Falling Light Part 26

Chapter Twenty-eight.

ASTRA LIKED SOME of Earth's modern vernacular.

The sixties and seventies had been a great time for slogans.

Give peace a chance. Make love not war.

That tall chick with the great nose and long, dark hair and her short, goofy-looking husband with the mustache-they had come up with some of the silliest ones she'd ever heard.

The beat goes on. What the h.e.l.l did that mean? What was another one? Oh, yeah. I got you, babe.

Jerry had a slogan that she really liked. Don't push the river. There was a lot of sense in that one. How, in G.o.d's name, could you possibly push a river? You couldn't. A river flowed where it would. It was an act of insanity to even try.

Her translation of that? The universe was an easier place to live in when you stopped kicking against how things were going, and you made use of what you were given.

Or in other words: go with the flow. She liked saying it. It made her feel hip and snappy. Groovy, as it were. Never mind how Michael would laugh himself sick at her when he was a boy. She sniffed.

For instance she had known exactly the moment her cloak had slipped. The Deceiver had not just been waiting for it to happen. He had been pushing to make it happen. She had sensed him sneak past her guard like the thief that he was.

Instead of lashing out to drive him back, instinct stayed her hand. Just for a moment. Not for too long. She had to make it look good.

When she resumed cloaking the island, she had known he had gained information about their location. So she went with the flow.

Long ago, she had chosen an island as her sanctuary for a lot of reasons, and all of them involved its remote location. She could cloak the area and make it difficult to locate. If men forgot the island was there, they couldn't draw it on any map.

Also, it was a perfect place to do battle. The only victims would be the various species that lived on the island and, of course, the land itself. She and the island had several good, long talks about that. She had wanted to be certain it understood the danger before she took up residence.

So Astra had waited until Michael and Mary went to bed. Then she got to work. For the first time in years, she went into Michael's armory/office to gather the materials she would need. She wasn't as strong as she used to be, and she had to make several trips down to a secluded area.

The only safe place to dock a boat was the little bay with the pier. The water around the rest of the island's sh.o.r.eline covered an uneven rocky terrain. She particularly liked the area of sh.o.r.e that she chose for that night. For a good fifty yards out from land, half-submerged boulders made the water treacherous to any boat larger than her small, handmade bark canoe.

After she had gathered what she needed and carried her canoe down to the water's edge, she sat waiting in the shadow of an outcrop of rock.

The fox she had healed some time ago joined her. She allowed his companionship. He was a sensible little fellow and knew the value of hiding in silence. He curled around her ankles. She stroked his fur while she drew the tightest, most impenetrable part of her cloak around them.

Several hours after nightfall, large, dark boats surrounded the island. Men, dressed in black wet suits and armed with water-protected a.s.sault rifles, slithered over the sides of the boats and swam to sh.o.r.e.

One man pa.s.sed by so close to Astra's hiding place she could hear his breathing. The fox trembled under her stroking fingertips, but he remained silent and stationary.

The battle at the cabin erupted. She sat unmoving. Neither Michael's shock and outrage nor Mary's hurt and fear caused her to shift. She did nothing as fire destroyed her home. She waited while Mary was netted, and by virtue of Mary's immobility, their attackers had Michael trapped.

I am a stone by the water, she thought at the night. Astra is hiding inland.

She stirred only when a sleek, dark powerboat purred into the small bay and the Deceiver stepped onto her island.

Then she lowered her canoe into the water and stacked her supplies into it. She picked up the fox and deposited him in the canoe as well. If he had stayed with her this far, he could come along for the rest of the journey.

Mary and Michael might die. She experienced a pang that faded almost as soon as it had come. If they died, they died. At least she would be done with all the drama. She no longer had room for anything else but the one task she had waited her entire existence on this earth to complete.

She was tired of being scared. She was tired of living with guilt and heartache and loneliness. She had called in all her favors. She had to go on trust that help would be available when she needed it. If she failed and the Deceiver destroyed her, well, somebody else would just have to take up the intolerable burden of this fight.

She bent over until her mouth hovered just above the gentle lapping water, and she whispered in a voice so soft even the mosquito hovering near her ear couldn't overhear.

"Hi, Lake? He's here. Can you swallow any more swimmers that try to get to land?"

The Lake radiated placid innocence but a small finger of water plopped up to kiss her lips.

Astra breathed, "One last thing. It's important. Would you mind taking me real quiet-like to all the other boats around the island so I don't have to use my paddle? I've got to stick these newfangled explosive things to their sides."

