LYRA AND RUST

LYRA AND RUST

chapter 1

I

—

D had seen the pair twice.

The first time was in winter.

It was on the road in the northern Frontier. Snow was flying. Though travelers who were in a hurry gave it the evil eye, the snow hadn’t let up for ten days. Lodging houses were crammed with stranded people, and villages designated by the Capital as overseers for the sector sent out snowplows and service beasts, barely managing to keep the roads clear enough for cyborg horse traffic.

But the snow that kept the people trapped inside brought them some enjoyment. Lights burned in the windows of the lodging houses, and there was singing. Perhaps they were joined by traveling minstrels, for a guitar accompanied the chorus of voices, male and female, that spilled from the inn while three young people rode past. Two riders from the south, headed north; one rider from the north, headed south.

The pair consisted of a woman in a crimson cape like a flame in that world of white, and a young man wearing an insulated coat of ash gray. The lone rider wore a traveler’s hat and a jet-black coat that made him look like wintry death, and he too was young. But he was so handsome! If all the snow that’d fallen since the very birth of this world were compacted into a single human form, the way diamonds were created from coal, it might’ve made something as lovely as this young man’s features. It was D.

Even harried travelers couldn’t help but wheel their mounts in the direction of the warm glow of the windows, but these three didn’t even glance at them, as if they were something to be shunned. Nor did any of them look at the other riders. As if led by the snow itself, the three riders were swallowed up by the world of white. All that remained on the wintry highway was the stillness of the snow, the glow from the windows, and the voices raised in song. Where the trio that turned their backs on such things went, no one could say.

The second time was in fall.

It was in a saloon in the eastern Frontier. D was scheduled to meet a client there. By day, the bar doubled as a restaurant. Aside from D, there were no patrons. A steaming cup of coffee sat before the Hunter. This cup rested there without ever being touched. Waitresses who doubled as dancing girls at night slumped against the bar, most looking as if they were wasting away from some disease. That was the effect of D’s beauty.

Outside, yellowed and fallen leaves rustled faintly in a light wind. A man and a woman entered the saloon. A single crisp leaf had landed on the shoulder of her crimson cape. At the bar, the pair ordered whiskey. They made no effort to look over at D, just as they hadn’t a year earlier. When the pair reached for the glasses the bartender had produced, the floor creaked under the boots of three more men.

“We found you, freak!” the mustachioed man in the center of the trio shouted. “Time to die!”

His right hand had already drawn the bolt gun from his hip and aimed it at the pair.

An ash-gray wind whipped up a crimson flame.

The head of the mustachioed man was split in half, and the other two had arrows of black iron buried in their shoulders.

The woman returned her longsword to the recesses of her cape, and the young man put away his iron short bow. It was unclear exactly when they’d had time to produce those weapons and put them to use. In fact, the woman was so far from the man that her longsword couldn’t possibly have split his head.

Giving a frosty glance to the groaning pair and to the mustachioed figure that lay utterly motionless on the floor, the woman then looked at the young man. “How kind of you,” she said sarcastically. “When the sheriff gets here, I’ll thank you to tell him exactly what you saw,” the woman told the bartender and waitresses behind the counter before urging the young man to leave the bar with her. The unbearable weariness of the expression he wore would be left hanging in the room for ages.

As D stood there, still and with no emotion at all on his face, the bartender fearfully inquired, “You know them?”

—

The third time was in summer.

It was in the village of Geneve, at the western edge of the western Frontier.

“Sorry, but the situation’s changed,” the gray-haired mayor said, setting a little bag down on the table as he made his apology. It was around noon, in the mayor’s office. “It seems the Black Death gang won’t be coming. Now, this isn’t the whole amount, but there’s two-thirds of the agreed fee there. You’ll simply have to settle for that. All the other Hunters have accepted the same offer.”

“Personally, I think a third would’ve been plenty,” sulked the enormous meatball of a man who stood behind the mayor. A short while earlier, he’d introduced himself as Odama, the deputy mayor. There wasn’t a single hair on his head. “I don’t care if we said we’d hire them or not; these Hunters are all just a bunch of mongrels, anyway. What would they know about honoring an agreement? To the contrary, if we want to keep them from joining up with the Black Death, we should take them out before they have a chance to leave our fair—”

“Odama, shut your miserable mouth!” the mayor shouted.

