toward a long rope bridge. Sparks, that would be difficult to cross inconspicuously. How would I follow? Instead of crossing the bridge, however, Newton hopped off the side of the building. I frowned, then took a deep breath and snuck up to the edge of the roof. A small balcony rested below, with an open doorway leading into the building itself.
Right. Inside the building. Where my visibility would be limited, and I might stumble into a trap. Of course. I swung over the side and carefully climbed down to the balcony, then peeked in through the doorway.
The glowing fruit here had been harvested recently, probably for the party several rooftops over. That left the place dark, only a few phantom pieces of immature fruit giving light. It smelled of humidity—of that strange scent of plants and earth that was so different from the pristine steel of Newcago.
A rustling sound in the distance indicated the direction that Newton had gone. I climbed in through the broken doorway and followed cautiously. This had been a bedroom, judging by the bed overgrown with vines spilling onto the floor. I glanced out the door and found a narrow hallway. No—not a bedroom … a hotel room.
The confines were cramped—these rooms hadn’t been large in the first place, and a hallway lined with trees didn’t help. How did these plants live in here? I snuck forward, crawling over piled-up roots, when a dangling half-grown fruit tapped the side of my head.
Then it started blinking.
I stopped immediately, turning my head and staring at the strange fruit. Looked like a pear, and it was blinking off and on like a neon sign from one of the old movies. What …?
“They were at the party,” a female voice said.
Sparks! It came from a room just ahead of me. I’d almost crept right past, oblivious of the open doorway. I ignored the fruit, sneaking up and listening. “Three of them. Steelslayer left early. I followed, but lost him.”
Was that Newton talking?
“You lost him?” That deep voice was familiar. Obliteration. “I thought you didn’t do that.”
“I don’t.” Frustration in her tone. “It’s like he vanished.”
Sparks. I felt a chill run up my arms and wash across my body. Newton had been following me?
Quite aware that I was exhibiting a special brand of crazy, I peeked into the room. The foliage had been cleared away inside, the plants chopped down, opening up the small hotel room, making its bed and desk usable. One of the windows even still had intact glass, though the other was open to the air.
It was dark inside, but some spraypaint around the window gave just enough light for me to see Obliteration. He stood in his long black trench coat with hands clasped behind his back, looking out the window toward a city full of neon paint and partying people. Newton lounged beside the wall, spinning a katana in one hand.
What was it with people in this city and swords?
“You should not have allowed that one to slip away from you,” Obliteration said.
“Because you did such a good job of killing him?” Newton snapped. “Against orders, I might add.”
“I follow the orders of no man, mortal or Epic,” Obliteration said softly. “I am the cleansing fire.”
“Yeah. Whatever, creepshow.”
Obliteration raised an arm to the side in an almost absent motion, holding a long-barreled handgun. Of course he’d have a .357. I plugged my ears right as he pulled the trigger.
The bullet deflected. I could actually see it happen, which I hadn’t expected. A little flash of light from Newton, and a drawer in the desk near Obliteration exploded, wood chips scattering. The punk woman stood up straight, looking annoyed as Obliteration fired five more shots at her. Each one bounced off harmlessly.
I watched with fascination, my rational fear evaporating. What an incredible power. Hawkham in Boston had used force redirection, but bullets that bounced off him had usually ripped apart in midair. Here, the bullets actually changed direction, shooting backward away from her. How did they not collapse in the sudden change of trajectory?
They didn’t fly well, as far as I could tell from what I was seeing. Bullets weren’t meant to fly backward.
Obliteration lowered the gun.
“What is wrong with you?” Newton demanded.
“To whom shall I speak, and give warning, that they may hear?” Obliteration said, passionless. “Behold, their ear is uncircumcised, and they cannot hearken.”
“You’re crazy.”
“And you are very good with a sword,” Obliteration said softly. “I admire your skill.”
I frowned. What? Newton seemed to consider