There was a certain peace to be found in finality. The only people getting off this island would be the victors, and possibly one or two extraordinarily lucky innocents. She kept her spine straight as she sat in her bark canoe and rested her paddle across her lap. Her little fox friend sat at the prow with his bushy tail curled around his feet. His large ears swiveled and twitched at the sound of nearby gunfire.

Their patience was rewarded as a curl of intention rose underneath the canoe. They began to slide through the water in the dark.

Like she had yelled at that d.a.m.n Deceiver so many times.

Ask, don't take.

Chapter Twenty-nine.

MARY SPRAWLED ON the ground, trussed like someone's holiday dinner. She listened to the sounds of battle surrounding her. Her mask had skewed when she tried to free herself from the net. Her nose still poked out of a hole but she could no longer see.

She growled. Aside from the dignity factor, it was hard to hear what was happening. What she could hear was violent and disjointed.

Footsteps pounded past. Someone gave a breathless shout. Gunfire spurted. Her body flinched each time she heard the gunfire. She waited for bullets to tear into her flesh. Shivering caused her skin to ripple in trembling spasms. Locked helpless inside darkness, she began to understand how someone could die of fright.

Then she overloaded again, and her mind detached from the battle. Intimate sensory input began to preoccupy her. The ground was cold and wet with dew. Dampness seeped into her clothing. The detritus of forest underneath her, comprised of dead leaves, new plant growth and earth, smelled rich and loamy. She caught a hint of acrid smoke.

She hoped the cabin wouldn't set the rest of the island on fire. She hoped she wasn't lying in poison ivy. She had to go to the bathroom, only Michael had blown up the toilet.

I have nylon panties, socks and shoes, she thought. I have a Kevlar vest and a d.a.m.n inconvenient mask.

I have two nets. No. I guess two nets have me.

I have a headache. I have a bad feeling.

Her mind settled into cool focus. Michael fought because he wouldn't leave her. He didn't s.n.a.t.c.h her up and carry her away because he couldn't. There were too many men that had converged on their location. He hadn't killed her yet because he still had hope he could get them out of this alive. Their opponents hadn't touched her because she was the least of their worries, with Michael loose and running at full throttle.

She realized something else as well. It was actually possible to be terrified and bored at the same time. She sighed. It was time for her to see what she could do to help.

Slipping out of her body really was a clever trick. She sat up and glanced down at her body with a grimace. From the hips down she was still connected to her physical self. She could still feel the binding of the nets cutting off the circulation in her legs, and the cold dampness of the ground. Apparently she was only partly astral.

She looked around, surprised to find the psychic realm clean of dark spirits. It carried hints of Lake, and forest, and healthy land, all of what she would have expected to find. Perhaps Astra's influence still lingered. Whatever the reason, Mary was grateful Michael didn't have to battle spirits.

She sought out Michael's presence. He hadn't gone far. He was in the process of stalking two men.

Three more were stalking him.

She pulled the rest of the way out of her body and rushed at the three men. Concentrating mightily, she managed to scoop up handfuls of leaves to throw in their faces. Two of them flinched in surprise. The third tapped at his headset as if it had suddenly stopped working.

She paused, c.o.c.ked her head and watched the man. Did her presence cause static?

Suddenly Michael was there. In a flurry of action too fast for her to follow, he killed all three men. His body bore a light sheen of sweat. He had removed his mask. She could see the calm executioner in his face and noted with relief he had yet to take any wounds.

What are you doing? he asked.

Unable to resist the hot illumination of his presence, she flitted toward him, a moth to the flame. I got tired of waiting for you. I thought you could use some help.

He laughed softly. I'll try to be a little faster, shall I?

I wouldn't mind. He crouched and sprang somewhere. Disoriented, she looked around. She found him standing high in the limbs of an old oak tree. As he surveyed the shadowed area for oncoming attackers, she floated up to join him. Michael, I think my astral presence disrupts radio signals. Do you want me to try to mess up their communications?

His head snapped up. His eyes flared with what looked like panic. NO!

The force of his reaction blew her like a feather out from him. She didn't gain control of her position until she had drifted down several branches, and she concentrated on floating back up beside him. Why not?

He listened intently at his stolen headset, tapped the earpiece, then he whispered out loud, "Mary, the Deceiver is controlling their communications. If you can disrupt the radio signals of the men in our immediate area, fine, go ahead and do it. For pity's sake, stay close to your body, and remember he might overhear telepathy."

I understand. She floated back down to the ground.