The deputy mayor’s thick lips twisted, but he held his tongue.

“Begging your pardon,” said the girl who stood to Odama’s right. The golden hair that flowed down to her waist swayed gently. With blue eyes brimming with light and a high, slim nose, she was the sort of beauty who ordinarily made men look twice, but that wouldn’t be the case with their visitor today. Her eyes were damp and feverish, her tone heart rending as she apologized. “The deputy mayor’s remarks are unconscionable. You have our apologies,” continued Sheryl—the mayor’s secretary. There was a striking resemblance around the mouth, and in fact, she was his daughter.

“I don’t want your money,” D said softly, his serene tone freezing the other three. “But I will take something else instead.”

“Wha—” Odama began to groan, and then a stark flash of light streaked by his face.

Though there was the ching! of his sword’s hilt meeting its scabbard on D’s back, none of the others’ eyes had captured what transpired. All that the mayor and Sheryl saw was the black back of the Hunter as he headed for the door. As D’s left hand slipped casually down by his side, there was a sound like someone clearing his throat.

As if that were its cue, a cry of surprise and pain then caused the pair to turn.

Odama was clutching his nose with both hands. Bright blood spilled between plump, grublike fingers.

“My nose—he . . .”

The pair followed the panicked gaze of the fat man down to his feet. His unsightly, bulbous nose sat there. Droplets of blood drizzled down all over it.

“To do such a thing . . . here, of all places,” Sheryl murmured dazedly, and then she turned her gaze to the door. Though there’d been no indication that anyone had opened it or closed it again, no one stood there any longer.

D went straight to the inn. Every villager he passed on the way there came slowly to a stop, looking as if they were melting away like butter. Since the village stood at the intersection of two major roadways, a rather large inn had been established to accommodate merchants. D got a room there. This was a rare occurrence. When a deal fell through, he always left town right away.

On entering the room, D stood in the center of the floor, raising his left hand and turning its palm in all directions. Once he’d finished sweeping it in a circle, the hoarse voice assured him, “No electronic, demonic, or otherwise paranormal traps here. Hurry up and lie down. If we don’t set you right now, you’ll have to bury yourself for a good long time.”

As soon as the check of the room was done, D headed for the bed. Leaving his unpacked bag on the floor, he kept the saddlebags slung over his shoulder. The instant he reached the bed, his gait faltered. Staggering, he fell flat on his back. The springs creaked.

Clearly something had happened to the body beneath that black raiment. His pale flesh had yellowed like an autumn leaf, and his breathing was labored. The gorgeous youth, normally a tower of stamina, couldn’t bear this. Sweat began to soak the surface of his otherwise parched skin.

“Damn it!” his left hand groaned. “You left the curtains open. And the bed still needs to be moved. But you can’t budge a finger. Call the front desk!”

There was no reply. D didn’t appear to so much as move a muscle.

However, his left hand said, “All right!” Rising slowly, it took hold of the mouthpiece of the speaking tube installed by the headboard. “This is room 306. I need the coolest head you’ve got on your staff. Male or female, it makes no difference.”

Returning the tube to the wall, it said, “To think of it, sunlight syndrome hitting you just as you left the town hall! At least you managed to nab some dirt.”

Occurring solely in dhampirs due to their Noble blood, sunlight syndrome was an abruptly striking ailment. As long as the sufferer was exposed to sunlight their whole body would stiffen, leaving them paralyzed before they eventually lost consciousness. Their body temperature would drop below that of a corpse, and their breaths would come several minutes apart. In order to recover, they needed to be buried somewhere shady with only their head left exposed while they rested, although how long that would take varied greatly. In D’s case, the average was about two days, although in one case it’d taken him two weeks to recuperate.

