GIDEON
It sounds like a massacre.
I push Riot to top speed, risking missing the directional marks Marcus left with his scythe. Riding slow isn’t an option, though, or I’ll be too late to save anyone.
The Arabians are screaming—horse sounds I’ve never heard before—and the Harrows are making a crazed pack-hunting noise—something between wolf and hyena howls.
Cordero and Ben were screaming, too. A little while ago.
Not anymore.
The pull I feel to fold with Riot is intense. And futile. We could reach them in seconds as fire, but we’re stuck as horse and rider.
The woods have been dead still since the minute we came through, but now the wind is rising, shearing off leaves and making the branches bend and groan. A burnt wet smell like floods and fires stings my eyes and throat.
“It’s them!” Daryn says, thundering beside me on Shadow. We weave through the trees, all four of us, our horses leaping over roots, smashing through smaller branches. “They’ve surrounded us.”
Movement blurs past my peripheral vision—too heavy and fleet to be shadows.
Marcus, who’s a few lengths ahead, looks back and catches my eye. “I’m going!”
“Yes, go!”
He sinks lower in the saddle and couches the scythe to his side as Ruin accelerates and surges ahead, Daryn and Shadow following right behind him.
Jode, who’s with me, our horses much slower, sends me a look. Splitting up is a mistake. But I need everyone to stay alive.
In moments I spot four Harrows closing in. Skeletons in hoods, ragged and bony. Loping on all fours with predatory speed.
“On my right!” Jode yells.
I look and see nothing, then realize he means “Get on my right” because, with my useless robohand, my left side is vulnerable.
Before I can make a move, something leaps directly in my path.
Riot twists to the side and collides shoulder-to-haunch with one of the Arabians. The horse caroms off Riot and hits the ground with the gritty sound of the air emptying from its lungs. It rolls over, legs thrashing in the air, and springs back up. Cordero’s white horse freezes for a moment, looking at us, its saddle askew, blood staining its white neck; then it shoots off again in terror.
Looping the reins around my prosthetic, I push to catch up to Jode. The acrid stench is more powerful as we draw close, burning my throat. The reports of several handguns as well as Maia’s rifle fill the air, and I hear Low shouting something over and over.
The fear in his voice shocks me.
When we fought the Kindred, Low kept his calm even when he was gravely wounded; I can’t even think of what could scare him.
Then I see our group and I understand.
The B Team’s on the opposite end of the clearing, where we came through, and is divided in two. Both groups are under siege by Harrows—an attack style that reminds me, suddenly, of crows diving on a bird’s nest.
Suarez and Maia are with Cordero and Ben—the four of them huddled close. Suarez and Maia are firing at Harrows that bolt from all directions, charging to swipe at them with claws and snapping teeth. They’re managing to hold off the bulk of the attack with a steady flow of rounds but I know our ammunition is limited.
Marcus is protecting them on one side with big swings of the scythe.
Forty yards away, Low is alone with the Arabians, making up the other part of the B Team. A force of one. He’s trying to untether the horses, but it’s chaos. The animals crash against each other and scream, tossing their heads, desperate to flee. As I watch, Daryn rides up and I see them shouting at each other.
Jode nocks an arrow and fires at a Harrow. It disintegrates along with the nearby trees to concussive cracks that fill the air and pop my ears. I haven’t seen the full destructive power of his bow in months, but I haven’t forgotten it. There’s an instant of silence in the aftermath, like someone hit pause; then I hear the crackle of fire in the distance.
Jode looks at me, a quick frustrated expression crossing his face. His bow is too powerful for close-range combat, like taking out an ant with a bomb. He won’t be able to do much without endangering the people we’re trying to save.
We need to get out of here.
We need the orb.
I put my heels to Riot, going for Cordero. Then I sense the first Harrow coming at me from dead left, my weak side.
It has no eyes. I knew from Daryn’s briefing, but seeing it is another thing, a chilling thing.
The Harrow leaps at me like it’s weightless, on springs. I wheel Riot as I swing my sword. It connects where the Harrow’s neck and shoulder meet, the blade resisting more than I expect. The thing is all bone and sinew, like a body made of pure tendons, but it’s mortal. It tumbles to the ground, writhes for a second, and stops moving.
Another comes from the left. Riot and I have done this before and we’re good at it. I take the thing’s head off and make my first offensive attack, picking off a Harrow that’s working its way toward Marcus.
I’m still in my follow-through when Riot surges up. I know what he’s doing—facing an attack from the front—but I’m twisted, shoulders turned like I’m loading up to swing a bat. I have no chance of staying on him. I fly back, lifting off the saddle.
The harness of my prosthetic yanks against my elbow, and for an instant I’m sure I’ll lose my entire arm this time, but then the reins slide free. I somersault and land on the flats of my shoulder blades, sword thudding away as I tumble ass-over-head.
Finding my feet, I scramble for my weapon.
Riot is trampling the Harrow under his enormous hooves. As I run up, the thing’s legs are mashed. I pin its neck with my prosthetic and stare into empty eyes.
“Where’s Sebastian?” I growl, pressing the point of my sword into its armpit. “Where is he?” It breathes heavily through yellowed fangs. The brackish stench of its breath almost makes me gag. “Answer me! Where’s Sebastian?”
It snaps at me, fangs scraping my metal hand.
I push myself up and Riot moves right in, finishing the job he began.
Then he looks at me, fire rolling up his broad chest. Did he bite you?
He didn’t.
Get on.
No. We’re two fighting if we stay separate, Riot. We can do more.
Riot’s eyes flash as he stamps his hooves. I can tell he doesn’t like this, but he lowers his head and tears after a Harrow.
The creature reverses so fast that it skids out and lands flat on its back, standing no chance.
