Armageddon’s Children

TWENTY-TWO

OWL SAT QUIETLY in one corner of the common room, poring over another of the medical books she had been researching since Hawk and the others had left, her eyes scanning quickly from page to page. It was the fourth book she had opened, but she still didn't know anything more about the Weatherman's form of plague than when she had started. There just wasn't enough written about the plagues; so many of them had developed in the aftermath of the chemical attacks and poisonings that there hadn't been time to write anything down, let alone find the means to publish it. She was relying on texts that were out of date twenty years ago, but it was all she had–that and her personal experience, which wasn't much better given the rapid evolution of sicknesses all over the world.

She rubbed her eyes to ease the ache of her weariness. She wished sometimes that she could walk, that she wasn't confined to this wheelchair. She wasn't being selfish, although she had her share of those moments, too. She was simply frustrated at being unable to just get up and see what could be done instead of having to rely on others. She wanted to go down to the waterfront and have a look at River's grandfather, but Hawk would never allow it. He might agree to bring the old man to their underground home, but only if she was able to give him some assurance that doing so would not endanger the family. It was bad enough that River was already exposed to whatever her grandfather had contracted. Hawk would never risk exposing the other children, as well.

She wasn't even sure, thinking on it, that he would allow River back. It seemed inconceivable that he would not, but Hawk could be intractable about certain things, and this might prove to be one.

Across the room, where he lay curled up in his favorite spot, Cheney stirred awake suddenly and lurched to his feet with a low growl. It was the second time he had done so in the last few minutes and the fourth or fifth since Hawk had left, and she knew right away what was happening. The big dog was reacting to the noises in the wall they had both been hearing for the last two hours.

Sparrow appeared in the bedroom doorway, her young face dark and intense.

"It's back there now," she said. She gave a quick toss of her blond head toward the rearmost bedroom, which was Owl's. "And it's moved into the ceiling."

Before, it had been under the floor of the boys' bedroom, and before that somewhere outside the walls entirely. Each time, Cheney had leapt up and gone sniffing from corner to corner, hackles raised, a low growl building in his throat. He did the same thing this time, working his way to the back of their quarters, big head swinging from side to side, nose to the floor and then lifting. Owl had no idea what was going on, so she watched Cheney's progress, searching for clues.

"What do you think it is?" Sparrow asked her.

She shook her head. "It's making a lot of noise; it must be something bigger than a rat. Maybe a Spider or a Lizard prowling about, one that doesn't know the rules yet."

That was what she said, but it wasn't what she believed. The sounds didn't remind her of any she'd heard a Spider or Lizard make. They didn't remind her of anything she had ever heard. She found herself wishing that Hawk would return, even knowing she was perfectly safe within the shelter of their hideout, behind the reinforced iron–plated doors and heavy concrete walls and with Cheney to protect them. She knew she was letting her fears get away from her, but she couldn't seem to quite stop them from doing so.

She listened some more, but the sounds were gone. She exchanged a quick glance with Sparrow, who shrugged and went back to reading to Squirrel. She liked it that Sparrow had begun taking such an interest in books. Some of it had to do with her willingness to assume the big–sister role with Squirrel, whom she adored. But some of it was due to a real interest in learning how to read and wanting to learn what all those words could teach her about life. Sparrow had endured a harsh and brutal childhood, one that she had revealed in full only to Owl, and there was every reason to believe that she would never be interested in anything but honing her considerable survival skills. Yet here she was, reading books as if nothing mattered more. Life could still surprise you sometimes.

Owl settled back in her wheelchair and returned to perusing the medical books. She wished she had a better understanding of medical terms. Most of what she knew she had learned through practical experience while still in the compound. She had no formal training. But if someone in your family or a close friend of your family didn't know medicine, your chances of survival lessened considerably. Owl had always been interested in seeking out ways to protect the lives that others would be quick to write off.

"Can Squirrel have a cola?" Sparrow called out from the other room.