As the ailment came on suddenly and there were no warning signs, even the toughest dhampirs were powerless in the face of these attacks, and in many cases they fell victim to the Nobility they hunted thanks to this fearful malady. It was normal for all dhampirs to lose consciousness the instant the condition struck, but from what the Hunter’s left hand had said, it’d struck D right after he left the town hall. He’d brought his horse the two hundred yards to the hotel, checked in without the bellhops even noticing, and made it up to his room without any assistance. But then, this was D.

—

II

—

Five minutes later, there was a knock.

“Come in,” the left hand ordered.

“Begging your pardon,” said the boy of twelve or thirteen who stepped into the room.

“What, a freaking kid?” the left hand muttered before telling the boy, “I’m feeling a little under the weather. Do just as I say.”

The boy’s eyes widened. Not only did the voice sound completely different from the one he’d heard down at the front desk, but he also couldn’t shake the feeling it came from the palm of the man’s left hand. Regardless, this was a guest, and the customer was always right.

“How may I assist you?” he inquired politely yet apprehensively.

“Pour what’s in those saddlebags all over me.”

“And what might they contain?”

“Dirt.”

The boy looked surprised, but his expression was neither one of curiosity about the nature of this guest nor horror at the prospect of dirtying the room.

“Very well.”

The boy bowed and then circled around to D’s left side. Taking the saddlebags, he sprinkled the contents of the two compartments over D from the neck down. In less than five minutes, he was done. Atop the bed, D was covered with dirt all the way to his toes.

Admiring the boy’s skill, the hoarse voice remarked, “You’re an old hand at this, ain’t you? Don’t tell me you’ve had to do the same for other sufferers before.”

“No, this is the first time,” the boy replied, his chest puffing. “But I’ve had practice. The treatment for sunlight syndrome is part of our training here at the hotel.”

“Part of your training? Treating sunlight syndrome? This is some hotel!”

The left hand’s surprising voice had caused the boy to make a stranger and astounding revelation. Why, this hotel had services to fully deal with the essential biological needs of dhampirs! While there wasn’t a single person on the Frontier unfamiliar with the nature of dhampirs or the kind of work they did, most went their entire lives without ever seeing one in the flesh. Probably no hotel would bother to consider a service for the needs of a special kind of guest that might visit perhaps once in a century.

“Is this a trap?” the left hand mused, thinking the worst.

However, just as the boy had said, he drew the curtains and moved the bed where the light from the window wouldn’t reach it, with the deft movements of a well-trained professional.

“I’ll be damned,” the left hand groaned. The boy had performed both those actions without needing to be asked.

“If that’s all, I’ll be going now,” the boy said, bowing again and heading for the door.

“Wait, I’ve got your tip!” the hoarse voice called to him.

“Accepting a gratuity would be against the rules,” he said, declining the offer.

“What an odd little hotel you have here. Is that the case with every guest?”

“No. Only in the case of dhampirs.”

“So, dhampirs get better service than normal humans? What are you trying to pull?”

“Not a thing. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Turning its palm to the door as it closed, the left hand murmured, “This place gives me the creeps. We’d better get out of here as fast as we can. Now, how about a quick and dirty remedy?”

As it said this, a tiny mouth opened in the palm of the hand. There was a low groan of rushing air, and then a pale blue spark could be seen deep in its gullet.

“We’re all set with the pitcher of water. My breath should serve for the wind.”

Earth, wind, water, and fire had all been assembled. These four elements could be called the source of D’s life, and having gathered them all, his left hand now began a weird and magical treatment in their rustic hotel room.

—

As D perspired in the room, so hot even air conditioning couldn’t cool him, there was another knock at the door.

“Back again?” the hoarse voice mused dubiously. Not five minutes had passed since the boy had left. “Who is it?”

A youthful voice responded, “Sheriff Rust. I heard there’s a dhampir staying here. There’s something I’d like to discuss.”

“Turn him down,” the hoarse voice said fervently.

But just then, a low voice said, “Let him in.” Though it sounded pained, the voice had the same steely ring as always.

D’s eyes were open. Though he was still perspiring, his skin had reclaimed some of its former tone.

“Are you sure? If someone were to make a move on you now, you’d be in a bad way. This might be one of the deputy mayor’s flunkies.”

