Robert Charrette - Choose your enemies carefully

She focused her intent, wrapping herself in the illusion that she was as she had been, grieving over Dan's body. Beneath the image, she crouched in readiness.

They would die.

She leapt.

Her illusion vanished as she moved. The killers finally reacted, but, they were too late. The gun turret could not swivel fast enough to track her. The shaman was too weak to come close to matching her speed. She was already in the air and soon she would rend them.

She slammed into an invisible wall, and her lethal pounce was converted into an ignominious tumble to the floor. She felt her mind teeter on the brink of madness\a151the magical barrier tasted of Dan.

As she turned to his body, she found his head turned slightly in her direction. His eyelids seemed to be open, but she could not see the glitter of his eyes.

She returned to him and kissed his lips. Her joy faltered. He was cold, and his chest remained still. And yet, with no air in his lungs to force the sounds out of his throat, he spoke.

"I could not let you do it."

She probed with all her senses and only confused herself. He was there but not there. She wanted him alive. Her tears fell upon his face but not a muscle twitched. She didn't know what to do.

"No kindeath. The blood is too strong. It taints. It's so heavy. It taints. For you, my darling, I fear it would be fatal."

She combed his mane with her talons. "Be quiet, my love. I shall sing the healing songs for you."

"No songs. The meat is finished, and the feaster is no more. From the brink of the dark I heard you weep for me, and your tears, your love, let me save you this once."

"Save me? I would have killed them for you."

"No," his sepulcral voice insisted. "Promise me.

Forswear the kindeath."

"What are you saying, my love? What is this kindeath?"

"Promise."

His voice had become fainter and echoed hollowly, but she recognized his force of will in the demand.

"Anything. I promise. No kindeath. Whatever you want. Just come back to me," she pleaded.

"The Dog shaman. He is your brother."

With that dire pronouncement, Janice felt him leave and knew that all Dan Shiroi had been was gone. Forever. She poured her anguish into her scream.

Sam could not believe what he was hearing. The voice from the dead wendigo was something he feared would haunt his nightmares. But as terrifying as that was, the words the voice spoke were worse. Was this great furry thing, this female wendigo, his sister Janice? God could not be so cruel.

He shifted to astral perception and studied the being's aura. He knew now how to recognize a wendigo aura, and he had no doubt that he was seeing one. But he had not been magically active the last time he had seen his sister. Nor had she gone through the change. How would he know if this was she? He could not be sure. Like a half-remembered dream, something in the being's aura nagged with familiarity.

"Janice?"

The red-rimmed eyes that turned to him were bleak.

The face in which they were set was totally unfamiliar. He could not find a hint of his sister's fair features. He had already heard this wendigo's voice and found nothing to recognize in it.

"Sam?"

His throat constricted when he heard her pronounce his name, "Sa-am." His doubts fled. "Lord in Heaven, it is you."

There was so much to say, but Sam couldn't find the words. Ever since he had heard of her goblinization, he had feared for her. His attempts to contact her through Renraku had been inexplicably stifled. But he had never forgotten her, never stopped trying to figure out a way to contact her. She stood before him now and the moment was nothing like any he had imagined. He had been afraid kawaru had left her an ork, or worse, a troll\a151but this! Ever since he had learned what wendigo were, he had hated them. Janice only stared at him, her dark eyes an enigma. Finally he stammered, "I want to help." "Where were you when I needed you before?" she asked accusingly. "I tried to-"

"If you had really fragging tried, you would have done something. Dan was there when I needed him. You abandon me, then you come back into my life, and you take him away from me. You want to help me? Bring him back." "But he was a wendigo."

"And what do you think / am?" she shouted, slamming a great paw against her chest. "There has to be a way to help you." Her laughter was bitter. "And I grew up thinking / was the romantic and you were the practical one. There's no redemption for me. Don't you see I'm already damned?"

"I can't believe that you just let her leave." Estios stormed back and forth across the short space afforded him. The apartment was one of Hart's safehouses. The back room had been roomy for Willie and her rigger board, but with all the runners gathered, space was at a premium. Most of the fine furniture had been pushed back against the walls to make room for the Mitsuhama Medical Technologies Home Convalesence Bed in which Hart lay. The runners, both the unscathed and the wounded, and their gear looked absurdly out of place among the wainscoting, natural fiber rugs, and timber-beamed ceiling.

As soon as Estios passed him, Dodger stuck a foot into the open space. Estios's attention was focused on Sam; he remained unaware of the obstruction as he retraced his path. Teresa elbowed Dodger in the ribs and he retracted his foot just before Estios would have stumbled over it.

Monitoring the readouts on the MMT bed, Sam was only half-aware of Estios's ravings. Sam was no expert, but he thought the readings indicated that Hart should be conscious. Though her eyes remained closed and she didn't respond when he whispered her name, he felt sure she was awake, refusing to acknowledge anything around her.

He was afraid that he was what she was avoiding. But it might have been that she didn't want to deal with the loud-mouthed Estios, or maybe she just wanted to rest. Either made sense. They had all been through a lot and no one wanted to hear Estios rant.

Sam looked around the room. Dodger and Teresa were holding a private conversation where they sat on the long couch. They were intense and Dodger looked unhappy. Willie sat hunched over her rigger board and was ostentatiously busy with the controls. Father Rinaldi, when they had been exchanging tales in the Shidhe holding cell, had told Sam that he disliked any kind of computer-human interface, but he was helping Willie watch the viewscreen. From what little Sam could see of the pictures relayed from her spotter drones, nothing much was happening. Obviously, Janice was still inside the rundown tenement where she had gone to ground.

Sam suddenly realized Estios had stopped talking and was looking at him. The elf must have asked a question. With no memory of having heard the question, Sam had no hope of answering it.

"Look," he said with a sigh. "It's over. The Circle's broken."

"Weren't you listening? It's not over as long as

Ashton and Wallace are still out there."

"If you're so worried about them, go do something about it. I think they were just minor players. With the others all dead, especially the wendigo who built the Circle and fed them the power they thought their sacrifices gained them, they won't be a problem. An anonymous message to the Lord Protector's Oversight Board will get them their comeuppance."

"They might still escape and recruit new members. Even if they do not, the monster's mate is still out there."

Sam buried his face in his hands and tried to massage away the anger he felt toward the obtuse Estios. "Forget her. She wasn't part of the Circle." "I can't forget her. She's a wendigo. That's enough reason for her to die."

Sam got to his feet. His ribs ached within the restraint of his torso bandage. He was wobbly, but the walking cast on his leg made a limping shuffle possible. He hobbled across to Estios and looked up into the elf's face.