Owl said yes, watching Cheney reemerge from her bedroom and wander back over to his spot on the floor. He had an uneasy look to him, and even as he settled back down, he kept his head lifted, his black eyes alert as they stared off into space. She listened again for the strange noise, but it was gone. She looked back down at her book, reading. Maybe Tessa would know something; she would have Hawk ask her at their next meeting. She wished those meetings didn't have to take place, that Tessa would just come live with them as Hawk wanted. It was too dangerous to meet in violation of compound law. It would take only one mistake for them to be discovered, and if they were, retribution would be swift.

The sound came again, a scrabbling this time, directly overhead. Cheney was on his feet at once, thick fur bristling, muzzle drawn back in a snarl. Owl glanced up, tracking the scrabbling as it moved across the ceiling from the front of the room to the back and toward the rear bedrooms. Cheney tracked it, as well, hunching after it in a crouch, dark eyes furious. Owl turned her wheelchair in the direction of the noise and waited. The noise ceased.

Then, all at once, it began anew, a furious digging sound this time, a ripping away at things that suggested a determination or frenzy bordering on madness. Sparrow appeared in the doorway once more, mouth agape as she stared at the back rooms. She was holding Squirrel by one hand. The little boy's face mirrored his uncertainty.

Owl didn't know what was happening, but she didn't think it was good.

"Sparrow," she said as calmly as she could. "Get several prods from the locker and bring them to me."

She wheeled herself over to the front of the room, close by the iron–plated door, and beckoned Squirrel to come join her. The little boy hurried over and climbed into her lap. "There, there," she cooed, soothing his fears as he buried his head in her shoulder. "It's all right."

Sparrow removed three of the prods from the locker and brought them to Owl. She took two and propped them against the wall behind her. She let Sparrow keep the other. At the far end of the room, Cheney was all the way down on the floor in his crouch, so agitated he was shaking as he inched forward, then crabbed slightly to one side, muzzle lifted toward the sound of the scrabbling.

Cracking sounds resounded through the underground like gunshots, sharp and unexpected, followed by a slow shifting of something big. Cheney backed away toward the center of the room, keeping his eyes on the bedroom ceiling. Then, all at once, the entire ceiling in Owl's room gave way. It happened so fast that she barely had time to register the event before it was over. Heavy chunks of plaster, wooden beams, and wires and cables embedded in the mix came crashing down under the weight of a huge dark presence. Dust billowed into the air, momentarily obscuring everything. Squirrel screamed, and even Sparrow jumped back in shock. Owl was already thinking that they had to get out of there.

But it was too late. The dust settled and a nightmarish creature emerged from the debris. At first, Owl couldn't believe what she was seeing. The creature was a long, jointed insect that looked to be a type of centipede, but one that was hundreds of times larger than it should have been, stretching to twenty feet and rising four feet off the floor. Its reticulated, armored body was supported by dozens of crooked legs and undulated from side to side in a snake–like motion as it advanced. Feelers protruded from atop its shiny head, and a pair of wicked–looking jaws opened and closed from below. There were spikes everywhere, and bits and pieces of clothing and debris hung off the tips like strange decorations. A series of bulbous eyes dotted its flat, hairy face, eyes that were blank and staring.

Cheney was on it at once, tearing at the spindly legs, ripping them off as fast as jaws could close and teeth could shred. The huge insect whipped about to snare him, using mandibles and body weight to try to tear or crush the big dog, but Cheney was too quick and too experienced to be so easily trapped. The battle raged back and forth across the far end of the common room, the combatants smashing everything from furniture to shelves to dishes to lights. Owl and Sparrow watched in horror, transfixed by the ferocity of the struggle. Squirrel just hid his head and begged someone, anyone, to take him away.

For a time it seemed that Cheney would prevail, darting in to tear off legs and rip at armor plates, then darting away again. But the giant centipede was not affected by the damage done to it. It was a creature Owl instantly decided must have been mutated by the chemical and radiation attacks that had taken place as much as five decades earlier. How it had grown to its present size or why it had appeared here was fodder for speculation, and the answers would probably never be known. What mattered was that its alterations had given it tremendous strength and stamina, and not even the considerable wounds that Cheney was inflicting seemed to affect it.