His left hand made no mention of the nose the Hunter had lopped off.

“If that’s the case, he’s bound to come sooner or later. But just like this hotel, the sheriff might be a little different.”

“Hmm, interesting. Okay, come in,” the hoarse voice said through the door.

The young man’s height rivaled D’s. Though it was summer, he wore a coat. The gold badge affixed to the chest of his shirt was so polished it reflected D’s face. Naturally, the combat belt around his waist had a pistol in its holster. He also sported a smart purple bandanna around his neck. With closely cropped blond hair, he had manly features graced by a grin.

The hoarse voice gasped.

“This makes three times, doesn’t it?” D said in a low voice.

Sheriff Rust’s grin deepened.

“I’d heard there was a Hunter in black here so handsome he could make even men faint. I had a hunch it might be you, and sure enough, it is.”

Having passed on a wintry highway, neither bothering to look at the lights in the windows, D and the sheriff remembered each other.

“Doesn’t really suit me, does it?” Rust laughed, pointing with some embarrassment to the badge on his chest.

“It is rather unexpected,” D said, his face devoid of emotion. It was unclear whether or not the sheriff realized the words were sincere.

Rust bared his teeth, saying, “No, I’m sure it wouldn’t matter much to you, would it? Damn, you’re so good looking; it’s just throwing me right off balance.” Noticing the Hunter’s condition, he continued, “Sorry. How are you feeling, anyway?”

Not replying, D asked instead, “Are you the one who taught the bellhop what to do?”

“That’s right.”

“It was a great help,” D managed to say.

“Glad to hear it. You go on and get some rest now.”

“Isn’t there anything else you’d like to discuss?” the Hunter asked, his query likely to freeze the blood of anyone who knew what’d transpired at the town hall.

Grinning wryly, Rust replied, “Seems you took off the deputy mayor’s nose. Just before you checked into the hotel, one of his toadies came and filed a complaint, but before I headed over here, the same guy came back to retract it. The mayor probably talked him out of it. That old man’s still got a backbone of iron. Odama would like to grab his position right away, I bet, but he’s got about thirty years to wait. At any rate, now no one has any problem with you. Just rest up now.”

“How long’s it been?” asked D.

Squinting a bit as he pondered the question, Rust replied, “Since I’ve been in this village? A half year, give or take. Haven’t really settled in yet, have I?”

“You can say that again,” the hoarse voice concurred.

Rust’s eyes fired off a quick look of suspicion, and then focused on D again.

The gorgeous patient asked, “Is the woman with you?” As he spoke, it was unclear whether D recalled the sight of the woman in the crimson cape executing a bizarre trick with her sword in a bar in autumn while the leaves were falling.

The youthful face reflected in D’s eyes grew distorted for a moment. The sheriff had nodded.

“I can’t part company with Lyra. We’ll be leaving town soon.” Once he’d finished saying that, a weight seemed to have lifted from him, with his amiable expression returning. “Nice meeting you. See you later.”

Turning his back to the Hunter, he got all the way to the door before he turned again.

“I absolutely won’t have any trouble in town. Save it till after I’m gone.”

Snapping a two-fingered salute from the side of his face, Rust left.

As soon as the door had closed, the hoarse voice said teasingly, “He’s like a whole new man. I knew from the start he wasn’t cut out for the road. Look how settled he’s gotten in just six months. He was built for a life with his feet firmly on the ground. He said he’s hitting the road, but it looks to me like he wants to live here. In which case, I wonder if he can’t find work if he stays.”

“Why does he travel?” D mused. Was the Hunter curious about the young man?

“Damned if I know.”

“Then there’s the woman.”

“Yes, indeed. Now there’s one you won’t find playing sheriff. The look in her eye, the way she moves, and that trick with her sword—that’s a warrior, through and through. And they’ve been traveling together for years. Are they lovers who can’t go home? Nope. I’m sure you’ve noticed, too. When she looks at Rust, it’s with tension and a lust for blood.”

Rust had said he couldn’t part company with her. What sort of fate was this woman leading him to?

