The Gypsy Morph

TWENTY-NINE

THE WORLD was a seething cauldron of heat, wind, and dust, the whole of the visible landscape enveloped in an impenetrable haze. Hawk pushed through it as if it were quicksand threatening to suck him down and swallow him, fighting to keep Tessa in view. For the most part, he could not do so, only catching sudden glimpses of her as she appeared and then faded ahead of him. Each time he thought he was closing the gap between them she would disappear once more, and when he found her again she would still be far ahead.

Tessa!

He called to her silently, knowing that it was pointless to call aloud in this wind. For a second it seemed she had heard, half turning back. Then she was gone again into the haze. He could not understand what she was doing, why she had left the safety of the caravan to come out into the flats. Tessa did not take chances without a reason, and it was inconceivable that she would do so now, carrying the baby. He could not think of anything that would have persuaded her to put herself and their child at risk this way; it made him both uncertain and afraid for her. That there was something very wrong was undeniable, and his fear of what that might be drove him on even when his common sense warned him that he was being reckless.

Just ahead of him, Tessa reappeared suddenly, turned all the way back, saw him, and stopped. Then she waved to him and started back to where he stood, smiling in a confused sort of way. She glanced back momentarily in the direction she had been going, as if looking for something.

He desperately tried to figure out what was wrong. Everything she was doing was completely out of character. He glanced back over his shoulder for the caravan, but it had disappeared in the storm. There was no sign of the vehicles or their occupants. There was only the emptiness of the plains, a vast roiling sweep in the grip of the wind and dust. He felt a moment of panic. Even his tracks had been blown away. His sense of direction was so skewed that he wasn’t sure he could find his way back even if he wanted to. In fact, he was quite sure he couldn’t.

As she came up to him, she said, “I thought you were still ahead of me. I must have gotten turned around.”

He stared. “Ahead of you?”

“Well, you were ahead when you motioned for me to follow you out of the camp. Why did you bring me out here, anyway?”

He looked around quickly, dark suspicion sweeping through him. A huge bulky form materialized from the haze, one he recognized instantly. The monster that had been tracking him for days. The monster that had taken all the other children. The demon. It stood not a dozen yards away, and he realized with sudden clarity what had happened.

The demon was a shape–shifter. It had lured them away from the others by pretending to be something it wasn’t, isolating them out on these flats in the midst of a concealing dust storm. It had deceived them as it must have deceived the other children–by assuming the form of someone they cared for. That was how it had gotten to Chalk, even though he had been warned of the danger, even though he knew what was out there. It had taken the shape of his best friend, Fixit, and drawn him out to be destroyed.

This time it had taken Hawk’s form, tricking Tessa into following it. It must have been its intention to kill her and leave her for him to discover. But having him follow Tessa, in turn, was an unexpected bonus. Now it could kill them both.

He was suddenly enraged all over again. All of those children had been lured to their deaths by false images of loved ones, of friends, of family. It was so hateful to him that for a moment he forgot his own peril and thought only of how much he would like to see the monster destroyed.

But he was carrying no weapons, and he knew already that even with his magic he was no match for this creature.

He took Tessa’s arm, pulling her to him, thinking they must run, must escape any way they could. Then he remembered. In his pocket was a pair of viper–pricks, each with enough lethal poison to kill a dozen Lizards. Would they do what was needed?

He would have to find out. He didn’t have any other choice. The creature was already advancing on him, taking a more solid shape as it came, the outline of its huge shoulders and arms, its massive chest, its great clawed hands solidifying against the wispy curtain of the blown dust. He could see the glint of its eyes from beneath the heavy bone of its flattened brow. It was staring at him with undisguised anticipation, eager for what it was about to do.

He backed away slowly, pulling Tessa with him, one hand groping in his pocket for the viper–pricks. He found them right away, and his fingers closed about one plastic sheath and began to draw it out. Then, impulsively, he let go and instead reached down hurriedly to touch the earth. If he could make himself blend with the land, could disappear into it as he had before, he could gain a small advantage. His magic had let him do this once; perhaps he could do so again. If the monster couldn’t see him, it couldn’t hurt him.