Eventually, the effort began to tell. Cheney was tiring, and the centipede was not. The razor–sharp jaws were beginning to find their mark, ripping at the big body, tearing off chunks of fur and flesh and leaving the big dog's mottled coat matted and damp with blood. Owl could tell that Cheney was slowing, that his attacks were less ferocious and driven more by heart than by muscle. But Cheney would never quit, she knew. He would die first.

When he went down, it happened all at once. He was tearing at still another leg, searching for still another weakness, when the creature's jaws finally got a solid hold on him and clamped down viciously. Snarling and snapping, Cheney twisted furiously. Slippery with his own blood, he broke free, but the effort sent him tumbling all the way across the room where he slammed against the wall and went down in a heap. Gasping for air, his flanks heaving and his legs scrambling for purchase on the concrete flooring, he struggled in vain to rise. Blood welled up from the wounds caused by the insect's jaws, and Cheney snapped at them furiously, as if in terrible pain.

The centipede advanced toward him, jaws wide.

Owl turned quickly to Sparrow. "Take Squirrel and get out of here. Get as far away as possible. Try to find Hawk and warn him."

She knew she had just pronounced a death sentence on herself, but she also knew that Sparrow could not get her to safety in time. Sparrow would be lucky if she managed to escape with Squirrel, and that was the best they could hope for.

"Sparrow!" she hissed when the other failed to respond.

But Sparrow was staring straight ahead at the centipede, her hands tightening about the handle of the prod, her lips compressing into a tight line.

Owl realized suddenly what she was going to do. No! she tried to say, but the word caught in her throat.

Sparrow stepped in front of her, a shield against the thing approaching, and brought up the prod.

BY THE TIME Sparrow was five years old, she already knew that she was expected to grow up to be like her mother. It wasn't just that everyone hoped for it; it was that they talked as if it were an inarguable certainty and the completion of her transformation awaited only her achieving maturity.

Physically, she was already a miniature version of her mother, with the same lanky body, big hands, mop of straw–colored hair, crooked smile, and fierce blue eyes that could pin you to the wall when they were angry. She even walked like her mother, a sort of saunter that suggested great confidence and a readiness and willingness to act.

She liked being thought of this way, as the daughter who would one day become her mother. Her mother, after all, was a legend. Her mother was a furious fighter and canny leader. Her mother was a warrior. Growing up to be like her was what any little girl would wish for.

But her mother never spoke to her of any of this. Her mother did not seem to have these expectations for her–or if she did, she kept them to herself. Her mother did not once tell her that hers was the path that Sparrow must necessarily follow. Her mother only told her that she must be her own person and find her own way in the world. What she would give her were the skills and the training that would let her survive. But her heart would have to tell her where she was meant to go.

Sparrow wasn't certain if she believed this or not. What she knew is that she adored her mother. She did not know who her father was; he had been gone before she was born and no one ever spoke of him. Her mother was the seminal figure in her life, and everything she was or hoped to be was a product of that relationship. She thought about her father, but only rarely and never with more than passing interest. She thought about her mother all the time.

Her mother was as good as her word. She trained Sparrow to fight–to attack and to defend. She worked her until Sparrow was ready to drop, but Sparrow never complained. She was a good student, and soon she had mastered the exercises her mother had given her to do. Her dedication was complete. She was not yet big enough to be effective, but she knew she would grow and when she did, she would be ready. She trained every day that her mother was not away, and she practiced on her own when her mother was gone. She was determined to be the best; she was set on making her mother proud.

They lived in the mountains, high up on the slopes in a fortified camp that her mother had established years before Sparrow was born. It was from there that her mother led her raiding parties on the slave pens and the slavers that terrorized everyone. Most of the villages surrounding were small and poorly defended–easy prey for the ravers and the madmen. The larger compounds, the safe ones, were in the cities, miles away from where she lived. Her mother didn't trust them. Her mother believed in freedom and independence; she placed her trust in speed and mobility. Her camp was settled on a cliff shelf accessible only by a series of narrow trails that no one but those who followed her knew about and which could be easily defended. The shelf was fronted by a sheer cliff wall and backed by heavy forest leading up to the impassable slopes of the mountain behind it. It was a good location; it had kept them safe for a long time.

