Dawnbreaker: Legends of the Duskwalker - Book 3 (3 page)

The Weir squawked at her once, hands outstretched. She twisted and punched out with the rifle, one-handed, and jabbed the creature in the forehead with the muzzle, checking its momentum. Its head snapped back with the impact, its hands splayed to the sides. Cass jolted in close and followed with a strike to its exposed throat. The creature managed a broken croak and locked its eyes on hers just before she drove the butt of her gun into its temple.

She was moving too fast to stop. The impact sent a sickening crunch vibrating through her hands. And as the blue-light glow of the creature’s eyes doused and it collapsed, the look on its feminine face lingered, fixed in her mind, crystal-clear as if time had frozen. Not the emotionless stare of the dead; not the savage snarl of animal rage. An expression. Wild-eyed, frantic. Lost. Afraid. Not an
it
. A
she
.

What had Cass just killed?

A clatter from behind spurred her forward, even as her mind lagged behind. She leapt over the stricken Weir and ducked into the alley, weapon up in case any others had been trailing the one she’d just slain. There was nothing. Cass quickly swiveled and leaned back around the corner, just enough for the rifle barrel to clear the edge. Nothing there either. Calls were still coming from every direction. And Wick still hadn’t sent her a new position.

A pair of Weir raced by the opposite end of the alley, but they didn’t look her way. In fact, they looked like they were headed back towards the courtyard. Cass drew in close to one side of the alley and slowed to an aggressive walk.

She had to get some distance to regroup, reassess. She tried to get her bearings as best she could. As she analyzed her surroundings, Cass realized she’d been so intent on Wick’s points, she hadn’t paid full attention to how she got from one to the next. Surely he’d send her another any second now. Maybe he was tracking her somehow, and her sudden flight from her last position had him scrambling to find her another position. Thin hope in that, but she clung to it.

A single Weir called out somewhere off to her left and Cass swiveled at the waist, weapon leveled in the direction of the cry without interrupting her stride. Wherever it was, she couldn’t see it now. And as she turned back to face forward, it suddenly dawned on her. She’d heard that call clearly enough to know it was a single Weir. Things were quieting down. And she couldn’t hear any more gunfire.

Cass rounded a corner and saw a gutted three-story building across the street that looked familiar. Something she’d passed before. She checked both directions before crossing to it; there were no Weir in sight. The building had a wide entrance, wide enough for two doors though only one was hanging there now. There were no windows on the lower floor, not even cracks for the moonlight to get in. Even though her modified vision enabled her to see in total darkness, the building had a deathly feel that made her hesitant to enter. Still, she needed cover while she waited for Wick’s next update, or until she could figure out what else to do. There was no way to know what she might find inside, no way to tell if Weir had gotten in first, or were searching for her in there even now.

Three Weir appeared further down the wide road and made the decision for her. She pushed into the dusty entryway before they spotted her. There was a lot of clutter in that front room; strange shapes, broken outlines. Cass had never tried to clear a room before, but she’d seen Gamble’s team do it a handful of times. She did her best.

She pushed in aggressively, sweeping the corners of the room as she moved to the front-right corner and dropped into a crouch there. She held for five seconds, ten, thirty. Nothing stirred. The room was clear. And as she held her position, glad for something solid at her back, the weight of the moment settled on her.

Her great unspoken fear, come to pass. She was on her own. Cut off. Utterly alone.

And with the Weir scouring the streets, Cass knew that her chances of reconnecting with her companions were slim and growing ever slimmer.

W
ren stood silently
at the edge of the roof, staring out over the swirl and churn of Greenstone’s midmorning streets as the citizens went about their business and the Greenmen kept careful watch. But despite the clamor below, he wasn’t fully aware of his surroundings. Instead, he was locked in a struggle of the mind, stretching out with all his will and might. Somewhere out there, somewhere in the east, were the signals that told the fate of his mother and of his friends and guardians. Somewhere across the vast expanse of the Strand, amongst the ruins of his once-great city, were traces and digital footprints that could tell him whether they still lived, or, if not, at least maybe where and how they had died.