But he realized the flaw in his thinking almost immediately. Even if he could disguise himself, he could not disguise Tessa. The demon might not be able to find him, but it would still be able to find her. He saw the demon watching him, measuring his efforts with interest. He could tell what it was thinking. Unlike the last time, the demon was not confused. It had learned from that encounter. It knew he would not abandon the girl.

He straightened and continued backing away, his hand returning to his pocket and gripping the viper–prick anew. The demon continued to watch him, ambling ahead slowly, not bothering to try to close the gap between them just yet. It was playing with him, Hawk realized. It was enjoying this. It knew he was trapped and could not escape. It knew he could be killed at leisure and without interruption.

And Hawk knew, in turn, with a certainty that was chilling, that the viper–prick was useless.

The memory of his boyhood dream of the dark and malevolent presence he could not escape resurfaced, a wraith from a past that was all too uncertain, but felt real nevertheless. This creature, this monster was the embodiment of that dream; he had known as much at their first encounter. He had known, as well, that he had no defense against it. There were things in this world that were too much for you, no matter who or what you were. This creature was one. Hawk was born of magic, and he had magic at his command, but he was helpless here. He could feel it in a way that defied explanation, but was no less real. This demon was anathema, a force of nature he could not withstand, could not escape, and could not survive. He had a moment of regret that it was so, that all those who were depending on him would be let down, that his efforts to find the King of the Silver River had come to nothing. Disappointment washed through him.

I should have been smarter than this, he thought.

He stared into the eyes of the predator that had brought him to this end. By the time he decided that flight was his only option, fear generated by the creature’s terrible eyes had locked his legs in place and he could not move.

The KLEE HAD WAITED for several days for its chance at the gypsy morph, tracking the caravan without ever letting itself be seen, patiently biding its time, occupying itself with taking other victims to sate its need. Because it could shape–shift for short periods of time, taking on the appearance of other creatures, it could lure its victims from the safety of the camp. All of them had believed they were following someone they could trust. All of them had believed they were safe right up until the end.

The taking of the children was just a way to let the morph know it could do as it wished whenever it wished and there was nothing to be done about it. It was a game the Klee enjoyed, playing with its prey before killing it. There was no need to hurry, after all. The end result was always the same.

When the dust storm arrived, the Klee recognized its chance. Taking on the appearance of the morph to lure away the female the morph cared about was not difficult. It had watched the morph interact with her from the darkness beyond the camp and intuited easily enough how the morph felt about her. Luring the female away at the height of the storm, knowing she would follow if she thought the morph wished her to come, required little planning and no special skill.

Looking at the morph now, trapped and helpless, it felt a fierce satisfaction. The game was over. The old man had sent it to kill this creature of magic, and it always did what the old man told him. But there would be other victims, it knew–others to track and kill. The old man would see to it. Hunting this one, though, had been especially difficult. It would be hard to find another that would provide such a challenge. But there would be another, of course. There would always be another.

It was still musing on this when a dark shape hurtled out of the wind and dust, and 180 pounds of muscle and bone slammed into it, teeth slashing.

Cheney had begun tracking hawk in typical fashion, big head lowered, nose to the ground, working his way through the camp and out into the teeth of the storm. Panther, Bear, and Sparrow had been able to follow without much difficulty, the heavy screen of dust and debris notwithstanding. Even outside the camp, the big dog had kept up his slow, steady pace. He was moving so slowly, in fact, that Panther was just beginning to worry that they were going to be too late to do anything to help, when Cheney bolted ahead with a snarl and disappeared into the haze.

Panther shouted in frustration and charged after him, Bear and Sparrow right behind.

The three ran as fast as they could, trying to catch up to the dog, but Cheney was already far ahead. If he changed course, Panther knew, they would lose him completely and probably become lost themselves in the bargain. He spit out a mouthful of grit, and his hands tightened on the flechette.