But, as it so often happened in the postapocalypse, their success caused resentment, resentment turned to treachery, and treachery gave them away. Word of their existence spread; vivid descriptions of their raids on the slave camps and the slavers traveled far and wide. Eventually, their enemies began to hunt for them in earnest, and found out where they were. Then one among their number grew jealous and betrayed them. It was a foolish act, one born of anger and poor judgment and not of deliberate intention to cause harm. But the result was the same. The slavers found the path leading in and a way to get past the guards and laid their plans carefully.

They came at night, when most were sleeping. They advanced in silence until they had overcome the guards, and then they charged in screaming and firing their automatic weapons. They were on a mission of destruction, and they were ruthless in their efforts to carry it out. They killed everyone they came upon–men, women, and children–making no effort to take prisoners or to distinguish those who resisted from those who tried to surrender. There were dozens of them, all heavily armed, fed by chemicals or their own peculiar madness, and without a single drop of remorse to give them pause.

Sparrow woke to the sounds of weapons fire, and then her mother was beside her, snatching her up and bearing her from their shelter and into the teeth of the madness. Without speaking a word and without slowing, her mother carried her through the camp–past the dead and dying, past the fires burning everywhere, past shadowy forms that flitted through the night like ghosts. Sharp bursts of gunfire rose all around, and Sparrow closed her eyes and prayed for it to stop.

She was terrified; she wanted to cry, but she would not let herself.

Then they were huddled together in the darkness, and her mother was kneeling in front of her, their faces only inches away. Her mother wore a backpack and carried her Parkhan Spray. "I need to have my hands free to use my weapon. Stay close to me. I will not leave you behind, no matter what." She paused. "I love you, little one."

A moment later she was back on her feet, holding the big, black–barreled Spray in front of her, swinging it about and yelling at Sparrow to run. Together they raced across a short stretch of open ground between two of the burning shelters, her mother firing the Spray in short bursts at the dark forms that rushed toward her. Sparrow heard the hiss and whine of bullets as they flew past her head and saw the muzzle flashes of the enemy weapons in the shadows. The sounds were terrifying, and she ran as if she were on fire and only the rush of the wind could extinguish the flames.

They reached the woods behind the camp, the weapons fire tracking them all the way, and suddenly, just as they passed into the trees, she felt a fiery sting on her arm and another on her leg. She heard her mother grunt and saw her falter, then straighten and continue on. Biting her tongue against the pain of her wounds, she followed. They ran deep into the trees, away from the carnage of their home, the sounds of death slowly receding behind them as darkness and shadows closed about.

They ran a long way after that before her mother slowed, and by then they were deep into the woods and climbing the slope behind them into the mountains.

Her mother glanced back at her, saw that she was holding her injured arm, and stopped at once to take a look. As she did so, Sparrow saw that the whole front of her mother's shirt was wet and slick with blood.

"Mama, you're hurt!" she whispered, reaching for her.

Her mother intercepted her hands and held her away. "No, there's nothing wrong," she said quickly. She smiled quickly. "Are you all right? Can you walk?"

Sparrow nodded. "Then we have to keep going."

They climbed high into the mountains, and soon all they could see of the camp was a fiery dot burning out of the blackness below. But the sounds of the killing were still audible, shrill and terrible, and Sparrow was forced to listen. She knew what was happening. All of her friends, all those people she had grown up with, were gone. Only she and her mother and perhaps a handful of others had escaped. Tears flooded her eyes with the realization that she would never see her friends again. She wiped at the dampness and tried not to let her mother see.

It was only an hour or two before dawn when her mother finally allowed them to stop. They had come through a pass and were on the other side of the mountain, and the camp and its horrors were left behind. They sat together on a grassy berm that provided them with shelter, facing west across a plain dark with night and a sky filled with stars. Her mother had abandoned the Spray sometime back, but she still wore her backpack. She stripped it off now and pulled out clothes and boots for Sparrow to change into. She was breathing heavily, and the blood from her wounds coated both the front and back of her shirt. She seemed unaware of it as she watched Sparrow change out of her nightdress, but her eyes were filled with pain.