“Of course, if those bandits are headed this way, they’re gonna need people to help. Are we gonna wait around for that gig?”

“Can we set out tomorrow?” D inquired.

“Most likely. But you won’t be a hundred percent. Let’s stay here till you’re fully recovered. If they find out what condition you’re in, every Hunter and warrior in the Frontier out to make a name for himself will come gunning for you.”

“I’m fine with that.”

“Hey, don’t get me wrong. I’m not worried about what’ll happen to you. I’m talking about the guys you’ll take out. Wipe out all the Hunters and warriors on the Frontier, and there’s always the danger that the remaining Nobility might regain power. Based on past experience, it’d take the Capital at least a year to dispatch specially trained troops. In the meantime, folks out in the villages would have to live with the fear that their brothers or sisters, children or parents might pop a pair of fangs at any minute. The number of victims would probably be up in the tens of thousands.”

The explanation his left hand offered wasn’t far fetched; it was absolutely correct. It was said there were hundreds of people in the same line of work as D on the Frontier, and even sick and weakened, he would leave them all dead if they came after him. The left hand had no doubt that such would be the case.

“At any rate, I recommend staying here till you’re better,” the hoarse voice declared, adding after a momentary pause, “What the hell? It’s the door again.”

From the way D actually looked over, it appeared he was recovering from the sunlight syndrome, but it also supplied proof that he still suffered greatly from the malady. His ears hadn’t caught the faint creak of the door opening, nor had his skin or any other senses detected the presence beyond it.

Just as he grabbed the longsword leaning against the left side of the bed with his right hand, something was lobbed into the room. It was a black sphere about four inches in diameter. There was nothing nimble about its movements as it sloppily rolled twice in the Hunter’s direction, then halted. At the same time, the world filled with flapping black wings.

—

III

—

“Bats!” the hoarse voice cried. “If these are vampire bats that’ll attack a dhampir, this has gotta be some kind of mutated biological weapon. Watch yourself!”

In the time it took to say this, the room had filled with hundreds of flitting black shapes. But just listen closely. The flapping sounds suddenly vanished in one spot, a new shape filled the void, and then it too disappeared. It was right over the bed.

D’s right hand held his sword. Every time he swung it, the shapes bearing down on him were cut in twain, carpeting the floor and bed. However, one narrowly slipped past the tip of the blade and clung to D’s right shoulder—only the sunlight syndrome could have made such a thing possible. Twin streams of blood coursed from the tiny fangs of the bat when the left hand wrested it free.

The bellhops who came running after a call through the speaking tube were cleaning up the dead bats when D went down to the lobby. As he recovered, his skin was even drier than the sunlight syndrome had left it, yet he was sweating profusely. He was so emaciated that when he told the man at the front desk he was checking out, his words took the man’s breath away. The fangs of those bats secreted a toxin that would kill a normal human instantaneously.

Naturally, D left the hotel to avoid any other assassins. Everyone who worked there said they didn’t know anything about any bat expert. And the Hunter knew just from looking at them that they weren’t lying. It almost seemed as if the assassin who’d come to their door without D or his left hand noticing had flown away just like a bat.

On stepping out the front door, he was greeted by stark sunlight. Neither the grass nor the ground could possibly soak up all the sun’s heat, and the Hunter’s nose was assailed by what seemed like the odor of them burning. The smell of the dirt was even stronger than that of the grass. Down an otherwise deserted street, a wagon loaded with modified barley rolled on creaking wheels.

Hotels were vital to Frontier villages. The bare dirt road, empty even of gravel, bore the hoof prints of horses and cattle and ruts from tires, and across the street from the hotel a general store and a saloon of weathered wood stood shoulder to shoulder. Nevertheless, the hotel must’ve been rather important to the area, as it had a nice large neon sign to draw attention. When the season came, the market at the edge of town would host merchants hoping to attract customers from dozens of surrounding villages for a bustling summer trade.

Going into the stable that stood beside the hotel, D put the saddle on his cyborg horse. Someone’s shadow stretched in through the doorway, melding with those of D and his steed.

