’d gotten cocky. I never should have tried this alone.
His hand burned as if he’d stuck it in fire, the wound stinging like it was full of broken glass; he clenched it into a painful fist, only making it worse. Fingers throbbed, bones ached. The pain spread, setting fire to his arm all the way up to his elbow.
He reached the stairs, racing down them, desperate to reach the bottom.
MALLAIDH RAN ACROSS the parking lot, outrunning phantoms. She wasn’t sure how long she had run or how fast; all she knew was that she was finally here. There were less than a hundred steps between her and Ewan; nothing was going to stop her now.
She rounded a corner, bolting up the stairs, first up one flight, then up a second. One floor left, she thought to herself. Space and time. Once again she had crossed space and time. And then she found herself beside herself, literally, running past a doppelganger bearing her own image.
They both stopped, staring, mouths agape, eyes wide in surprise. Her first instinct was to lay into the duplicate, attacking whoever it was that had stolen her face, but as her muscles tightened to throw a punch, one thought overwhelmed her. Ewan. She took off again, this time somehow running faster than before, scrambling up the stairs, down the derelict walkway.
Ewan stepped out from the apartment, bloody and naked, pike at the ready. Mallaidh—the sight of him still standing fluttering her heart with joy—threw her arms open wide. His eyes narrowed, his muscles clenched all at once. She smiled.
Ewan drove the pike straight through her gut.
Her eyes went cold with shock.
“Space . . . and time . . . ,” she said softly, struggling for breath.
“What?” asked Ewan, confused.
He looked down at the wound. Mallaidh cupped it with her hands, desperately holding her innards in, blood pouring into them; neither of them gashed.