"We'll rest here until morning, little one," she said. "Then we will walk west to the ocean. It will take a couple of days, but we will go slowly and carefully and watch out for danger." She reached into her pack and pulled out a flechette handgun. "This will be yours until we reach our destination. Don't use it unless you are in real danger."

Sparrow listened and nodded, not knowing how to reply. Finally, she said, "You have to stop the bleeding, Mama. You have to bandage yourself so it will stop."

Her mother smiled and reached for her hand, pulling her down beside her.

"I need to rest a little while first. You should rest, too. We have a long walk ahead of us. Can you make that walk? Are you strong enough to walk all the way to the ocean?"

Sparrow nodded, staring into her mother's clear eyes. "I can walk anywhere you want me to, Mama."

Her mother squeezed her hands. "Then everything will be all right." She sighed heavily. "I have to rest now. I'm very tired. Don't forget, little one. I love you. I will always love you."

She lay back against the wall of the berm, and her face was pale and drawn in the starlight. Her eyes closed and her breathing slowed. Sparrow lay down next to her, pressing close, still holding her hand. She looked over at her mother's face and thought how much she loved her in turn. She told herself that she would be strong for her mother and would not complain. She would do whatever her mother wanted her to do.

Moments later, she fell asleep.

When she woke, it was morning. The stars had gone and taken her mother with them.

"SPARROW!" OWL HISSED.

But Sparrow didn't hear her. She was remembering her last night with her mother. Almost five years had passed, yet it might as well have been yesterday.

She would never forget what her mother had done for her–how she had carried her from the killing ground of the camp, entrusted her with a weapon to protect herself, told her where to go to find safety, and given her a chance at life. It was all her mother had been able to do for her at the end, but it was enough.

I will grow up to be like my mother, Sparrow had promised herself afterward. I will make her proud.

The words recalled themselves now as she stepped in front of Owl, holding the prod at port arms, her finger on the charging trigger. She would have preferred the flechette her mother had given her or the big Parkhan Spray, but both were long since gone. The prod would have to do.

"Sparrow!" Owl pleaded a second time. "Get out of here!"

Sparrow heard her this time, but ignored her, her eyes fixed on the giant centipede. She had already seen how quick it could be, how fast it could strike. Cheney had done well to avoid its jaws for as long as he had, and she was neither as swift nor as agile as Cheney. She would probably have only one chance at the creature, and she would have to make it count. She wished she knew something that would give her an edge—a weakness or a way around its formidable defenses. Tearing off its legs had barely slowed it. Its body was ar–rnored from head to tail, and even with his huge teeth and tremendous strength Cheney hadn't been able to do much damage to it.

You find a weakness in your enemy's defenses and you attack it there, her mother had told her repeatedly.

Its eyes, she thought suddenly. Its eyes look vulnerable. But she couldn't be certain without testing her theory, and if she was wrong, she was probably dead.

She tried to move and couldn't. She could feel herself shaking she was so afraid.

But the centipede was gathering itself for a rush at Cheney, who lay thrashing against the far wall, still struggling to rise, his dark coat matted with blood, and there was no time left to be afraid. Sparrow slid sideways down the opposite wall, away from Owl and Squirrel, trying not to draw attention to herself. She noticed how the insect's armor folded back on itself from one section to the next, forming a series of overlapping plates. The plates were designed to protect it from a frontal attack. But if she could get behind it or even to one side of it, she might be able to jam the prod between the plates and get up into the soft inner parts of the creature. It didn't seem nearly enough, but it was all she could think to do.

She was not big and strong like her mother. She was not skilled or experienced. She was only thirteen years old. But she was her mother's daughter, and she had vowed to make her mother proud.

She took a deep breath and charged the centipede from just behind its head, both hands gripping the insulated handle, her index finger locked down hard against the charge trigger. The centipede saw her coming and wheeled toward her, the gaps in its armor where she hoped to attack scissoring shut. The terrible jaws opened, and its feelers reached out like tentacles. She jabbed the prod at its head in desperation, trying to strike the eyes, but the feelers knocked her blows aside. Even so, the prod had a measurable effect, and the insect's huge body shivered as the electrical charge jolted it. Sparrow struck at it again and again, but she couldn't find an opening between the armored plates and was finally knocked aside by one of the skittering legs, her arms and face cut and bleeding.