Firming my grip on my sword, I think through my next steps as I sprint to Cordero’s group. We need a secure position first. We’ll be annihilated if we can’t regroup somewhere.
“Suarez! Fall back!” My voice is drowned in the noise, but Suarez and Maia hear me. I point. “Cabin a hundred yards that way.”
Maia is stemming the tide of howling oncoming Harrows with steady, deadly accuracy. Jode has concentrated his shots to one area. The woods there are glowing red and roaring.
“We’re not mobile,” Suarez says as I reach him. Cordero’s hand is pressed to her neck, and blood flows through her fingers. She looks white as bone. Ben’s shirt is covered in blood but I don’t see a wound. “Someone needs to help Low. We need those horses.”
“We need the orb,” Cordero says. “None of it will help if we don’t get the orb.”
I don’t want to believe what I just heard. “You don’t have it? Where is it?”
“My horse’s saddlebag. We heard trouble—we were trying to leave but the horse spooked.”
I look at Suarez. He looks at me. There are no words for this shit sandwich.
“Gideon, I’ll go!” I look up at Daryn, mounted on Shadow. “I’ll get it!”
“Daryn, wait!” But Shadow lunges away in hungry strides.
This plan has serious flaws. Daryn has no weapon and we need her as much as the orb to get out of here. And I just need her alive, period.
I look for Riot but he’s deep in the fight, biting and kicking anything that comes near. Too far for me to reach quickly. “Marcus!”
He looks at me, sees Daryn leaving, and then peels away from the clearing to follow her. As Ruin opens up her stride, a Harrow leaps into her path. She jumps and clears the Harrow easily. As she lands I see the flash of the scythe arcing, then the sickle hooking into the Harrow’s back. Marcus drags it a few feet before he releases it.
Low thunders up on one of the Arabians. He jumps off and grabs the reins with one hand, waving at Cordero and Maia with the other. “Come on come on come on,” he says. “Up up up.”
I run over and hold the horse so he can boost Maia into the saddle. Cordero doesn’t move.
“Cordero, let’s go!” I yell.
She’s swaying on her feet, and her eyes have gone distant. She’ll bleed out if we can’t get her help. “No,” she says. “Send Ben. I’ll go last.”
Shit. This is no time to act noble.
But Low immediately adjusts. “Ben, get over here!”
Ben doesn’t hesitate. He throws himself into the saddle and lands half on top of Maia, who scoots back.
“How far, Gideon? Which way?” he asks, taking the reins. “Is it close?”
“Easy, Ben. Head that way. Follow our tracks. You good?”
“I’m good,” he says.
Maia loops an arm around his waist and pulls a 9mm from her leg holster with the other hand. She digs her heels into the Arabian’s flanks, and the horse shoots away.
Low and I give each other cover as we sprint back to the three remaining Arabians. We need a horse for Cordero and Suarez.
“The red, Blake.” He points to a chestnut mare that looks slightly less crazed than the other two. “Cut her loose.”
The leads are braided together from the jostling the horses have done. There’s no untangling them, so I wrap my left arm around the mare’s head to hold her still and cut the leather. As soon as she’s free, she springs away from me, but Low grabs her bridle.
“Whoa,” he says. “Whoaaa. Settle down, little firecracker.”
The mare’s eyes go wide and she squeals in fear. A Harrow is barreling our way, teeth bared, claws tearing at the dirt. The horse wheels sideways and Low backpedals to get out of her way, but his feet catch and he goes down.
I lunge for the horse’s mane, for anything to stop her from trampling Low. I swipe air twice before I remember my left hand is metal and useless.
Low rolls, somehow evading four churning hooves, and comes up unharmed. Already drawing his sidearm from his hip holster. “Go, Blake! Take her!”
Finally getting control of the mare, I swing up into the saddle. Being on a horse that isn’t Riot feels like wearing someone else’s clothes, but I get her settled and moving. In seconds, I’m back with Suarez, Jode, and Cordero.
In just the short time I’ve been with Low, Suarez has been viciously attacked. His thigh has been ripped open. Cordero is down on her knees, the wound at her neck flowing worse than before. All around, the Harrows continue with the incessant howling, slashing with claws that are curved and dripping deep red.
Suarez limps over.
“Can you get to the cabin?” I ask, jumping down.
“Yes.” He hauls himself into the saddle to a fluid stream of Spanish curses.
I rush over to Cordero. “Okay, boss. Time to get outta here.” Her head lolls to the side as I lift her and carry her to Suarez. “You’ll have to hold her,” I tell him. Which means he won’t be able to shoot.
“Jode, go with them,” I yell. “They need cover.”
Jode looks from Suarez to me. “So do you!”
“Get them back to the cabin, Jode! Do it!”
“Bloody hell!” he yells, but he lowers his bow and comes our way.
“Blake, you’ve got Low?” Suarez says as he negotiates his terrified horse and a limp Cordero. He looks across the clearing. “Travis!”
I’ve never heard Suarez yell, and it’s so rare to hear Low’s first name that it takes me an instant to process what’s happening.
Low is in trouble.
He’s on the ground, and a Harrow is dragging him into the woods.
The creature paces, like it’s protecting a fresh kill. Low bucks and thrashes and digs his heels into the dirt, but the thing has claws hooked deep into his chest and enough strength to haul his huge body away with ease.
“Riot!” Across the clearing, my horse’s bold amber eyes swing to find me. “Riot, to me!” He digs in, hauling over to me as I sprint to him. We barely slow as we reach each other. But by the time I’m in the saddle, I can’t see Low anymore.
I bolt to where the Harrow was taking him. Riot senses the urgency, and each of his strides are like leaps.
It doesn’t take long to find Low—I reach him almost right away.
But I’m not there quick enough.
I’m a lifetime too late.