And yet no matter how focused he was or how hard he strove, there was nothing. Or rather, there was Something that hid all else from him, like a great static fog or electric darkness. Digital nightfall. Vast and impenetrable, even to Wren’s innate talents.

It was as if everything beyond the Strand had ceased to exist; worse, had never existed at all. Every sign, every imprint, every shadow of what once had been had been swallowed up in the roiling fog. And it was no natural phenomenon. Wren could feel it pushing back against him. It was a gloom born of malice and an evil will, a manifestation of Asher’s great and still growing power.

At the same time, Wren dared not probe too deeply. There was a searching quality to that great shadow, as if something roamed about within it, seeking others to devour. Wren feared drawing its attention. And whenever he extended himself to it, touched it, filaments of it seemed to cling to him when he withdrew. To stretch and trail after him, like threads of a web or heavy strands of tar. The effects of his last encounter with his brother still hadn’t worn completely away. Every light seemed too bright, every noise too loud. His head felt too heavy, too full. And a dread lingered over his every moment and thought; the possibility that whatever Asher had done to him had been the result of a mere fraction of Asher’s capability.

Asher. His laughter echoed in Wren’s memory, and Wren came back to himself with tears in his eyes and a hollow cold in his gut. Fear, anger, frustration. But worst of all, uncertainty. Maybe Mama was still out there, maybe she was gone. And the others. Gamble, Sky, Able. Mouse. It’d been what? Three days now? More than enough time for any survivors to make their way through the underground tunnel that ran beneath the Strand. Bonefolder’s trainline. The same path Chapel and he had used to escape. Wouldn’t they have followed, if they’d survived to do it?

Of only one thing there was no doubt; Asher would come again. But when, and how, Wren didn’t know. It would be in his own time, in his own way, some manner carefully calculated to bring the most pain and terror. Wren knew that even the waiting would be a part of Asher’s planned torment; each day haunted by the question
will it be today?
, and thus robbed of any peace. Wren had tried before to stop him and failed catastrophically. When Asher finally did come, Wren would be utterly powerless to prevent it. And he
would
come. As long as Wren remained free, Asher would be seeking him. Pursuing. Bringing wrath wherever Wren had trod.

Unless.

Wren leaned forward and placed his hands on the waist-high wall that enclosed the rooftop. Forty feet below, the streets teemed with Greenstone’s citizens. The array of colors was almost dazzling, the droning buzz of voices hypnotic. Theirs was a wild expression of life, a walled city’s flagrant protest against the rest of the world’s colorless decay.

A little further forward, a small hop; would his death disrupt any of those people below? Might it not even be their salvation?

“Come away from there, child,” a voice came from behind. “Such thoughts do not suit one so young.”

It was Chapel, Wren’s sole remaining guardian. The voice was kind but firm, warm in its command. Wren didn’t have a grandfather that he knew of, but he imagined Chapel’s voice was how one would sound. The boy lingered, the idea of a final surrender not yet entirely dispelled. But after a moment he drew a breath and without any sort of conscious choice felt his heart resign itself to life. Chapel had said it before; many good men and women had given their lives to preserve Wren’s. It would be a mockery of their sacrifice to simply give up now.

Wren wiped his eyes and stood up straight.

“I wasn’t going to jump,” he said.

“I would not have let you fall.”

The people streamed about below, oblivious to the doom that hung over them. The doom that haunted Wren and brought ruin wherever he fled. If Morningside, the great shining city of the east, could fall, what hope was there for any of them?

“Don’t you ever think it might just might be easier, though? If I were... you know. If I wasn’t around anymore.”

“No.”

“Never?”

“No.”

“How come?”

“Because I believe your life has purpose yet unfulfilled.”

“Yeah, well...” Wren said, his mind suddenly flooded with images of faces. “Maybe that’s not such a great thing to believe. Everyone else who has ever thought that is dead.”

“You seem certain.”

