Page 12 of The Devouring Time

We need to get away. I have to do something; I have to stop them⁠—

Something wells up within me, like an icy current from the darkest depths of the ocean. A howl of defiance, or unremembered rage, tears free from my body along with a wave of cold that turns my breath to frost.

The rain pelting the pursuing car turns to ice, and a sheet of frost instantly coats its headlights, hood, and windshield.

The driver hits the brakes, no doubt blinded by the frost. The car slips on the now-icy road, veering off and into a telephone pole. Steam rises from under the crumpled hood, and the pole wobbles, but remains upright.

I stare out what’s left of the rear window at the wreck, mouth hanging open as it recedes into the distance. A fragment of my mind desperately hopes no one died in the crash, but most of it scrambles to understand what just happened.

It felt as though something came out of me. As if I caused the rain to turn to ice and frost.

No. That’s impossible, against all laws of physics, let alone rational sense. If I believe that, then I might as well turn myself in at the nearest asylum and be done with it.

“What the hell was that?” Evans demands, his shock tinged with an edge of fear.

“I…I have no idea.” My lips are chilled, but warming rapidly. “Some…some localized weather phenomenon?”

“That doesn’t…damn it.” The car slows, and I twist back around in my seat. Ahead of us, the road forks, both options leading north, the right closer to the sea’s edge and the left heading slightly away. The roads appear equally used; either could take us to the vicinity of Hart’s Leap.

“I’ve never driven this way, and I don’t have a map of this area,” Evans says. “Which way should we go?”

“Left,” I say, the memory of almost sliding off the curve and into the water all too fresh in my mind.

The lefthand road climbs slightly, then dips to cross a low bridge over one of the many little streams rushing toward the ocean. Thanks to the downpour, the water brushes the bottom of the bridge deck, but isn’t yet high enough to overtop it, and we’re able to cross without issue.

Evans clutches the steering wheel in a death grip. Air howls through the bullet holes in the roof and the shattered rear window. “What happened back there?”

“I wish I knew. A downdraft of some sort, bearing colder air from high in the clouds?” I shrug. “I’m not a meteorologist, haven’t the slightest clue how the weather works.”

White teeth flash against his lower lip. “That’s…as good an explanation as any, I guess.”

I force myself to relax. I’m a bit surprised I remained…well, not calm, but in control of myself…during the shooting. Either my shattered nerves have healed a bit, or the immediate threat of death forced my mind to concentrate on the peril.

My ego wilts when Evans adds, “And a stroke of luck on our part, since you wouldn’t take the damned gun.”

“Were you in the war?” I ask, though from some of his reactions I can already guess the answer.

“I was. The 369th.”

“The Harlem Hellfighters?” If my memory can be trusted, they’d seen more combat than any of the White units.

“The first Allied regiment to cross the Rhine into Germany,” he says with well-earned pride. “Not to mention the men who brought jazz to Europe. My brother decided to stay in France after the war. Plays trumpet in a cabaret. But we were talking about you.”

My mind tries to stray to Emerson, dying caught in barbed wire. I manage to rein it back. “I don’t know what I might have done that I can’t remember. But while I’m in full possession of myself, I refuse to kill again. If kings and generals and presidents want another war, they can go fight it themselves.”

He shakes his head. “This isn’t a war, Mr. Caine, this is people very specifically trying to kill us!”

“Well, to kill me, though they clearly have no qualms about taking you with me.” My head aches. “Listen, I⁠—”

We crest a hill, and Evans slams on the brakes.

Too late. In the headlights, I barely have time to see the tree lying across the road before the Studebaker plows into it.

9

There’s a loud bang that makes my heart jump, and my upper chest hits the dash, knocking the breath from my lungs. My mouth works uselessly for a moment, trying to draw in oxygen, before my body remembers how to breathe.

The smell of hot oil fills the air, along with a hiss from the cracked radiator. Evans groans from the darkness beside me; the lights have gone out. I pat my pockets, find a pack of matches, and strike one.