The stone was only about half-full, since he'd used some of the stored magic in his search. Didn't matter, though, did it? No arcane duels with all those kids in the line of fire. "Shit!" he said again, with feeling. And moved.
Cullen wasn't as strong as some of his kind. He could fight, of course, but he wasn't trained. But he was fast—faster than anyone he knew, except Rule's supernally skilled brother, Benedict. Fast enough that the humans around him would later deny what they'd seen.
So he ran… toward the demon, not away. Running away would draw it after him, right over the underage mob. He didn't know what would happen if a dashtu demon stepped on a kid, but he wasn't minded to experiment.
He'd surprised the demon's rider. The glimpse he caught of her expression as he barreled straight at her and her nightmare pet told him that. Not enough for her to lose focus, though. Her raised hand still directed the magic she'd gathered, an energy loop spinning over her head in slow circles, like a lasso.
Fortunately, her mount had less control. It stopped, jerking its head back, and hesitated briefly before thrusting those toothy jaws at the idiot charging it.
Cullen dodged.
One huge foot lifted as the demon tried stomping on him. He threw himself aside, rolling as he hit the ground, and came up running. No point in hanging around to fight, not when there was a good chance he'd lose.
He made for the church. It was tiny and crumbling, but those consecrated walls should repel the demon. He felt rather than heard the thing's feet thud against the ground behind him. So why he could feel that, when the thing wasn't present enough to be seen or heard? He knew damn little about the dashtu state, but—
Damn! That thing could jump!
Cullen skidded to a halt. The demon had leaped over him, landing less than ten feet away. Its snout darted toward him even as the rider sent the glowing loop she controlled his way.
No time for a spell or to draw down from his diamond. Cullen did the one thing he could without weapons or spells. He flung fire at it.
The creature bellowed as flames crawled up its belly and chest. It tossed its head, staggering back so fast its rider lost control of her lasso. The glowing loop snaked wildly through the air.
Cullen was already running the other way when the loop whizzed over his head. The demon was annoyed, not stopped. Not enough of it was physically present for normal fire to do real damage, and Cullen needed a boost from the diamond to call mage fire.
Probably just as well. Mage fire was the devil to control.
He ducked between two houses, where the demon's bulk wouldn't fit. Unless, that is, it could slip deeper into dashtu so its mass could overlap with—
A glance over his shoulder told him it could.
He popped into a yard overrun with chickens, which squawked and fluttered and generally got in his way. And kept running—into the trees and up a winding mountain path.
An hour later he perched in a gnarly oak tree surrounded by thousands of others. His chest heaved. The muscles in his thighs jumped and twitched, and his shirt was soaked with sweat. The legs of his jeans were wet to the knees.
A butterfly with wings the color of sunrise drifted past like a scrap of tissue paper. Monkeys screeched nearby. He was maybe eight or nine miles from the village and at least a thousand feet higher.
Time was on his side, he told himself. Eventually the woman would have to give up. Legend said that some adepts had been able to sustain an astral body for nearly a full day, but he was damned if he'd credit that bitch with an adept's abilities. Another hour or three, and she'd have to return to her physical body.
He just hoped she took her demon with her when she left.
As the sweat cooled on his body, he shivered, but not really from the chill. Twice he'd thought he'd gotten away; twice the demon and its rider had found him.
How? That was the twenty-thousand-dollar question.
Not psychically. He was sure of that; his shields were locked down tight, and they'd kept out a crazy telepath assisted by an ancient staff. Nor did he think the demon was using scent, not after he'd splashed along that damned creek. Hearing was theoretically possible, he supposed. In his wolf form, he could distinguish between one beating heart and another, but he had to be pretty damned close. He didn't think his heartbeat was giving him away.
That left vision or magic. Maybe the demon was Davy Crockett on steroids and could spot Cullen's traces whether he went down a creek, over boulders, or made like Tarzan through the trees.
Or maybe the demon's rider had some kind of magical fix on him.
Last night something had brushed against his shields. He'd assumed it was Sam. Too bloody sure of himself, he thought now, bitter at finding himself a fool. He should have been warned. Instead he'd been smug, knowing nothing could get through. He…
Cullen blinked. How did he know nothing could get through?
Dumb question. He tested everything. When he'd devised his shields…
The flush of vertigo hit so suddenly he nearly swayed right off his perch. He grabbed the trunk, sweat popping out on his forehead.
When he'd devised his shields. That's what he'd thought just before falling off into… nothing. Because he couldn't remember testing the shields. He couldn't remember coming up with them in the first place.
Them?
Cullen's fingers dug into the bark. He stared out at the jungle, seeing nothing. A beetle as big as his thumb investigated his hand. He ignored it.
He had a shield. One shield, singular, that protected him from any sort of mental attack. And he had no idea where it had come from, or why he kept thinking of shields, plural.
Someone or something had messed with his mind, swallowed part of his memory.
He began tracking his memories, plucking at one, then another, trying to figure out when he'd acquired his shields. When had he first begun relying on them?
It didn't take him long to turn up an answer. That day wasn't one he was likely to forget. He could make a good guess about the culprit, too, though not the motive nor the man's current location. Lucky him, though—he knew someone who could help. Someone with access to all sorts of information.
Gradually, the silence penetrated his concentration. No birds called, no monkeys fussed and chattered. The forest was quiet… and drifting faintly in the air was the stink of rotting flesh.
Son of a bitch! He didn't have time to play hide-and-seek. He needed to be out of this damned jungle and onto a plane.
When the demon's questing snout preceded its ungainly body up the path twenty feet from Cullen's tree, he was standing on the ground at its base. He waited with one hand closed around the little diamond at his throat, the other outstretched.
"All right, sugar," he murmured. "Have it your way. You want to play? I'm ready."
SEVEN
CYNNA skidded into Headquarters at two minutes after ten o'clock. Elevators never come when you're late, so it was 10:07 when she arrived, only slightly breathless, at his secretary's desk. "He's expecting me."
Ida Rheinhart was older than God and a lot meaner. She looked at Cynna over the top of bright red reading glasses and handed her a folder. "He was expecting you at ten. Everyone else is here already. Conference room B-12."
She started to explain—Ida had that effect on her—but closed her mouth. What was the point? Ida had never been late in her life. But that was easy for her, because she never left her desk. Cynna was pretty sure she curled up beneath it at night, waiting to snatch unwary agents or cleaning people who trod too close to her lair.