“Heading out?” a woman inquired in a voice that rang like a bell. A bell made of iron.

D didn’t even glance at her crimson cape or the gentle waves of her black hair.

“Never in one place long, are you?” said Lyra.

After checking that his saddle was properly secured, D put one foot into a stirrup.

“Would you help us out?” D heard Lyra say as he settled into the saddle. On the left side of her chest, a gold badge was pinned against the curve of her breast. Her star was a little different from Rust’s because she was only a deputy.

“With what?”

“Come on, you know. It’s what you came here for. Seems there was a ruckus over at the hotel. You must know who was gunning for you.”

D tugged on the reins.

Lyra stroked the horse’s neck.

“See, someone fed the mayor’s office a load of horseshit. Somebody with links to the Black Death gang. They’ll be coming soon. And when they do, we want people on our side that we can count on. Rust just wants to hold them off with the locals who are up to a fight, but I’m sure you know how bad these villagers can be about switching sides.”

D said something strange: “The sheriff told me you two would be leaving at some point. Seems like the sooner, the better.”

Lyra’s expression changed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The Hunter’s cyborg horse started forward. The woman in the red cape stood in front of him. D’s steed kept going.

“Why are you in the way?”

Lyra’s eyes narrowed. She’d suddenly heard a hoarse voice, but there was no one there save D.

“Because we need you! We can’t trust the villagers.”

“Then hire yourself some traveling warriors, eh? There were a bunch of ’em in the hotel and out at the campground for the down on their luck.”

Giving a suspicious look to the vicinity of D’s hip, the woman in crimson said, “Let me rephrase that. People can’t be trusted. Not upstanding people, anyway.”

“You can say that again,” more than one voice concurred.

The cyborg horse halted.

Not even bothering to turn, Lyra asked somewhat distastefully, “What can we do for you, Mr. Mayor?” In some respects, her tone was even colder than D’s.

“Well, I’ve been giving some thought to what we discussed,” the gray-haired old man said to the Hunter, giving a toss of his chin at the girl to his left wearing a striped jacket. “On my daughter’s recommendation, I’ve decided to appoint you as deputy. I’m sure you’ll be happy to accept, won’t you?”

It was an extremely shortsighted offer. Given D’s present condition, he’d be as likely to lop off someone’s head as their nose. The Hunter merely advanced on his steed.

“Pardon my father’s rudeness,” the girl—Sheryl—said as she stepped forward. Her eyes needled D with a look of sincerity. “I’ll admit that as a mayor, his personality leaves something to be desired. However, he’s absolutely correct in this case. Lend us your aid. You’ll be properly compensated, of course.”

“Oh, no!”

The hoarse reply made Sheryl’s eyes go wide. “You won’t do it, then?”

“No, that’s not it,” Lyra said, her cape flaring as she started toward the cyborg horse just as D’s body slowly pitched to the left and fell to the ground.

Everyone raced over, but one of them stopped in her tracks and turned toward the entrance. Darkness had laid claim to the stable. The thick wooden doors had slid from either side and slammed together.

Lyra had leapt forward with incredible speed, but they’d shut right in front of her with a crash that shook the whole stable. Just as she was about to collide with them, Lyra twisted around and stopped before glaring at the doors. She didn’t punch or kick at them—there was no sense wasting the energy. That wasn’t what a professional did.

“What’s the meaning of this?” the mayor inquired. Though the doors had closed, there were plenty of windows, so it was still more than bright enough to see.

“We’ve got hostiles outside. How’s he doing?” Lyra asked, turning to Sheryl, who had her hand against D’s brow.

“He’s really running a fever. We’ve got to get him to the doctor right away,” she said.

The medical center in town was operated by a circuit physician. The village had no permanent doctor, but they would periodically employ a traveling one. Circuit physicians included independently operating individuals, members of small Frontier medical associations, and doctors dispatched from the Capital. They might provide treatment in a given village for as little as a few hours, or for as long as six months. The third such doctor to come to the village had already been there for more than three months.

“Who in the world is outside?” asked Sheryl.