Shoulda leashed that stump–head animal!

Then, from somewhere distant, Cheney’s growls tore through the howl of the storm and gave them fresh direction. All three quickened their pace, weapons leveled as they closed on the sounds of a ferocious struggle. They broke through the screen so suddenly that they almost ran into the huge creature fighting to throw off Cheney, who had locked his jaws on one huge thigh. Panther caught a glimpse of Hawk standing off to one side, frozen in place, looking lost and helpless, with Tessa pulling at him futilely.

Ain’t like the Bird‑Man, Panther thought. What’s wrong with him?

Then he was firing the Parkhan Spray, the bullets ripping into the monster’s huge body. “Shoot it!” he screamed at his companions.

Bear took a moment to respond. He recognized the thing in front of him as the monster that had brushed him aside so easily during their last encounter. He hesitated despite himself, suddenly afraid all over again of what this creature might do. Then, shaking off his fear, he brought up the Tyson Flechette and fired three quick loads, the charges ripping huge pieces off the arms and shoulders and chest of his target. The monster staggered back, clearly wounded. It made no sound at all as it absorbed the hits; it suffered its punishment silently, backing away.

Got you! Panther thought gleefully as he saw the effect their weapons were having. He continued firing, advancing on the beast. Cheney had dropped away, crouching and snarling to one side as the three Ghosts fired round after round into their target, the loads tearing into it. Panther heard Hawk cry out, saying something now, but the words were lost in the blast of the weapons and the scream of the wind.

Then all of a sudden the monster was gone, disappeared into the haze of the storm. For an instant Panther and Bear kept firing, even after Sparrow screamed at them to stop. Neither could believe that the creature wasn’t there, that somehow it had vanished. But when the wind rippled the curtain of the haze and it was still not visible, the pair held up again, swinging the muzzles of their weapons this way and that, searching frantically.

“Panther!” Sparrow screamed, and opened fire to his left.

He swung about, but by then the Klee was on top of him, attacking with terrifying speed. One huge arm knocked him flying, his weapon lost, his head spinning. He crashed to the earth and rolled hard, heard Bear roar in response, heard the boom of the flechette, heard Cheney’s deep snarl. Then everything seemed to jumble together, and he couldn’t make sense of what was happening. He hauled himself to his feet, swaying drunkenly. Blood was running down into his eyes. He looked around, saw that Bear lay sprawled on the ground, a motionless lump. Sparrow was yelling at Cheney, who was attacking the monster once more.

Feebly, Panther cast about for Bear’s flechette, caught sight of it a short distance away, and staggered toward it, wiping the blood from his eyes. Cheney’s shaggy body flew past him, nearly taking his head off, thrown like a paper doll by the monster. Sparrow was firing again, standing all alone in front of their attacker, her warrior mother reborn. She wasn’t enough by herself, Panther thought, reaching down for the flechette. None of them was.

He snatched up the flechette and faced the monster, bracing himself for another attack. It registered then, a sudden frightening realization, that all the damage their weapons had inflicted had been for nothing. The creature looked as if it hadn’t been touched; its wounds had healed over.

How could that be?

He started forward, intent on helping Sparrow before it was too late, and heard Hawk calling his name. The Bird‑Man was beside him, grasping his shoulder, holding him back and calling off Sparrow, too. Tessa was still clinging to him, eyes wide with fear. In the span of no more than a handful of seconds, Hawk had brought them together with a dazed and bloodied Bear, all of them watching as the monster turned for another attack.

“You see what that thing can do?” Panther hissed in rage. “Weapons don’t mean nuthin’ to it! What are we supposed to—”

“I want you to stay back,” Hawk told him, his voice steady, his gaze fixed on their attacker. “Keep Cheney back, too.”

“As if!” Panther snorted, dropping into a crouch.

“Do what I say!” Hawk gave him a quick, angry glance. “Sparrow, you too!” He snatched the spray from her hands. “It’s me it wants. I’ll try to draw it off. You go for help.”

