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I had a sudden flood of memories, not mine, but vivid just the same: the hulk I was inhabiting once small and frightened, his young wrists scarred from shackles he couldn’t break, his child ribs showing through the scraps of clothing he wore, yet being forced to fight nonetheless. Because if he did not, the rod came, the tip of which felt like fire. It hurt; it burned. And, eventually, if used enough, it killed.
So he fought, even though he knew his role wasn’t that of victor. He was to be loaned out to battles as one of the bodies carried away at the end of the night, to give the crowd the blood it craved, yet spare the better combatants. The ones who chose to be there, as he did not.
Yet, again and again, they were the ones carried away, and he remained, battle-scarred and seething, growing larger than them all, and waiting . . . for his chance. Not to live; he had nothing left to go back to. He didn’t know where they’d found him, who his people were, didn’t even know his true name. Only the one they’d given him: Magdar. It meant “cudgel” in some Earth tongue, and that was all he’d ever been.
What did he know of life?
No, his plan wasn’t escape, but to do what he’d been trained to do: to kill. This slaver, the one who owned him now; the others, who had had him before—until he became too much to handle; THE slavers, the two who had taken him from his home, who had ripped him from his mother’s arms, who had dragged him screaming through a portal.
Into this never-ending nightmare.
Killers. Abusers. Desecrators.
He would have them; he would have them all.
And I will help you, I promised, while scenting the air, drawing in great bushelfuls at a time, filling the great chest. And no, I hadn’t been wrong. I could still smell him, and not just the residue his presence had left behind. But him, although distant now, indistinct.
And getting more so by the second.
We let out a roar and leapt across the roof, to the side facing the parking lot. With the distance and these eyes, I couldn’t make out much, even with the lot lights spearing the darkness. But I could see movement, and a slim, pale shape weaving among the cars, because that portal hadn’t gone to Faerie, had it? It had let out somewhere near the bottom of this building, like an emergency slide without the slide, and now our prey was getting away.
And I couldn’t catch him like this.
Your shackles are gone, I reminded the other. Come find me when this is over. And we will hunt again.
I felt the nod, the way I had when I’d made my initial offer. And then the disorientation of a mental flight hit me, a thousand minds crowding in from all sides, all at once. Overwhelming, exhausting, thrilling . . .
Until I burst free of the building and soared into the night.
I didn’t have much time, and not only because of the slaver. I couldn’t hold free flight for long; I had to have an avatar, and soon. But there were far fewer options out here.
There were some vendors cleaning up and getting ready for another onslaught after the fight. There were a few drunks under tables and slumped in tents, too far gone to care about the night’s revelries. There was a bag lady with her little cart, who had wandered in through the unwatched gate, because its keepers had snuck away to the fights. And who was now staring around, her mouth hanging open.
None of which could help me.
But he could.
The troll my twin had sent to watch her weapons was sitting in the cab of our truck. The door was open, because there wasn’t enough room for him to be comfortable inside even with the seat all the way back. He was therefore sitting sideways, one huge leg bent over the other, to bring his foot up to his face.
So he could pick at his toes.
These creatures would have fascinated me another time, how clear, how clean their minds were. With none of the anxiety, the constant worry, the thousand pesky thoughts even a dull-witted human had running in the background all the time. This one was simply thinking about his toe, and the splinter that had somehow wedged itself into the tender flesh around his cuticle.
He was perfect.
And a moment later, he was straightening up, was twisting around in the driver’s seat, was grasping the wheel—
And was then just sitting there.
Because neither of us knew how to drive.
I cursed, and felt his apology; he wanted to help. Not your fault, I told him, and then cursed again, the deep sound echoing around the cab as the albino sped past us in a red sports car. One that screamed its way out of the lot a moment later, but we had no way to follow. The troll didn’t know what to do, and my twin’s mind was still unconscious, buried under a couple of fallen combatants. Even had I been willing to risk direct contact, she couldn’t help me.
Damn it!
Someone knocked on the door of the cab. I looked out and saw the bag lady from before, hanging off the side of the truck, gripping the mirror. And looking more than a little disturbed. She was babbling and pointing back the way we’d come, as if trying to tell somebody about the madness she’d just witnessed.
Until her bleary eyes caught mine, and she registered who it was, exactly, she was talking to.