“Like I said, hostiles. People with a score to settle with me, or you and your dad, or maybe the super stud there.”

Lyra looked up at the ceiling. There was a big window open on the wall directly in front of her. When she bounded up for it, she looked like a crimson falling star flying in reverse. However, as she easily reached the window more than fifteen feet off the ground, her body instantly warped like a TV signal rocked by interference. With a base grunt of pain, Lyra was thrown backward. Executing a flip in midair, she managed to gracefully land feet first.

“Lyra?”

As if in response to Sheryl’s cry, the warrior woman stood up straight, and then twisted again. Her eyes stretched wide, her mouth shrank down to a dot, and the fingers of her elongated hands grew about as long as she was tall.

“Don’t come near me,” Lyra said, her voice echoing on top of itself. It, too, was warped. “They’ve got a spatial distorter. Everyone, gather in the middle. And don’t touch anything!”

“But what about him?”

“Forget about the infirm. You have to look out for yourself. Hurry up!” 

“Let’s go, Sheryl!” the mayor said, his arm around her shoulder, but when the girl stood up, the scene around them began to change.

The ceiling and three of the walls were warping. Noticing the strange transformation, the horses tethered in the back began whinnying. Then they stopped unexpectedly.

Turning to look at them, Sheryl let out a scream.

Even the horses had been distorted. And the boards that partitioned each animal into a separate stall rolled and bulged like the picture on a poorly tuned TV. The horses were no longer horses at all. With twisted muzzles, legs dripping like molasses, and barrels stretched like serpents, the creatures that stood there were truly bizarre.

“The horses and the walls—they’re all running together!”

“Can’t you do anything, Deputy?” the mayor shouted, stomping his feet indignantly.

“There is something I could try,” Lyra replied, her words distorted.

“What might that be?”

“I could hit this field head on. That might do something.”

The color draining from her face, Sheryl shouted at her to stop. “If you did that, you’d be obliterated!”

“That goes with the territory,” Lyra said, her body shaking. The distortion suddenly disappeared—apparently, the spatial distorter hadn’t had a permanent effect yet. Pointing at D, she continued, “I think you’re gonna be fine. If I don’t make it, get him to do whatever needs to be done. And don’t, under any circumstances, allow him to just leave.”

Sheryl didn’t know what to say to that.

“Well, here goes nothing.”

Twisting her upper body around, Lyra poised herself for a running start.

The wind struck her face.

“What’s going on here?” Sheryl exclaimed as the ever-changing stable quaked.

And behold! The ceiling and walls puckered at their centers, rising in a funnel shape before squeezing down into a single stream that was sucked into a spot just a bit off the ground—the palm of D’s left hand, which had been raised off the ground. Who would’ve believed that the tiny mouth that opened on its surface could suck up that distortion field?

The sky howled. The ground quaked. So great was the force of the wind, it left all of them clutching the very hair on their heads. They weren’t overreacting—the wind threatened to yank it from their scalps. The howl of the ferocious gale died, and a second later light filled their world.

The three of them stood out in the stark light of the summer sun. The roof, the walls, and even the horses in the stable had been destroyed. Now they were confronted by four people standing on a familiar street. Three were huge fellows in their forties, while the last was still young. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen. A device about the size of a hardcover book hung from a strap around his neck. With a troubled look on his face, the young man backed away.

“What the hell are you doing?” one of the others barked at him.

“I don’t believe it. The distortion field just disappeared!”

“Isn’t that a pity!” Lyra said, stepping forward. Her crimson garb was like the very killing lust that enshrouded her.

“Die, fucker!” one of the men cried, drawing the longsword from his hip and taking a swipe at her with it. It had the razor-sharp tip one would expect from someone who spilled blood for a living, but Lyra parried it with her own blade fresh from its sheath.

There was a mellifluous sound, and the sword flew out of the man’s hand. As if it’d been planned that way, the errant blade plunged straight into the head of the second man, who was charging toward Lyra. It split him open down to his upper lip.

As the second man fell in a bloody mist, the third ran past him, his right hand raised high. The short spear he sent knifing through the air sank into Lyra’s heart.