"Oh, my god," she said. "You're a dream assassin!" There was wonder in her voice, or something more akin to awe, and excitement. She began to breathe rapidly as she backed away, and then she shouted. "Blair, Blair, get in here!"
A moment later the old man from Best Buy entered the room. "We've got a dream assassin!" the girl said.
"Quiet," Blair said. "The wet-work isn't done."
At that instant, gunfire popped again—three shots in rapid succession, then two more, then one. Then a hail of bullets. Cries of pain arose, and moans, and wet thuds as bodies smacked the floor.
Down a hall, someone shouted, "Clear!" From far ends of the building, two more voices called out, "Clear!"
"All clear!"
Blair smiled. With grizzled hair cropped close, his face seemed to be little more than skin stretched over a skull. Yet there was brilliance in his eyes, and something more, limitless cruelty.
"Don't be afraid, Bron," he said. "I feel like we're old friends, after all those hours playing videogames in the group home."
It was creepy, the way that these perfect strangers all spoke to him so personally about the good memories they shared.
"Yes, we're going to be great friends. There's nothing to worry about, Bron. You're very valuable to us. You'll be the Shadow Lord's favorite. Anything you want, will be yours—the finest cars, the most beautiful women. I'm going to make you a promise: we won't hurt you. We won't hurt anyone that you love. Instead, we're going to welcome you into our... family."
What if I don't want to go? Bron wanted to say, but he knew the answer. His wishes were of no import.
Bron's hands tingled. They were still cuffed behind his back. He knew that he had leeching abilities, and now he wondered if he could use them. He tried to extend the suction cups on his fingers, but he had forgotten how. He tried to draw the will from his captors, but felt only empty inside, and lost.
"Now," Blair said, "we're going to go to the car and drive away from here. Let me help you up." Blair took Bron's arm and pulled him to his feet.
Bron stood, feeling numb and empty, as Blair went into the other room. He returned moments later, bringing Olivia. Her hands were cuffed behind her back.
Bron had never seen such terror. Her wide eyes darted back and forth, and her entire body trembled. Her breaths were so shallow, she was gasping. There were red marks on her forehead from sizraels. She'd obviously been interrogated already.
Bron's heart went out to Olivia. He wanted to save her, but could think of no way to do it.
"Come," the old man said. Blair didn't brandish a weapon. Yet his commanding tone said that he would brook no argument.
The girl asked, "Aren't we going to call this in?"
"Not yet," Blair said. "Let's get them to a secure location."
With hands still cuffed behind his back, Bron was marched into the hall. A policewoman lay crumpled on the floor, blood pooling beneath her back.
Bron walked into the police department's main offices, saw two Acolytes carrying long-barreled pistols, with laser sights.
The desk clerk was slumped in her chair, apparently unconscious. Another officer appeared to be dead on the floor, his head askew. In another room, two officers lay bleeding.
Riley O'Hare came from a back room and announced, "I've pulled all of the security footage, and scrambled the audiotapes of the police logs." Riley wore gloves.
Blair added, "I've read through the memories of Walton and the others. We'll need to visit a couple of the officer's homes, if we're to clean up."
The girl added, "Bron has a friend, Galadriel. We'll need to wipe her—and Olivia's husband."
The old man nodded wisely, half-closing his eyes. "Very well. Let's get to it, people."
He marched to the precinct doors, and Bron followed in his wake. Bron considered running, but there was nowhere to go. Blair's grip on his arm was too powerful, too sure.
The pressure plate activated. Doors slid back.
A man stood in the doorway in front of Bron, wearing a Harley Davidson jacket and a motorcycle helmet. Beneath the jacket, Bron discerned a black shirt and a priest's white collar. Before Bron's captor could so much as blink, the priest whipped his hands up to Blair's temple.
At Bron's side, Riley shouted a warning and pulled a pistol.
Bron saw his chance to save Olivia. Blair's followers had taken his memories of how to talk, but they hadn't taken his memories of how to wrestle. He lunged sideways, shoving Riley with all of his might, throwing him off balance. Riley's hands flew up by instinct, to protect him from a fall, as Bron knew they would.
A single bullet flew wide, hitting the plate-glass window of the entrance. Tinted glass shattered in a hail.
Before Riley could regain his balance, the priest leapt into action, sending a roundhouse kick to Riley's face.
Olivia had thrown herself backward, hitting one of their captors—the young woman—in the face. Blood spattered from the girl's nose, rained down upon the floor. But the girl leapt forward with the determination of a cornered animal.
Bron leapt in the air, grabbed her legs with his own, and twisted, throwing her off-balance and pulling her down. The girl slammed to the floor. Her gun skittered away.
Bron adjusted his grip on his captive, clasping her chest, as she struggled to rise. He knew he wouldn't be able to hold her long, but he kept her in a scissors lock, trying to squeeze the air from her. She pushed his legs down, so that he only had her stomach, and tried to squirm free.
Olivia saw his predicament and dropped on the girl, crushing the air from her lungs.
The last of the Draghoul acolytes rushed from a back room, pistols in hand.
Bron never saw the priest draw his own weapon—just heard a shot. The young Draghoul reached up and grasped his neck. A dart stuck there, a bit of white wool at its end.
The young man touched it, then his eyes rolled and he crumpled.
The priest rushed into the room. The young woman gained her feet and tried to attack with her sizraels, but the priest's helmet foiled her. She couldn't reach his head.
The priest threw the girl against a pillar so hard that bones cracked. The girl stood there for a moment, stunned, out on her feet. The priest grasped her skull.
Almost instantly she flew into convulsions, her eyes rolling back, spittle rising from her mouth.
The priest held her gently as he let her sag to the ground, and then crouched above her as he looked for others. "Is that all of them?"
Olivia nodded wildly.
He stood for a moment with one hand upon the girl's forehead, almost as if he were feeling for a pulse, but Bron realized that he was reading her memories. "They've already cleaned the police logs for us, taken down the security cameras. But there are a couple of officers that know that you were picked up tonight, Olivia. We'll have to clean them. And we'll need to wipe this place of prints—any room that you entered."
The priest got up, took a key-card from their captor, along with some normal keys, and unlocked Olivia's cuffs. He grasped Olivia's head for a moment, like some old-time street preacher bestowing the gift of the Holy Ghost, and Olivia's mouth flew open.
"Thanks," was all that she said. She rushed back to the interrogation offices to wipe any prints.
The priest grabbed Bron's skull and held him for a moment. Bron felt something inside him click.
"I can talk!" he said.
"And you can use your sizraels now," the priest added. He unlocked Bron's cuffs.
He knelt over the old man, Blair, and just held him for an instant. Bron saw vivid blue lights pulse at the priest's fingertips.