Panther came right up against him. “You crazy! You’ll be dead before you get a dozen steps! We’re a family, remember? A family! We stick together!”

“He’s right!” Sparrow snapped. “Give me that!” She snatched back the Parkhan Spray. “You don’t even know what to do with that!”

They shoved Hawk and Tessa behind them and turned to face the monster’s slow advance. It looked huge, unstoppable. But they held their ground.

“Try to take out its legs,” Panther muttered.

“Or its eyes.” Sparrow was breathing hard.

They began firing their weapons, the Parkhan Spray’s steady burp contrasting with the boom of the Tyson Flechette, all of it back–dropped by the howl of the wind. Panther knew they were going to die, but at least they wouldn’t die of some stupid plague and they wouldn’t die alone. If it had to happen, better that it be like this.

His dark face tightened. The monster was still coming, brushing aside the damage the weapons were causing, unfazed by the damage, lumbering through the smoke and fire and explosions to reach them.

Frickin’hell, he thought in despair and rage.

The KLEE SAW THE TRAPPED LOOK in the eyes of its quarry and was pleased. They belonged to it now, all of them. It would kill them one by one. It would take its time.

But an instant later, a little girl appeared from out of the gloom. She rushed toward the others, a tiny figure pinned against the wall of the storm, red hair flying, arms waving, shouting something indecipherable. Her friends screamed at her to get back, to run away, but she kept coming.

The Klee turned, its flat head swiveling, its huge body following, blocking the little girl’s way. She seemed to have no sense of what she was doing, charging into the fray with such wild determination that she might have thought herself invulnerable to harm. The Klee reached for her, but the fierce dog knocked the little girl down, and wheeled back to stand over her protectively.

Then a second figure appeared, this one more substantial and measured in its approach. A rune–carved black staff levered downward, pointing at the Klee’s midsection, and the demon felt a chill run up its spine. White fire exploded from the black staff, fire so bright and pure that it was blinding. The force of the strike staggered the Klee, burning into it. A second strike followed close on the first, hammering into the low, flat head before enveloping it in fire.

This new attacker was someone the Klee knew. She had escaped it at the cottage home of the blind man. A mistake, it thought, leaving her alive. She was shouting at the other humans to run, keeping up her attack as she did so, advancing one slow step at a time.

“Run, yourself!” the dark–skinned one shouted back, firing his weapon anew.

The skinny girl who stood beside him was quick to join in. All three produced a steady barrage, weapons fire and bright magic catching the Klee from two sides. The demon was infuriated. It stood its ground a moment, and then advanced on the female Knight of the Word. But the force of her magic was too intense, and it had to give way. The woman was screaming, words that caused the others to press forward. The Klee swung its great arms furiously, turning this way and that. Then it tried to turn away altogether, to use its shape–shifting skills to disappear back into the haze. But its strength was sapped and its concentration fragmented. It could not seem to make anything work.

Now the dog had moved to block its way, too, and suddenly it had nowhere to go. It chose to attack the boy and the girl firing the automatic weapons, seemingly the weakest of its attackers. The girl dropped back quickly, but the boy held his ground. When the Klee was right on top of him, he jammed the barrel of his weapon under its chin. The Klee’s great claws were ripping at the barrel as the weapon discharged and blew away the lower half of its face. One arm caught the boy a glancing blow as he tried to duck aside and sent him sprawling.

But the damage was done. The Klee’s head was in ruins, and it could no longer see. It could heal, but only slowly now, very slowly. It could hardly believe what had been done to it. It staggered about blindly, trying to escape, to gain time. Too late. The Knight of the Word’s white fire was burning into it once more, scorching it in a dozen places, setting its body afire, turning flesh and bone to ash. The Klee lurched badly and dropped to one knee.

It could feel its life draining away. It could feel death’s cold approach. It heaved upward and fell back again. Realization of what was happening took hold. It had one final moment of frustration and rage, and then it was dead.