Searching the immediate area, she found armed black-clad men and rushed at them. She caused their headsets to erupt with an unexpected crackle of static, or startled them with an explosion of leaves, or made them flinch at strategic times when she trailed ghostly fingers along their bare skin. Once she managed to rock the aim of one rifleman who had Michael in his sights. That took a gargantuan effort.

After several minutes of frenetic activity, she shook with strain. She knew she couldn't continue for much longer, yet she was unwilling to give in to exhaustion. Their attackers tightened in a circle around her and Michael like a hangman's noose.

Their fight felt hopeless. There were so many attackers. Michael had killed, what, fifteen already? There had to be over a hundred or more.

But she had thought their battle at the cabin was hopeless. She had been convinced at Petoskey that she wouldn't live to set foot on a boat. She had no real sense of Michael's limits. When he had run up the side of the building at Petoskey's marina? Boy howdy, she hadn't seen that coming.

She turned her attention back to her body. She could affect the physical realm if she concentrated hard enough. Frantic to get rid of the hood, she threw everything she had into pulling at it. With an immense effort, she managed to yank it off her face.

Then she attacked the tight nylon bonds, plucking fiercely at the stubborn strands. If she could loosen the loops around her arms, she would have some freedom of movement once she slipped back into her body.

How long could she afford to stay out of her body? Would it kill her if she remained astral for too long, or would she simply snap back into her body?

Then something reverberated through the psychic realm that struck past faith and hope, and filled her with unreasoning terror.

The black diamond man stepped onto the island.

She lost control of her astral projection and slammed back into her body. Deprived of physical movement, drained of psychic strength and helpless, she whimpered, a panicked animal sound.

I have just one question for you, Mary, Mary, said the Deceiver. How can one small person make so much noise?

Sweat trickled down her ribs. Michael was caught in battle. G.o.d only knew where Astra was. She couldn't do anything. She had no more magic tricks to pull out of her hat. She could only wait and watch while h.e.l.l approached.

Something struck her back. She jerked and cried out. It took her a moment to realize that the blow had not hurt her. Something had fallen and bounced off her back.

It's a present, Michael said. Work fast.

Michael had thrown something at her. Work fast at what? Rolling over, she landed on something cold and hard. Arching her body and twisting, she groped for the cold, hard thing and closed her fingers around a handle. It was some kind of tool.

She rolled back onto her side, careful not to wriggle and cause the nets to tighten again. She had managed to loosen the nets. It wasn't much, just enough so that she could touch her hands together. Forcing her breathing to remain deep and steady, she ran shaking fingers along the tool as she tried to figure out what it was.

It felt like a thick pocketknife, a fancy, complicated one. Maybe it was a Swiss Army knife. She dug her fingernails into one of the grooves and pulled on it. A blade emerged halfway before her hold slipped, and she sliced open a finger. d.a.m.n.

Mary? Michael said.

"I'm working on it," she gritted.

The black diamond man strolled up the path to the clearing where the ruins of Astra's cabin still blazed. Half a dozen bodyguards ringed him. He spoke into his headset. More guards joined his group. He was taking no chances with this meeting.

She resumed a frantic exploration of the knife, digging for grooves and pulling parts of it out. Where was that d.a.m.n blade?

What was that one? s.h.i.t, it was a corkscrew. What she wouldn't give for a stiff drink right now. In safety. She shoved it back in and pulled something else out.

What was that? Her questing fingertips found a sharp hook at the base of the section. She reversed the handle in her hands, located a strand of the net and sawed at it. She sliced through the strand.

Eureka. She grabbed another strand and attacked it.

As she worked, an upsurge of activity yanked her attention back to Michael. He fought a couple men, trying to work his way back to her. He seemed to be moving more slowly. Several more fighters raced to join the battle.

Why was Michael moving so slowly?

A couple of the newcomers shot him. The percussion of their weapons sounded strange. Michael didn't seem to react with much pain. He shot one man point-blank in the face, kicked at another and lurched closer to her. More men poured into the s.p.a.ce between them.

What is it? she shouted.

Drugged darts, he said. Even his telepathic voice sounded slurred.

She froze, breathing hard. Should normal human medication affect him like that? Michael had a finely developed sense of separateness between spirit and flesh. Tranquilizers might bring his body down, but psychically he should be as alert as ever. Something was terribly wrong.

At last she got her arms free. She turned onto her side and curled into a ball to attack the bindings on her legs. Inside she was screaming.

Slowed, drugged, Michael continued to fight. He remained lethal and on his feet long after a normal human would have collapsed. In a lunge, he came within a few yards of her. Two men tackled him and brought him down. Even as he twisted to stab one in the neck, more darts struck his neck and hands.

I'm sorry, he slurred.