Wren turned to face Chapel. The old man seemed to be staring right at him despite the blindfold that covered his eyes. He was closer than he’d been a few minutes before, now nearly within arm’s reach, though Wren had never heard the man move. He realized that even if he
had
tried to jump, Chapel would have snatched him back from the edge in an instant. Wren sat down on the dusty roof, his back against the short wall.

“It’s most likely.”

“What does your heart tell you?”

Wren shook his head and looked down at the ground. Traced a meaningless design in the dust. Probably Mama was dead. Probably they all were, from what he remembered and from what Chapel had been willing to tell him of the night they’d escaped. Asher’s incomprehensible power. The overwhelming numbers of Weir. Painter’s betrayal.

And Mama choosing to give Wren over to Chapel, so that she could go back and fight. Only once in his life before had she ever entrusted him to someone else; the first time she had done it because she knew she was near death. And the man who had taken charge of him then too was now dead. But no matter how much Wren’s mind tried to imagine it, or how strongly he willed himself to believe that she was gone again, his heart couldn’t accept it. Not this time. At least, not yet.

“That she’s alive,” he said. And then shook his head. “But I think it’s just what I hope.”

“Hope is a powerful gift. It should not lightly be cast away.”

Wren shrugged. He’d heard grownups say
hope against hope
before, but he’d never really understood what that was supposed to mean. Maybe he was starting to figure it out. Even when everything else told him all hope was lost, something down deep held on anyway. Something so deep it almost felt like it might not even be part of him, but rather something Other, forced in from the outside. Or maybe he just didn’t want to accept how near the end was, and how in real life the good guys didn’t always win. In his case, it was starting to seem like they
never
did.

The door leading out on to the roof eased open, drawing Wren’s attention. Behind Chapel, a familiar face peeked through – Mol.

“Hey,” she said, quiet and careful in her speech, like she was concerned about intruding.

“Hi, Mol,” Wren answered.

“Mind if I come out there for a sec?” Her gentle hesitance was highlighted by the fact that it was her roof in the first place.

“No, ma’am, not at all,” Wren said.

She slipped out onto the roof carrying her daughter, Grace; six months old, sleeping peacefully in her mama’s arms. The nerve-rig that enabled Mol to walk whirred and clicked softly, stirring strong emotions in Wren. It was a beautiful thing to see; Mol with the baby her body should never have been able to produce. Her own little living miracle. But it raised in him a dull panic as well, knowing that his presence put such a precious thing at risk. Indeed, even if he left today, the mere fact that jCharles and Mol had taken him in again might still invite Asher’s eye and vengeance.

“There’s someone downstairs,” she said. “Down with Twitch.” She looked concerned, or puzzled. Maybe both. “Twitch wanted to see if you might feel up to coming down to see to him?”

“Me?” Wren asked.

“Mm-hmm,” Mol nodded.

“Who is it?”

“I...” Mol said, and then stopped, her brow furrowed. She shook her head. “I don’t even know how to explain, sweetheart. I think maybe Twitch should.”

Wren glanced over to Chapel, who stood impassively, head raised slightly like someone catching a scent on the wind.

“OK,” Wren said, getting up off the ground. “I guess so. Down in the apartment?”

Mol shook her head. “The bar.”

Wren dusted his pants off and moved to the door. Chapel fell wordlessly in behind him. They made their way down the stairs past the apartment where jCharles and Mol lived. Where jCharles, Mol,
and Grace
lived, Wren reminded himself. On the floor below was the Samurai McGann, the bar, or saloon, or whatever the business was that jCharles owned and operated.

There was, in fact, much more that jCharles was involved in, as Wren had learned when Three had first brought him here. It wasn’t exactly clear what all jCharles did, but Wren had come to understand that most of the citizens of Greenstone either feared or respected him, or both. Wren also guessed that whatever his other business was, it might not be strictly legal. Then again, the definition of “strictly legal” changed a lot from town to town, and Wren had the impression that in Greenstone there were rules and there were laws, and they could be very different things depending on where you were standing at any particular time.

jCharles was waiting for them at the bottom of the narrow staircase, and he dropped down to a knee as Wren approached.

