and his efforts to push me away are feeble, like the flapping hand of a newborn child.
I drain him until his heartbeat starts to flutter. Pulling away from his ravaged throat, I yank the knife out of my neck. The pain makes me howl, and I'm shaking with adrenaline as I plunge the knife into his chest. He stares at me glassy-eyed, his last breath bubbling out through the ruin of his throat.
I stagger away from the car, pressing my hand over the wound in my neck. Close, I will my flesh. It would be ironic to pass out from blood loss now, wouldn't it? I press harder, my fingers slick. I don't need Mother or the warm darkness of the humus. I can do this myself. I can protect myself.
The flow tapers off, and when I move my hand away, there's no sudden spurt of fresh blood. The skin around my collarbone itches fiercely, and I channel a burning desire to scratch into running instead.
The helicopter is moving toward the tower. Trailing beneath it is a long cable with a heavy hook assembly.
I still have to get that door open at the base of the tower, and then climb the stairs inside. I have no idea how many Arcadians are waiting for me. It'll take too long.
The tower is made from rough bricks. Not rough enough that a sane climber would attempt to ascend the face of the tower. But there are enough windows that someone who was more physically capable than the average rock climber might be able to make the climb.
I sling the MP7 around to my back, getting it out of the way. As the helicopter moves into position over the tower, I make a running leap. My hands frantically grab at the bricks, trying to find enough purchase to keep me from tumbling back to the ground.
The first window is only a few meters higher. If I can get a good grip, I can launch myself to the sill. My left hand catches on a nub of rock; my feet scrabble against the brick.
I'm not falling. Not yet.
FORTY
The helicopter hovers above the statue of Pachacutec, a steel cable dangling from its winch assembly. The noise and downdraft from its rotors turn the top of the tower into the yowling center of a localized storm. The statue stands on a raised platform, and it's high enough to obscure me as I lever myself onto the roof. The noise covers any clumsy noises I make.
There is a viewing area on the roof, but most of the space is dominated by the statue which fills up most of the back portion of the roof. On the other side of Pachacutec are three Arcadians: two are busy with the cable and a bound prisoner; the third is paying more attention to the stairs that descend from the roof. The cable is attached to a harness one of the two is wearing, and as I watch, he wraps his arms around the bound prisoner as both of them are lifted off the roof. He kicks off from the chest of the statue to make sure he doesn't get tangled in Pachacutec's outstretched hand.
His cargo is wrapped in an industrious web of restraints and her head is covered with a black hood. I can see enough of her clothing to recognize that it is Phoebe.
I hesitate. Where's Mere? As the pair go up, my stomach sinks.
The other car.
Things have been moving so quickly the last few minutes, I haven't had a chance to think about what's been going on, but it all starts to sink in. They aren't after Mere. They're snatching Phoebe.
She told me and I hadn't been listening. It's not about you.
Escobar wants Phoebe, for some of the same reasons he must have kept tissue samples from Nigel. But she's pure, a first generation child of Arcadia, untainted by reburial. They want her flesh to feed their chimera.
Talus wanted Nigel and me off the boat so he could take Phoebe. But that failed when Phoebe went overboard as well. Both sides floundered until Phoebe checked in with Callis. But he couldn't convince her to come in. She prefers the high ground, the sniper's position. She prefers to know a situation is safe before acting. She wouldn't expose herself, not after being betrayed on the boat by other Arcadians. She might trust Callis enough to call him, but not enough to reveal herself until after she had a chance to