Instantly, the centipede came after her, and she knew she was dead.

But suddenly Cheney was there, back on his feet and attacking from the other side, lunging wildly at the vulnerable legs, ripping and snarling as if gone completely mad. The attack caught the centipede by surprise, and it curled back on itself, jaws snapping at this new attacker. As it did so, it spread wide the plates on Sparrow's side. Seeing her chance, she scrambled to her feet and rushed in with the prod and jammed it deep into the opening just behind the head, the prod on full power, the trigger locked down. The centipede jerked as if it had been slapped by a giant hand, and Sparrow could see flashes of electricity spurting from inside the plates and could smell something terrible burning. Cheney was down again, his strength gone, his back toward the wall. But the centipede had no time for Cheney. It had lost all interest in anything but ridding itself of the prod, which was lodged now between its body sections.

Sparrow didn't wait. As the creature thrashed across the floor, fighting to dislodge the prod, she snatched up the spare that had been resting against the wall next to Owl, powered it on, and charged in again. It was a more dangerous effort this time, the centipede's body twisting and jerking wildly, its nervous system gone out of control. One wrong step and she would be pinned beneath it. But she would not be turned back now. She ignored the blows she took from the spiky legs, ignored the blood in her eyes and the pain that racked her body, and found an opening midway back in the spiky body where she buried the prod all the way up to her hands between the plates. The centipede reacted at once, writhing in agony all the way back across the room. Jammed against the wall, it convulsed, shuddered once, and lay still.

Sparrow stood in the center of the room, a roaring in her ears that she couldn't explain and the smell of death and blood all around her. She bit her lip against the tears that threatened to flood her eyes. She would not cry.

I did it, Mama, she thought.

She hurried across the room and knelt beside Cheney, flinching at the angry look of the wounds that covered his body. She was aware of Owl wheeling over to join her and of little Squirrel bending close as she cradled Cheney's big head in her lap, smoothing the rough fur coat with her hands and calling his name softly, over and over again.

"Cheney, Cheney, don't die," she pleaded.

That was how Hawk and the others found them only minutes later when they burst through the door.

IT WAS IMMEDIATELY apparent to all of them that pleas alone weren't going to be enough to save Cheney. The centipede had bitten him repeatedly, and his system was flooded with poison. Owl did her best to draw it out, siphoning and then cleaning the wounds, injecting the big dog with antitoxins to slow or stop the sickening, but even so his condition steadily worsened. The wounds were too severe and the poison gone too deep. Cheney was hanging on by a thread, but his life was slipping away.

Hawk sat with him in the darkness of the underground, holding his head and letting the dog feel his presence. Cheney was conscious, but he wasn't responsive. His eyes were glazed and dull, his breathing thick and ragged, and his strength sapped to almost nothing. He barely acknowledged Hawk. There wasn't anything Hawk could do for him, but he refused to leave him alone, even for a minute. This was his fault, he kept telling himself. He had been careless. He had missed all the signs that should have warned him of the danger. He had left the underground too poorly protected. He had failed in so many ways, and Cheney was paying the price.

It was midnight by now, the underground silent and the other Ghosts asleep. They had cut up the centipede and hauled all the sections into the bedroom where it had broken through the ceiling— Owl's bedroom–and then closed it off. Tomorrow, they would have to begin searching for a new place to live, but it was too late to do anything tonight and they were all exhausted. Most of them had stayed with Cheney until Hawk ordered them off to bed. Sparrow had stayed until she collapsed. How she had kept Owl and the others alive against a thing as monstrous as that centipede was something Hawk would never understand.

He knew she was a tough little girl with the heart of a warrior, unafraid of anything, but he had no idea how she had survived this. Even with Cheney to help, it seemed impossible.