“Hey, buddy,” he said, and placed a hand on Wren’s shoulder. He smiled slightly, but it didn’t soften the hardness in his eyes. He was either shaken or suspicious, and neither was a good sign to Wren. “There’s a guy, just showed up a little while ago.” He paused and scratched his upper lip with his thumb. “He’s out here asking some questions. I think maybe you’re gonna wanna talk to him, but that’s up to you, OK? My fellas are all in there, and I’ll be there, and I’m sure Mr Chapel will be there, so it’ll be safe, we’ll make sure of that. But you don’t have to say anything you don’t want to, OK? You don’t even have to go in, unless you want to.”

“What kind of questions?” Wren asked. Mol’s manner had seemed a little strange, but the way jCharles was acting was starting to make Wren genuinely nervous.

“He’s uhh...” jCharles’s eyes narrowed and he took a moment before he answered. “He’s asking about Three, Wren.”

Suddenly the grownups’ reactions started to make sense. Maybe there was cause for concern after all.

“We haven’t told him much of anything,” jCharles added. “But he already knows about you.”

“Is it someone you know?” said Wren.

jCharles shook his head. “Never seen him before. Just rolled in, and he’s not saying a whole lot. I got some of my guys checking around, but so far nothing’s showing up.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Right now, it’s just a thing that
is
.”

Wren nodded, thought it over. He hadn’t much felt like talking to anyone about anything lately. And he knew questions about Three might lead him to remember things he’d been trying to let himself forget. Still. There was something of a mystery there that he might be able to help solve.

“You think I should talk to him?”

“You do what
you
want, Wren.”

“But I’m asking... you think I should?”

jCharles hesitated, worked his jaw. Then, finally, “I think so, yeah. Normally, someone walks in poking around like this, I’d just blow him back out the door but this guy...” He trailed off, then shook his head. “I don’t know. This one, I wanted you to have a say.”

Wren rolled the idea around. Whoever it was, jCharles didn’t seem to think he was dangerous. Or rather, maybe jCharles thought the man was a kind of dangerous that could be handled. But what did he want to know? And more importantly, why did he want to know it?

In the end, it wasn’t courage or any sense of duty that decided it. It was simple curiosity.

“OK then,” he said.

jCharles nodded and stood, squeezing Wren’s shoulder as he did so. He took hold of the door handle, but paused before he opened it. “Any time you wanna leave, you just say so. Anything you don’t wanna say, you don’t say it. You’re in control here, ’kay?”

“OK.”

jCharles glanced up at Chapel, gave a quick nod, and then pulled the door open and ushered Wren through.

The Samurai McGann wasn’t particularly crowded this early in the day, but the dim and hazy atmosphere had a way of making everything feel close no matter how few people were around. A small knot of men was gathered near the middle of the bar, a little closer to the storefront than to the back hall. Five, maybe six, of jCharles’s “fellas”; mostly large, bruiser-looking types who were either employees or the most regular patrons anyone could ever hope for. Their collective mass blocked Wren’s view of whoever was at the table. Nimble, the bartender, was at his usual place behind the bar, leaning over it slightly and keeping an attentive watch. His eyes flicked over as the three of them entered and then back again at the group.

Wren walked towards the table with jCharles just behind him, at his left shoulder. Chapel lingered by the door near the back hall.

The man was sitting there with his back to the door, but before Wren could make out any features someone came in off the street. The white light of day shone dazzling through the dusky bar and its radiance masked both the man at the table and the newcomer at the door in silhouette.

Whoever it was at the door must have taken a quick survey of the situation, because he hesitated there in the entrance for a few seconds and then promptly backed out and left. In those few moments, though, Wren’s heart nearly burst in his chest. Even though he knew it wasn’t so, that it would be impossible, the silhouette of the man sitting at the table was so familiar that hope unbidden leapt forth and for a fleeting second told him that this man was not simply
asking
about Three, but was in fact Three himself, come back from death and desolation.