He stared off into the room's darkness, thinking that nothing should seem impossible after today. The world he had constructed, the family he had gathered, the life he had invented for himself— they were all falling apart. He didn't know if the centipede was the fulfillment of Candle's vision or if something worse was looming on the horizon, but he did know that their time in the underground was rapidly drawing to a close. He didn't feel safe in the city anymore. If things like this centipede were corning out of the earth, then it was time to get out.

Not that there was any guarantee it wouldn't be worse elsewhere. In fact, it probably would. Unless he could find the safe haven he had seen in his dreams. Unless he could make the story of the boy and his children come true.

Cheney, Cheney.

He stroked Cheney's big head and watched his flanks rise and fall heavily.

He wanted so badly to help him, to do something— anything–that would make him well. But he didn't know what to do. He knew that if Owl couldn't do anything, there was little chance that he could. He had no medical skills. He had no experience with poisonings. But the fact of it didn't stop him from wanting to try. It didn't change the cold, empty feeling that had settled inside.

He thought of Tiger and Persia and the Cats–all dead because of the thing in the next room. It must have caught them sleeping. It must have been on top of them before they knew what was happening. Or perhaps they panicked. Whatever the case, they hadn't stood a chance, not even with Tiger's flechette to protect them. Maybe even Cheney couldn't have saved them.

His fingers touched the big dog's muzzle. It was hot and dry. Cheney never even blinked; he just stared straight ahead. Cheney was just a dog, but Hawk knew that in many ways he was his most loyal friend. Cheney would do anything for him–for any of them. He shouldn't have to die for that. He had thought that nothing could hurt Cheney, that the big dog was too tough and too experienced to be harmed. It was a foolish way to think, a stupid way. He should have known. He should have realized that Cheney was no less vulnerable than they were, even as big and strong as he was.

He sat in the darkness with his dog and wished he could change places with him.

Don't die.

His eyes filled with tears, and he was crying. He bent over Cheney and hugged him, held him as if by doing so he could keep him alive, could hold back his dying, could turn it aside as he would an evil thought. His fingers dug into the thick fur, and he whispered to Cheney, over and over.

Don't die. Please don't die.

He willed it not to happen. He prayed for it so hard that his mind locked down on the thought and his entire self went into making it so.

And something strange happened.

He was suddenly warm, heat spreading through him as if he had turned on a switch. He felt the heat fill his body and then his limbs. It should have frightened him, something so strange and unexpected, but it had the opposite effect. It reassured him. He lay pressed up against Cheney and let the warmth flow through and then out of him. It happened slowly, almost incrementally, so that he could feel it building by degrees and then exiting in tiny bursts. It went on for a long time, and he thought he must be having a reaction to his grief.

Then he tasted a sudden bitterness in his mouth, and deep down in his belly he felt a burning sensation. Both lasted only seconds, gone so quickly he barely had time to register their presence. But their passing left him unexpectedly drained of strength, as if he had expended a great effort.

He felt Cheney stir beneath him, a squirming coupled with a series of twitches. He almost let go of the big dog, and then decided not to. His own eyes were closed, so he couldn't see exactly what was happening. But he didn't want to open them for fear of breaking the spell.

"Cheney," he whispered.

The heat radiated out of him, and Cheney continued to squirm, then to shiver, and suddenly to whine. Now Hawk did open his eyes, and he saw that Cheney's were open, too. But they were no longer dull or glazed; they were bright and alert. The big dog's tongue licked out, wetting his dry nose. He was thirsty. Hawk felt Cheney's breathing change, turning stronger and steadier.

Then the heat pulsating through his body faded. He could feel the change happen, a slow diminishing of warmth, a gradual lessening of its passage out.

When he lifted away, no longer able to keep from doing so, Cheney lifted his head and looked at him. Hawk swallowed hard, and then stared at Cheney's damaged body.

The wounds were almost entirely healed.

Hawk could not understand what had just happened.

FAR TO THE south, somewhere along the California coast, surrounded by his army of once–men and demons, an old man with eyes as cold and empty as the deepest ice cave that nature had ever formed started in surprise as he felt the wave of magic wash over him. He recognized its source at once; there was no mistaking it. He had been searching for it unsuccessfully for almost a century.

A dark, hard smile creased his weathered features. Sometimes you just had to be patient.